Michael Mathias: Kings, Queens, Heroes, and Fools

As hard as he tried, Lord Gregory couldn’t learn much more than that from the two men. They weren’t kingdom men. They’d been born and raised and lived here in the mountains their whole life. Kingdom men seldom dared to venture here, and the things a kingdom man might notice about a place were lost to them.

Harrap helped his nephew Tylen support Lord Gregory the first few times he tried to stand and walk. It was hard and painful and even comical at times, but finally, near midwinter, Lord Gregory took some steps on his own.

“This lion might not yet be able to roar,” he told them. “But at least I can still growl.”

He began using a cane that the Elder had carved for him out of a witch-wood bough. The handle was the head of a snarling lion and the base a wide lion’s paw. It was crude work, but heartfelt. Lord Gregory cherished it dearly.

By the time spring was upon them, Lord Gregory was hobbling along fairly well. When he left his room the first time, he found that he had been living underground all winter. The clan folk all lived in stone rooms built right into the sloping walls of their little valley. Narrow passages that reminded Lord Gregory of mine tunnels led from the open valley into the homes. Giants and dwarves, Halden told him, had supposedly built the burrows long centuries ago.

The clansmen didn’t own or ride horses, but on several occasions Lord Gregory rode on the dead Seawardsman’s mount. It wasn’t long after that he was feeling well enough to leave the Skyler Clan and their hospitality behind him. The desire to find his wife was gnawing at him like a starving dog at a bone.

He would have rather taken Mikahl’s proud and well trained horse, Windfoot, but he left the steed because Borg had promised Mikahl that it would be there when he came for it.

He waited until it was warm enough to get out of the mountains without freezing, and then, after a long respectful goodbye, he left the Skyler Clan behind. He pointed the horse south toward Wildermont, and with all the hope in the world, he set off to find his wife.

Mikahl reared back with his blade as he slipped to the side of the sword the dark haired man before him had just thrust out. To the onlookers, Mikahl looked like a young lion with his intense expression and his thick golden mane flying about. The man he was fighting, Brady Culvert, growled in frustration through gnashed teeth because he had to spin to get clear of Mikahl’s gleaming, arcing swing. He managed it, but barely. He lost his balance in the process and almost fell. Mikahl rode the momentum of his slash all the way around, but this time, instead of resuming his guard, he feigned a chest-high slice. As soon as the other man committed to his unbalanced defensive guard, Mikahl deftly lowered his blade to thigh level, and struck with force.

Mikahl’s dulled steel thumped wickedly into Brady Culvert’s leather thigh pad. The small group of swordsmen gathered in the training yard grimaced with sympathy then called out praises and jests alike. Brady couldn’t hear them over his own cursing. Mikahl had horse-knotted his leg and it hurt like hell. Brady wasn’t angry though. He had just won a small fortune in wagers by lasting over five minutes sparring against High King Mikahl. It was a record. No one in all of Highwander had managed to make it even three minutes against the treacherous young king of the realm.

“If he’d been using Ironspike, Brady, you’d be legless,” King Jarrek, the displaced king of Wildermont, commented as a squire began unbuckling Brady’s leather armor from the back. Another squire took the dulled sword from the combatant’s hand.

“If he had Ironspike in his hands, I would have been fighting with him, not against him, Highness.” Brady smiled back at King Jarrek. After settling their debts, the men broke up and went back to their practice drills. The victor smiled at his congratulations, then went over to a small table where an old retired warrior was keeping time with minute glasses.

King Mikahl hadn’t been wearing armor at all-only a pair of calfskin britches, and a green silk shirt trimmed in gold. Those were the colors of his dead father’s Westland banner, and after several long minutes of dodging and deflecting Brady Culvert’s blade, he hadn’t even darkened them with sweat. His hair had gone wild though, and he made a futile attempt to smooth it back into some sense of order before making his announcment.

“Seven full minutes and almost half a glass more,” King Mikahl called out with a nod of respect. “The cream of the crop, without a doubt.”

Brady Culvert was twenty-two years old, three years older than High King Mikahl. Brady had been one of King Jarrek’s feared and revered Redwolf guards and had worn his crimson enameled plate mail proudly. Their kingdom had been decimated last summer by the Westland wizard Pael. Brady, acting on orders from his King, rode all the way across the continent warning the other kingdoms of the approaching doom. He’d been in the Red City of Dreen warning the Valleyans when that battle started. He escaped the evil wizard’s hordes only to be captured later by a group of Queen Rachel’s Seaward soldiers. Somehow he’d won free of them and made it all the way to Xwarda, where Pael and his undead army were already attacking.

Most of the people of Wildermont, including Brady’s family, had been sold into slavery, and all winter long, King Jarrek had been here in Xwarda training a group of handpicked men to go into Dakahn to free them. High King Mikahl, being a great swordsman, trained with them rigorously. In fact, he trained easily twice as hard as any man in the group. He had a temper, and in order to keep it under control, he intentionally exhausted himself at least once a day.

“…not good enough to stay alive if we faced each other in actual combat,” Brady was saying in response to Mikahl’s comment.

“Aye,” the High King grinned proudly, but without cockiness. “In actual combat, Sir Culvert, you’d have never had the chance to draw your sword.”

For the most part formalities and titles were forbidden on the Royal Training Yard. Unlike the yards where Queen Willa’s Blacksword soldiers trained, where sergeants and captains put regiments of men through long brutal repetitions, often accompanied by much yelling and screaming, here, men were just men. Crowns and thrones and holdings meant nothing. It was one of the few places a man might jest with his king without fear of reproach. The use of the word ‘Sir’ by King Mikahl when speaking to Brady displayed volumes of respect and Brady Culvert beamed for it. So much so that he’d missed the humor in the High King’s ridiculous boast. King Jarrek didn’t miss the jab though, and he laughed heartily.

“That one will do,” Mikahl said after Brady had gone. “I want him to go with Hyden Hawk, if you’d spare him. My friend needs a sword he can trust on this wild expedition he is planning.”

“I thought you’d keep him for yourself Mik,” King Jarrek said a little disappointedly.

“I would if there were someone as capable with the blade going along with Hyden,” replied Mikahl. “Why is it that you refuse to take him with your group? He’s your countryman, and you’ve known him his whole life, or so he says.”

“It’s true. I was drinking with his father when he was being born, but his father was killed right before his eyes, by Westlanders, and his mother, sisters, and cousins may be the very slaves we come across in O’Dakahn. Just like another great swordsman I know, his emotions are too highly strung. Besides that, if one of the slaves recognizes him, then it could jeopardize the others. The men I hand-picked are all from Highwander. They have no emotional involvement in what we’re going to do. I think it’s better that way.”