Talon was fluttering about it, slashing, and clawing at the beast’s horny, black-scaled head, trying to take it off its intended course. Vaegon charged across the clearing towards them, raising the ax over his head as he went. Apparently, Talon got a claw into the wyvern’s eye, because it forgot Mikahl for a moment, and thrashed its head about in agony while hovering a few feet off the ground. Through some warning from Talon, Mikahl managed to roll his half-dazed self out from under the angry beast. Vaegon saw the opportunity, and heaved the ax at the creature, just like he had at the hellcat. Talon barely managed to flap clear of the heavy wooden handle, as it came whooshing by. Vaegon had thrown it so hard, that Mikahl heard the powerful “WHOOMP! WHOOMP! WHOOMP!” of it spinning through the air.
The blade hit the wyvern in its face with a sickening crunch, sending it flailing into the ground, where it landed hard on its side. The splatters of blood that sprayed both Talon and Mikahl, began to sizzle and burn through feather and flesh. Instinctually, the hawkling made for water. The stream was close for the bird, whose tiny, hollow bones and body would be devastated, if the hot, acidy stuff got through its layers of feathers.
On the ground, the wyvern wheezed, sputtered, and managed to slink a few feet away, before finally falling still. All around it, everything, even the grass, was being eaten away by its corrosive blood.
Loudin’s horrifying scream filled the air, and echoed off of the hard surfaces around the valley’s rim. Mikahl rolled to his feet and followed Vaegon’s gaze with a knot of dread growing inside him. It was an awful sight to look upon, and seeing it, broke something inside Mikahl.
Loudin’s intestines had gotten hung in the branches of a tree. A few yards of guts had been pulled out of him, yet, he still hung onto the sword with both arms, as the powerful wings of the hellcat pulled, and the beast twisted and yanked, trying to get free of him and the tangle. Another cry of anguish, and pain erupted from the Seawardsman, and chilled Mikahl to the bone.
“Let it go, old man,” Mikahl whispered under his breath, but he knew in his heart that Loudin wouldn’t do it. He felt the sizzling pain of the wyvern’s blood burning his face and arms, but he ignored it. At the moment, there was no room in him to feel such trivial discomfort. He would rather lose the sword, and live his whole life in the shame of doing so, than to see his friend die this way. His very soul cried out for Loudin to let go. Tears welled in his eyes and he started to look away.
Loudin screamed again. This time, it was cut off, as another few feet of his intestines were yanked out of him. Like some macabre kite, he hung there, suspended in midair. One arm came loose from over the sheathed blade, and it looked as if the hunter was about to fall, but his other arm was crooked over the sword, and he refused to let it go.
Loudin was beyond pain now. He felt the pull against his insides, and he felt the raw, cold mountain air touching places inside him that were never meant to be exposed. He felt the tearing when the hellcat lurched, and tore more of his guts loose. Something ruptured that time, and the world was growing fuzzy and gray, and yet he still refused to let go. He tried to scream again, but only a hot whoosh of air came bubbling out of him from somewhere besides his throat. This was it then, he conceded. It was over.
Better to die for a friend, than to rot away in some woodsy cabin all alone anyway. He was done for, but as futile as all his effort seemed to be at the moment, Loudin still thought he could beat the beast.
“You fargin, flying, panther-horse hell-born bitch,” he tried to yell, but no audible sound came. “You’ll not have Mik’s sword!” he finished anyway. With the last bit of his strength, he reached out with his free hand, and grabbed Ironspike’s leather wrapped hilt, and started sliding it out of its scabbard.
Mikahl hadn’t been able to watch. His carelessness had not only cost him King Balton’s sword, but had cost his friend his life. He had failed his father and King. He had let Lord Gregory’s death be in vain. He had wasted the Giant King’s time, and on top of it all, he had killed Loudin.
What a fool he had been to have even entertained the notion that he might be a king of some sort. A King’s bastard born fool is all he was, a squire who had grown too big for his britches, and had carelessly thrown away his honor, and a dear friend’s life, on a whim. He had failed. He wasn’t worthy to be called King. He was just a fool.
Vaegon’s sudden gasp carried a tinge of hope in it. Just enough to bring Mikahl out of his shame, to look up and see what it could possibly be that mocked him so. What he saw, made his own breath catch, and drew him stumbling forward. First one step, then another, and then he was running. Ironspike was flying through the air. Its mirror smooth blade reflected the pastel colors of the morning in sparkling turns as it came spinning towards the ground. It landed blade down, sinking two thirds of its length into the earth from the momentum. Mikahl stopped and stared at it. It wavered there a moment, and then stilled. It looked more like a glimmering, jeweled cross, than a sword. He turned away from it just in time to see Loudin’s body fall crashing into the trees.