Lord Gregory thanked the heavens that Mikahl was alive and well. When Hyden had told him that the Seawardsman had called the other man “Mik” the Lion Lord had cried.
Hyden shared in detail, particularly with Vaegon, the wonders of the experience. The amount of innocent fervor that Hyden displayed, while expressing himself, made the elf feel more than a little ashamed for having let his selfish emotions get a hold of him. Hyden, Vaegon found, was as good and pure hearted as any man could be, which was most likely exactly why the gods had chosen to bless him so. With this realization, nearly all of Vaegon’s hidden contempt evaporated like water on a hot stone. He had to admit that he was still a bit jealous, but it wasn’t the dark sort of envy that brings about hatred. It was more of a healthy, competitive sort of feeling. He grinned ear to ear, and slapped Hyden on the back.
“Well, at least we now know how a mere human archer could come so close to beating an elf,” Vaegon jested. “With the eyes of a hawkling to aim with, how could you miss?”
Hyden couldn’t seem to find a response to that.
Loudin decided that he and Mik would camp in the valley by the tiny stream that trickled through it. They built a fire across the flow from an old oak tree and ate the last of Mikahl’s cheese. Loudin warmed a bit of the small, feral pig he had killed the day before on a stone by the blaze, and then split the meat with his companion. The meal and the cold stream water filled their stomachs to bursting. Only moments after they had stretched themselves out by the fire, they were asleep.
Mikahl’s sleep had been so thick and heavy for the few days that followed his killing of Duke Fairchild that Loudin had had to boot him awake in the mornings. That had all changed the previous night. Mikahl’s sleep had been fitful, fevered, and full of dark dreams of even darker creatures.
This night, the dreams were even worse, because the creatures seemed to recognize him. One of them in particular was after him, a black hulk of muscle and claw, driven by nothing less than pure hatred and evil intent. In his dream, it was searching for him so that it could destroy him. It wanted something from him, but Mikahl had no idea what it could be. He was only a squire he tried to tell the dream creatures as they chased him through his dark, empty dreamscape. The highest ranked squire in the realm, but a squire nonetheless.
“You’re a Squire no more! The King is dead,” they cackled and howled at him. “Everyone you know and love is out to get you now!”
Occasionally, the dream creatures would retreat, as something monstrous came near: something so much darker and more sinister than the rest of them; something that seemed to leech the life force from everything around it. This hulking, evil monstrosity radiated hatred and foulness, like a desert radiates heat. Evil shimmered from it in wavy sheets of blackness. When it would move off, the others came right back at him, snapping, growling, and cackling with their lustful desire to tear his flesh from his bones. There was always the one beast though, the one that had singled him out to hunt in the darkened dreamscape. That one had form and substance to it now, unrecognizable still, save for the glossy reflection of menace in its black eyes. It stood before him snarling and ready to pounce. Then it did.
Mikahl woke with a start. Thunder boomed, and then grumbled from not so far away. A peal of lightning streaked across the sky, silhouetting the jagged peaks of the mountains that loomed over them to the north. The air was frigid, and steam billowed from Mikahl’s lungs, as he fought to get his breath. The waning moon was still in the sky, its pale blue glow highlighting the tops of the clouds that were rolling over the mountaintops towards them. He shivered. The clouds were thick, black, and churning violently. It took only moments before they completely blotted out the moonlight. Suddenly, the whole world was engulfed in blackness, just as in his dream.
Mikahl’s hair suddenly stood on end. A massive crackle of thunder exploded, and a jagged streak of white lightning filled his world.
It struck no more than a dozen paces away from the camp. The concussion from the blast was so great, that it literally took away Mikahl’s breath. Loudin came up with a raspy yelp. One of the horses screamed in fright. The others pulled at their tethers, trying to get away. Across the little stream, the old gnarled oak tree showered the night with orange sparks, as it slowly split in two. Already, its lesser limbs and branches were consumed in dancing flames.
Mikahl wasn’t sure why he did it, but the urge to do so was irresistible. He got up, hurried over to Windfoot’s saddle, and untied the straps that held Ironspike to it.
Duke Fairchild’s blade lay alongside his bedroll, but it was completely forgotten. He sat back down with the King’s blade in his lap, ready to draw it from its scabbard at a moment’s notice. While he and Loudin huddled silently, waiting for the storm to subside, Mikahl watched the slow, flaming death of the once mighty oak tree, and found that he was thankful beyond words for its dying light.