Vaegon saw the worried expression on Hyden’s face. He also saw the spirit aura of both Hyden and his familiar. The ability to see such things was part of his elven sight. The spirit aura of the bird, the man, and the elf, were as intertwined as a vine is to the tree that supports it. To Vaegon, the path for all three of them was clear.
“Come,” he urged gently, guiding Hyden towards where Talon had landed. “Your people are protected by the Wolf King’s men. They’re safe enough without you.”
As if Vaegon’s comforting words were the words of the White Goddess herself, Hyden turned towards his destiny and set off after the bird.
Lord Alvin Gregory, the Lion Lord of Westland, was sure that he was in a living hell. No matter how hard he prayed for death, it would not come and take him. Some blasted insect had stung his shoulder, causing it to swell to the size of a melon, and his body was so bruised and broken from his Brawl with the Seaward Monster, that his piss was a bloody red froth. He could only remain conscious for short periods of time, in which, pure madness reigned around him. He found himself waking this time, to shouts, screams, and the sounds of distant ringing steel, but he couldn’t move to look outside his tent. At one point, a soldier with the Blacksword of Highwander on his shield, looked in at him with violent intent, but he had immediately been thrown to the side, and tackled by another soldier. Now the familiar voice of Gowden, one of his captains, was crying out, “TO ME MEN! TO ME!” as if they were on a battlefield somewhere. The Lion Lord tried to yell out and ask what was happening, but his throat was as dry as the bark on last year’s dead fall. He remembered vaguely his father, or was it some other voice?, telling him that there’d been another fight after the Brawl, a fight between some of his men and some of the people from Seaward.
That snotty boy that Duke Fairchild had insisted that they bring along, had been beaten half to death, the voice had added, and one of the timberjacks had been stabbed, in a bad sort of way. Had that been this morning? Or was it two mornings ago? It could’ve been a week ago, for all Lord Gregory could figure.
He was just about to drift into blackness again, when a leather boot came tearing through his tent’s wall. The leg that was still attached to it, stepped, twisted, and then tore the canvas wide open as it pulled free. Lord Gregory was blinded by the brilliance of the sun. The boot stepped back closer to him, and it became obvious that it was connected to a man who was engaged in serious sword play. The boot lifted then, and came down on his over swollen shoulder in a stomp. A gush of warm, thick pus, that smelled of rot and vomit, erupted from the wound. The harsh daylight in his eyes wasn’t nearly as blinding as the pain that ripped through him like a jagged blade. He tried to scream, but the effort only served to tear his parched throat open. In his mind, he cursed every god and goddess he could think of for leaving him alive to suffer this way.
Gowden’s voice shouted out another command, but it was cut short in a way that left no room to wonder why it had ended so abruptly. A relative silence followed, where all Lord Gregory could hear was a few footfalls coming from close by, and the sound of retreating hooves. He craned his neck to see what he could see, but his shoulder throbbed with the effort. The tattered wall of his tent blocked the view on one side, but on the other, he saw a handful of men fighting in the distance. He couldn’t tell if any of them were his. He squinted up at the sky and prayed for death again. The bright sun was suddenly blocked out as a face appeared, hovering upside down, over his. He hoped that his prayer had been answered, but was disappointed when the person began speaking to him.
“Lord Gregory!” Squire Wyndall said. The boy was breathless, distraught, and covered in gore from the battle. “Milord, we’ve been routed,” his unturned voice squeaked and cracked as he spoke. “First those fargin Seawardsmen came, then the Blacksword.”
“What? Who?” the Lion Lord croaked. Then he managed to say, “Water!”
Wyndall fumbled through the tent looking for a wineskin or a flask as he spoke.
“Fargin Seawardsmen got us at first!”
A pitiful groan from not so far away caused the boy to poke his head out of Lord Gregory’s tent and look around. Seeing nothing that was immediately threatening, he continued.
“Denny, Turl, and half the others ran like curs and left us at a disadvantage. Ah! Here we are.”
He poured a sip of water from the skin into his Lord’s mouth, and then another.
“We had all but bested the lot of them, but the blasted Highwander Blacksword warriors came a riding through out of nowhere. It was just a few of them, but they hacked and cleaved everything in their path.”
Wyndall paused for breath, and poured another dollop of water into Lord Gregory’s mouth.
“Why?” Lord Gregory asked after he swallowed. He didn’t really expect the boy to know the answer.
“That’s not the whole of it, m’ lord,” the boy continued. “They did the same thing in the Ways. The Blacksword rode down unarmed folks, crofters, and merchants. Women and children even!”