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    He knew what it was the moment he felt the weight of it in his hands. The consequences of having it came flooding into his brain and he almost dropped it in fear. He had to search deeply in his heart for courage. It was Ironspike, King Balton’s notorious sword. He knew because he had polished it a thousand times as part of his duty as the king’s squire. He had seen firsthand the wealth of gold and jewels inlaid into the leather-wrapped hilt and cross guard. He had seen the covetous looks of those who longed to possess it, and he had seen the fear it could inspire. He had watched the magical blade glow red hot as it clipped Lord Clyle’s insolent head from his shoulders, and he remembered vividly seeing King Balton dispatch at least a dozen of the feral half-breed giants with it during the Battle of Coldfrost. Its actual weight was slight compared to his old iron sword, but holding it now made Mikahl want to crumble.
    Father Petri could tell that Mikahl knew what he had cradled in his arms. It was also obvious that the implications were not lost on the boy.
    “You are not to use it, unless it is to preserve your life, or to maintain possession of the blade.” The priest softened his serious look. “But always remember that your life is more important than the sword.”
    Mikahl looked at the priest with furrowed brows. This was the deadliest of burdens for him to carry and he knew it.
    “To use it would attract men to me like carrion to a carcass,” he said. “How am I to—?”
    “We!” Father Petri snapped, raising a hand to halt Mikahl’s protests. His voice was harsh and the man looked distressed to say the least.
    “We do not have to understand the tasks we are given, Squire.”
    The use of Mikahl’s meager title, and the reference it implied as to the origin of his orders, permeated the priest’s words.
    “We have to do as we are told, Mikahl, and do it the best we can.”
    Mikahl swallowed hard. He felt the need to be on his way. Prince Glendar, soon-to-be King Glendar, would most likely want Ironspike immediately. Once the sword was found to be missing, Glendar’s cronies, and his wizard, Pael, would be after it. Mikahl could see it now: a dozen lords and all of their men would be hunting him, a huge price on his head; bounty men and trackers, coming from all reaches of the realm to try to claim the reward that King Glendar would surely offer. Suddenly, the Giant Mountains seemed like the safest place for him to be, and with each passing moment, he found more and more reasons to reach them quickly.
    After a brief goodbye, Father Petri cranked open the great door and Mikahl eased out into the night. A glance up at Lakeside Castle put a twist in Mikahl’s guts and a lump in his throat. He had lived there most of his life. His mother had been a kitchen hand, and he himself had been in the service of the kingdom in one way or another since he could walk. At first, he had been a message runner and a candle-snuffer. Then, he was a stable hand and even a scribe’s aide for a while. As he grew older, he began training with the soldiers, and had excelled with his skills on the weapons yard to the point of notice. Lord Gregory had taken him on as a squire, and he had spent almost three years down at Lake Bottom Stronghold learning the proper ways to behave while in the service of royalty. Other than the not so distant traveling he’d done with the king as his squire, he had never been away from this place. Now, he was leaving his home, and he doubted that he would ever be able to return.
    Because his mother had died, he didn’t have any real family here, but both King Balton and Lord Gregory had become father figures to him. He had never known who his real father was, but he had never really been without guidance until now. Now, he was alone.
    Knowing that his possession of Ironspike was a secret known only to a dying king, and his loyal priest, Mikahl realized that he would soon be branded a thief of