Duke Fairchild’s eyes gleamed with murderous intent, as he casually spurred his horse into a slow trot towards the squire. He would have to wound him, and then kill the other man. Lord Brach, and the wizard, Pael, wanted the boy alive, and at least able to speak. The man on top of Garth would die though. The Duke recognized him as one of the many poachers that plagued the Reyhall Forest. He wasn’t the unknown conspirator that his lord wanted to find, he was just a hunter the boy had come across in the woods. The squire would get to watch the slow death of his companion. It would go far towards deterring any attempts the boy might make to escape. Fairchild would enjoy the slow kill, and watching the boy’s will break.
When Mikahl pulled the sword free from its scabbard, he felt its perfectly balanced weight in his hands. He had brandished it before, in the privacy of the King’s Royal Weapons Closet, while he was cleaning it, but he hadn’t unsheathed it since King Balton had died. Dropping the scabbard, he took the leather wrapped hilt in both hands, and got into the proper stance for fighting a mounted attacker from the ground. For all its familiarity, the sword somehow felt different. A strange vibration was coming from deep inside the blade. He could feel it in the bones of his wrists and arms. It had never done that before. He nearly dropped the weapon, as the strange sensation grew into a visible tremor. He tried to ignore it and gripped the hilt even tighter. Was it his own fear that was causing him to tremble so? He didn’t think so, but he was terrified. The Duke was almost on him now, and Mikahl couldn’t see even the beginnings of fear in the Coldfrost Butcher’s eyes. The man was one of the most ruthless killers in the entire realm, and Mikahl knew that he was in serious trouble.
When Duke Fairchild saw that the terrified boy was holding Ironspike, he hesitated. Surely, Lord Brach and Prince Glendar would’ve told him that the squire had stolen it. Unless they didn’t know that it was missing. With all the worry over Balton’s death, it must have gone unnoticed. The idea that returning it to the new king was far more important than keeping the squire alive, flashed into his mind like a whip crack. Convinced now that sparing the boy was no longer a priority, and that Ironspike was, he dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, and charged.
The moment of indecision that Mikahl saw in the Coldfrost Butcher’s eyes, coincided with the brilliant surge of energy that shot through his entire body. Suddenly, his blood felt charged, and his skin prickled, from head to toe. It was as if he were trapped inside a bolt of lightning. The world around him began to move in slow motion, and he was compelled to step to his right. The Duke’s sword was slicing downward at his left, and realizing that it was a committed stroke, Mikahl waited until the last second, and spun across the charging horse’s path. Deftly, he ducked under the horse’s chin, and came twisting up on the Duke’s unprotected, left hand side. Riding the momentum of his spin, as if it were a tidal wave, he continued around again. Ironspike was humming now, the sword’s razor sharp blade was glowing a pale pastel shade of blue. Mikahl could feel, and hear its power, coursing through him, electrifying his body, filling his head with an angelic symphony of glorious music. He, and the sword, for that moment at least, had become one.
As Duke Fairchild’s sword went slicing through the air where Mikahl had just been, Mikahl came around swinging with all his might from the other side of him. Ironspike’s magical blade cleaved into the Duke’s back, just above the waist, with little or no resistance at all. Plate mail, padded leather, and then flesh and spine alike, were sheared through. Mikahl barely had time to pull the blade tip in as it came out of the Butcher’s belly. If he hadn’t, it would’ve hacked right into the back of the Duke’s horse’s neck.
Chapter 17