Michael Mathias - The Sword and the Dragon

He cleared his mind of the ill feelings about killing the bandit. The fear of being caught had eased now that he had other things to worry about. King Balton’s sword, as well as his own weapons, were secured to Windfoot’s saddle. He had to catch up to the horse no matter what the cost. Windfoot’s trail was leading generally northward, so Mikahl wasn’t losing ground; but if the horse was allowed to wander throughout the night, there was no telling what sort of forest creature might get a hold of him. Rumors of dread wolves and saber cats had been spread for as long as he could remember, but he didn’t recall ever seeing any such higher predators come out of the Reyhall Forest. There were things out here that would, and could, kill a horse, or a man for that matter. Of that there was no doubt.

“Think, then act,” he told himself again.

Mikahl began trying to mimic the distinct whistle he had often heard the stable man use to call the Royal Herd in from pasture. He felt a little better now. Knowing that none of Prince Glendar’s men would be looking for him way out here in the middle of nowhere went far to that effect. He would find Windfoot and Ironspike and get himself up into the Giant Mountains, even if it killed him. He winced at the thought, and then bit back a laugh as the weight of it sank in.

After he whistled for the fourth time, he thought he heard the horse in the distance, snorting its disapproval at something. He quickened his pace and noticed that the trees were thinning somewhat. The sound came again, and this time he was sure that it was Windfoot.

The forest eventually gave way to a sizable clearing. On the far side of it, across the lush, green, flower filled expanse, was a pond. Not too far from the water, was Windfoot. His reins were tangled in a shrub. The poor horse wanted to drink desperately and was fighting the plant with all he had. It seemed to Mikahl that the bush was winning. As he approached the disgruntled animal, he saw the King’s blade still tied securely to the saddle, and a tidal wave of relief washed over him.

The pack horse whinnied and stomped. It was glad to see its companion again. Windfoot gave a frustrated snort of acknowledgement in return. Soon, Mikahl had them picketed side by side at the ponds edge, where they took to drinking and grazing contentedly.

The glade was full of life. Insects buzzed by busily, and the birds sang, calling out to one another. Mikahl saw a rabbit tearing across the tree line as it fled some invisible predator, and by the variety and quantity of tracks pressed in the mud by the water’s edge, he knew that this was a popular watering hole. It was a beautiful and peaceful place, and Mikahl decided to rest here for awhile.

He washed himself in the pond. He was sure that, save for the battles at Coldfrost, he had never seen so much blood in all his life. He was glad to see it all slide away from his clothes and skin. When he was done, he laid his things out to dry in the warm evening sun, and then he went about getting the dried blood out of his chain mail shirt with an oil cloth. When that task was done, he took his dagger and tore the fancy, embroidered Westland lion from his saddle. It was slow work. The emblem had been carefully sewn with tiny wire threads that had been painted with enamel. The saddle had been a gift from King Balton on Mikahl’s most recent birthday, and defacing it brought a tear to his eye. Since his tunic also bore the kingdom’s lion insignia, he sank it in the pond. He simply tied a fist sized stone up in it, and threw it out into the middle of the water. From now on, he would have to try to blend in with the common folk. Anything that connected him to the King, or the kingdom, would only draw the wrong sort of attention. He stood there a long while, watching the rings that the splashing bundle had made in the pond, grow larger.

Suddenly, he realized that the forest had gone deathly quiet. He looked around, turning a slow circle, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary. He told himself that it was only the sound his tunic had made when it splashed into the water, but he knew that wasn’t true. Just to be safe, he pulled his damp britches back on and took his sword from Windfoot’s saddle. After slipping his chain mail back over his head, he buckled his sword belt around his waist, and began quietly unpacking his longbow. He had just gotten the longbow strung when a loud crash of breaking branches and undergrowth came from out in the forest off to his right. The sound was huge and heavy, like a big tree being torn apart. Whatever had caused it had to be enormous.

Mikahl’s heart was racing. He had heard tales of dragon’s, trolls, and bloodthirsty flying swamp dactyls. He had listened to campfire stories about night stalkers, orcs, and giant snakes, but he had never seen any of them. He didn’t have to remind himself that he was no longer in the Northwood outside of Lakeside Castle. This was the Reyhall Forest, where the monsters of all those campfire stories had originated. What kind of creatures truly dwelt here, he had no idea, and even though the Royal Huntsman had once told him that all those monster stories were just tales told to keep curious young boys from wandering off, Mikahl found that he was more than a little afraid. By the way Windfoot and the pack horse were snorting and stomping around him, he could tell that they were afraid too.

A flash of movement from across the pond caught his eye, but it was fleeting. Another massive crack of timber came from the right. The screeching calls of a thousand, angry, unseated birds came with it. Whatever it was, it was getting closer. He took the reins of the horses and began leading them away from the pond, to the side of the clearing opposite the approaching noise. He tried not to look back, but couldn’t help himself. The ruckus was becoming a constant, cracking, grinding crush that was accompanied by a strange hissing sound. He saw nothing at first, but then something happened that staggered him.

A single tree, one that was a little taller than the others around it, suddenly shook violently, sending loose leaves and birds scattering. It was back in the forest from the clearing, but only a short distance. Above the thrashing treetop, the halo of displaced birds flew in ragged, angry circles, each and every one of them sounding their displeasure. Mikahl couldn’t even begin to imagine what could cause a tree to jolt and shake in such a sudden way. The tree shook again, and the ground might have shook with it, but this time, a long, slithery roar accompanied the violence.

Mikahl could look no longer. He and the horses were still in the open clearing. He wanted to get into the forest quickly, so he swung himself up into Windfoot’s saddle, and healed his mount into a gallop. The frightened pack horse jumped the other direction, yanking the reins from Mikahl’s hand. He would’ve chased the animal, but the closing sound of crashing trees and a great splash, sent Windfoot tearing off into the woods on his own head. Mikahl was nearly flipped backwards out of the saddle. Branches ripped at his chest and shoulders, and tore at his face as he struggled to right himself. He was almost beheaded by a low hanging limb, but somehow he managed to slow and then turn his terrified horse.

The pond’s surface was churning. Ripples broke like knee high waves in several directions. Not sure he was seeing properly, Mikahl wiped his eyes and looked again. On the far side of the pond, there was a tree trunk freshly stripped of its limbs. It was sliding across the ground towards the water of its own accord. Clumps of fresh dirt still fell from its root cluster. Brush, debris, and pieces of other smaller trees were tangled in the jagged stubs where its own limbs had just been torn away. When it was just a few paces from the water’s edge, the trunk stopped moving completely.