Michael Mathias - Kings, Queens, Heroes, and Fools

The goddess of Hyden’s clan had told him that he must someday get the ring back from Gerard, that it was supposed to have been his. Until it was on Hyden’s finger, the balance of things would remain badly off kilter.

Hyden hoped beyond hope that the Silver Skull of Zorellin might actually allow him to retrieve it, or at least allow him to go into the Nethers after it. He hoped that Gerard was still human enough to remember who he was.

Hopefully the bond they shared as brothers would be enough to allow Hyden to take back the ring peacefully and set the world aright.

Talon shrieked, bringing Hyden back into the reality of the moment. To the south, the sky was turning gray. Hyden took the looking tube from its holder in the basket and looked out at a dark place on the horizon. He decided that he could probably see better through Talon’s keen vision. With his own eyes still open, he sought out Talon’s sight. Now he could see a mass of churning black clouds as if they were right in front of him. Bright jagged lightning streaked up from the sea and fat drops of rain pelted the angry waves. The swells had grown huge and the wind was blowing in gusty spurts. It wasn’t easy remaining calm as he climbed back down the mainmast to find Captain Trant.

“A bad storm you say?” Captain Trant scanned the sky to the south and sniffed the air. “Maybe so, maybe so. Biggs! Go get me the long glass!” the Captain ordered as he strode up onto the forecastle. A brass tube as long as a man’s arm was brought up and the Captain peered through it to the south. He was silent for a long time, then he turned to look at Hyden curiously. “You saw that from the nest, did you?”

Hyden nodded. Talon flapped at his shoulder as the wind gusted and threatened to topple the bird. Captain Trant’s eyes stopped on Talon for a moment.

“I’d suggest that you ’n’ yer bird both get below afore long, and take this.” The Captain deftly snatched the second mate’s flask out of his shirt pocket as he moved by. “Your men will need it. That’s not just a rain storm blowing at us, Sir Hyden Hawk, that’s something a few tads nastier than hell!”

High King Mikahl saw the demon-boar just in the nick of time.

Earlier in the evening they had taken two nice does, and we’re now trying for a third. Four of the archers had ridden north making a wide berth around the river. They were riding back toward Mikahl and the other three men. They were coming slowly, trying to flush a buck, or maybe even a wild sow, out into the open. Mikahl didn’t find much sport in hunting this way, but when there was an army of men to feed, and the sun was setting, there was no better way to drum up a meal. The High King was positioned closest to the band of thick underbrush that ran along the river’s bank. He was reminiscing about the last time he’d been on a true hunt.

His fond memory was interrupted by two dull red embers a good foot apart, glowing in the deepest shadows of the forest ahead of him. He squinted, blinked a few times. Then, just as he realized that the embers were actually eyes, the beast charged.

Mikahl loosed the arrow he had nocked, then flung the bow at the enormous beast and drew his sword. Whether from the sudden appearance of Ironspike’s magical blue glow, or from fear of the huge charging demon-boar that it illuminated, Mikahl’s horse reared and whinnied loudly. In Mikahl’s head, the eldritch symphony of Ironspike’s power blasted full force, into a glorious and triumphant harmony. Mikahl turned the horse with a yank on the reins and was ready to slash when one of the fool archer captains tried to be a hero and charged his horse right between Mikahl and the demon-boar. The boar’s tusks were razor-sharp and at least the size of a young girl’s forearm. The archery captain’s poor mount didn’t have a chance. The boar dug his head down and gored up through the animal. Then it reared back and sent horse and rider twisting into the trees.

Mikahl was awed by the size and strength of the creature. It was as tall as a man at the shoulder and was as big as a horse-drawn wagon, but low to the ground and covered in bristling hide.

The archery captain’s sharp scream was abruptly cut off as his head slammed into a trunk. The disemboweled horse crashed down not too far from him with a thumping whoosh.

Ironspike’s glow went from blue to lavender, then to cherry-red, as Mikahl’s anger grew. When the boar came charging at him again, he sent three wicked pulsing blasts into the beast’s neck and shoulder. He tried to spur his mount out of the way, but the terrified horse baulked. The last thing Mikahl sensed before his horse made a desperate twisting leap was the horrible stench of burnt hair from where his blasts had scorched the beast. Ironspike was knocked from his hand and he was smacked gracelessly out of the saddle by a low hanging limb. In the now completely darkened forest, he landed hard on his back.

For a few heartbeats he thought he might have been knocked out, but the deep grunting of the angry beast and the thrum of an arrow being loosed from nearby came to his ringing ears and told him that he was still in the realm of consciousness. As soon as he had his breath back, he scooted himself back against a tree trunk. He strained to see, but it was too dark. Men were shouting, and nearby he heard his horse crashing through the trees. Blasted animal, he thought, Windfoot wouldn’t have frozen up like that. He found that he missed his horse quite badly.

Since he didn’t know where his weapon, or the boar had gone, Mikahl figured that he was all right to wait where he was. Then someone fired up a torch. The red eyes of the demon-boar were coming in at him again, this time with a vengeance. He felt around him on the ground hoping to find Ironspike, but had to give it up. He barely had time to roll out of the way.

The demon-boar hit the tree Mikahl had been leaning against so hard that it shook the ground. It didn’t advance after that, it just stood there. Mikahl could smell the acrid stench of the creature’s wounds as it staggered in place right next to him. It was all he could do to hold in the contents of his bladder. Even in the torch-lit darkness the boar’s size wasn’t lost on him. He brushed against its side as he tried to get away. Its coarse bristles felt more like pine needles than hair.

Someone called for him but he couldn’t find his voice to answer. He had a dagger in his boot, but he knew better than to waste the effort. A dagger probably wouldn’t even get through the thick hide of something that big. The only course of action was to get away while the thing was still stunned. If he hadn’t lost the sword, things would be different. As he stumbled blindly away with his hands up to guard his face from branches and thorny brambles, he couldn’t help but feel naked. Without Ironspike he was vulnerable. He knew he wasn’t defenseless without the sword. He was better than everyone on the practice yard. He had grown used to the feeling of invincibility that the magical blade gave him, though. He had grown used to its power. He decided that, if he lived through this, he would try to be more careful. He knew if he died, the power of Ironspike would die with him. Without Ironspike, who would unite the realm into a place of peace? Like it or not, he was the last of Pavreal’s bloodline, and the sword would only recognize him as its wielder. For the first time, he actually understood why Queen Willa was trying so hard to get him wed.

“King Mikahl!” an exasperated voice shouted for the umpteenth time, as long wild shadows went flying about the area. Mikahl heard the call and responded.

“Here,” he rasped back. The Captain found him quickly then.

“Where is it? Where is the beast?” the man asked in a frightful panic. As an afterthought he added a quick, “Your Majesty.”