“Then we will deal with it,” a breathless voice spoke from the darkness beyond them.
It was Loudin, Mikahl realized in a flood of relief. He was coming out of the darkness with a handful of the hawkman’s people.
“Is it hot?”
One of them kicked a booted foot at the barely visible fire ring where Mikahl had just been sprawled. The tiny swirl of sparking embers was stirred up by the kick. He poured liquid from a flask into it and flames leapt up. Wood that had been set aside for the morning’s cook fire was thrown into the blaze by another man.
“We have light here now,” Harrap said sternly. “And we have torches on the way. Use the sword’s light to search for the other man.”
He turned to a pair of young men who were not much older than Mikahl. “Tylen, Derry, go and help him.”
Even though each and every one of the hawkman’s people had deeply tanned skin, and sported the same long, slick black length of hair, Mikahl could tell that the man giving the orders was Hyden Hawk’s father. It was clear he was an authority figure here, and the resemblance was unmistakable.
It was dawn before they found Lord Gregory. He was just over the next ridge, half in, half out of a huddle of pine shrub. He was still alive, but barely. He had been dropped from a great height, and it appeared that nearly every bone in his body was broken. He also had several puncture wounds in his back, and a wide open tear, from his chest to his chin. When they got him back to the camp, Vaegon tried to heal him, but it didn’t work. He wasn’t strong enough. One of the elf’s eyes was swollen shut and the other was blood red. A deep, jagged tear ran from his slightly pointed ear to the closed eye.
The men from the Skyler Clan ended up making a travois for Lord Gregory, and then toted him back to the village, where a burrow had been cleared out just for the outsiders.
Hyden had helped only slightly in the search for the Westland Lord. He hadn’t raced down into the camp either. Instead, he had stood on the ridge, and used his bow and his hawk-like vision to put those arrows into the hellcat’s back. As soon as he was sure that the creature had fled, he had gone to tend to Talon. Only after the hawkling had come out of the half stunned state his collision with the ceiling of the council chamber had caused, did Hyden leave the village to help the others in the search.
The women cooked a stew that was chocked full of healing herbs and goat meat. Poultices and liniments were administered. Mikahl took several stitches in a wound on his chest that he didn’t remember getting. All that could be done for him, Lord Gregory, and the elf was done.
Vaegon would survive. One eye was probably ruined, but it was too soon to say for certain. Lord Gregory though, was nearly torn in two. Vaegon did what he could do, but even with the elf’s magical healing abilities, the Lord of Lake Bottom would most likely die. If the gods did decide to let him live, the elf told them, he would never walk again.
With all of the swelling from his broken limbs, and the ghastly purple color of his pulverized flesh, Lord Gregory was not a pretty sight to look upon. He looked worse than dead. Late the second night, when he suddenly opened his eyes and croaked out a request to see Mikahl, came as a shock to everyone.
Mikahl had to be rousted from sleep, but once he knew why he had been awakened, he hurried to Lord Gregory side. The dying man’s voice was weak. The gleam of life had left his eyes completely.
“Is that you Mik?” The words came out in a scratchy hiss. “Are you there?”
“I’m here, milord,” Mikahl told him. He wanted to take the man’s hand as a show of support, but it was so swollen, that it looked like the skin might split.
To Mikahl, his onetime teacher and mentor looked more like a tangle of gnarled tree roots that a man.
With appalling effort, Lord Gregory swallowed.
“He was your father you know,” he croaked. “He made sure, in the best way he knew how, that you were prepared for your birthright.”
“What are you talking about?” Mikahl asked, with a panicked look at the woman who had been watching over the Lion Lord. “You’re fevered and confused.”
“Maybe so your Highness, but you’re still the intended heir to your father’s throne.” He blinked and lulled his head to the side so that he could look into Mikahl’s eyes. “Ironspike’s magic only ignites to those of Pavreal’s blood line, Mik,” he coughed.
His body wracked with terrible pain, but he fought it back. Mikahl felt hot tears streaming down his cheeks. He realized that he loved this man just as much as he had loved King Balton.
“Glendar is a greedy fool; Pael’s puppet, you’ll see. King Balton saw it a long time ago. There’s a third, but –”