No! asserted Skylar in his mind. I won’t leave. Let them take me. If only it saves Grim...
He remained motionless whilst the livid face of Lothor drew nearer. A cry, like that of a man straining to move a mountain, escaped from between Grim’s clenched teeth. Skylar turned in time to see Gyle’s back hit the ground a full two meters from Grim, who was already on his feet, running full sprint. He blindsided Lothor, knocking him out of the way, but did not stop. With one powerful movement, Grim lifted Skylar off the ground and hurled him headlong over the cliff’s edge.
“Fly!”
EIGHTEEN
SKYLAR RACED TOWARD the rocks below with terrifying speed. The cold air rushing by made his eyes water. What had happened? His mind and body were in a state of shock. It took several seconds before he could register it all.
Fly!
Grim’s plea reverberated in his brain.
Grim.
Something snapped inside him. He activated the thrusters on his jetwing, pulling upward, straining against the intense force of his falling body.
Still he sped toward the rapidly approaching rocks.
He torqued the throttle.
Come on! He gritted his teeth and pulled harder.
Slowly...slowly...his downward path began arching outward.
He pulled harder.
The rocks grew closer.
Outward...outward.
Closer...closer.
Outward...outward...
Up!
Swooping skywards, he aimed straight from the cliff’s edge, straight back to Grim. A sudden explosion split the air. A shower of rocks and sand rained down on him.
“Grim!” he cried out.
Skylar’s rapidly beating heart stopped when he reached the brink. Heaps of stone and rocks covered the spot where the fighting had occurred. Among the rubble, three bodies lay half buried, lifeless. Quickly, Skylar alighted, stumbled over the rocks, and clambered his way to where Grim was. He could only distinguish his faithful companion by the tan boots and bronzed arms that protruded unnaturally from the heap of rock. Frantically, he tore at the debris, desperately trying to free his friend.
He hoped beyond hope that beneath the pile Grim would still be alive—only injured, unconscious. When at last he uncovered Grim’s face, his tiny flame of hope flickered and went out. Grim was dead.
Dead.
Grim is dead.
The words reverberated endlessly within the empty cavity where once his brain resided.
Dead.
The words had no meaning to him. Nothing did.
Grim is dead.
How could any words make sense? How could anything make sense?
Grim is dead.
How could Grim be dead?
After a time, he forced himself to get up, to do something. Still delirious, he began building an improvised burial mound with the same stones which had crushed Grim’s body. Hypnotically, mechanically, he piled the stones, one on top of the other, each time glimpsing Grim’s battered face and feeling a jolt of pain. Each stone grew heavier and heavier, as if something didn’t want Grim buried, as if each stone buried a part of himself. When at last he set the final stone, covering Grim’s face forever, his legs gave way. He collapsed to his knees. All at once, everything flooded upon him. Every moment of his brief friendship with Grim replayed with agonizing clarity in his mind; Grim’s loyalty; Grim’s kindness; Grim’s willingness to give his life to protect him; “My prince....my prince....my prince,” he heard Grim’s voice as if Grim were speaking to him from the grave. Everything flooded. Haladras; uncle; Rasbus; the docks; Kindor; home; home...home...home.
Tears came streaming down his face.
When Skylar came to, darkness surrounded him. Night had fallen. Whether sleep had overtaken him or his brain had overloaded and slipped out of consciousness he could not tell. He looked up. Grim’s grave lay before him, dark and riddled with shadows.
Dead.
Still Dead.
Grim had not risen from his rocky grave while Skylar wept like a child. Why should he hope for a miracle? Why should he hope? Who would hear?
Skylar took Grim’s sword in his hands. The blade had survived the blast with only a few nicks. Grim’s words came back to him: I am your blade, my prince.
And so you were, thought Skylar. Better than any man deserves.
Laying the sword across Grim’s burial mound, he stood and looked down into Horned Vale. It lay quiet and still, bathed in silvery moonlight, unaware of the tragedy that had befallen a few wanderlust souls. Far off, the lights of Dura Cragis glimmered like anemic stars. The city where perhaps lay the lifeless body of Barryman. How many men would lose their lives for his sake? And why? Why should his life be counted more than any other’s?
The moon glowed brightly. Skylar had not seen Fenorra’s moon since he came to that accursed planet. Its soft white luminance dulled the edge of darkness around him. The stars, too, were out, burning in the black heavens like a million sun-struck diamonds. A song, whether carried on the wind or rising merely from his mind he could not tell, filled his ears. He knew it at once.
It was Grim’s song, of Elydar.
The song went on, seemingly of its own accord, as if Grim himself were singing it from his grave. When it finished, Skylar sighed and returned his gaze heavenward at the stars.
“I hope you find Elydar, Grim,” he said hoarsely. “If anyone deserves to enter the Spirit King’s realm, it is you.”
And for a moment the thought brought him comfort. Only for a moment, until the stomach-wrenching pain of loss returned with full force. He was alone now. Utterly lost and alone. Not a soul in the universe knew where he was. Where were Lasseter, Krom and Endrick? Would it matter if he found them?
He could not stay on that mountain—he refused to. Of that, at least, he felt certain. Never mind the darkness, or his uncertainty of the way. What way? Where was he going? I should never have come here.
He turned resolutely and began picking his way across the rubble-strewn path toward the other side that would lead him down from that ill-fated mountain. The rocks crunched beneath his weight, loose stones challenged his footing. But he soon made his way and set his boots upon a smoother surface. Looking back one last time, he bid his friend farewell.
“Goodbye, Grim. It is my fault you are dead. I am sorry.”
A single tear drop fell from his eye and gripped his cheek. Skylar, heart heavy with grief, set off on the moonlit path down the mountain.
The pathway down proved less perilous than the one he and Grim had ascended. It was much wider and surprisingly clear in the gray moonlight. Though, little difference any of it made to Skylar. Neither cold nor hunger, fatigue nor peril roused the slightest response from his numb senses. He felt like a roving corpse.
When he finally reached the bottom of the mountain, he was only half aware of it. The terrain no longer led him downward. Trees began to appear in denser groves. Giant boulders and rock formations jutted up from the ground, like eerie creatures in the dark.
Though still insensible to his weariness, he saw no reason to continue walking now that he had descended the mountain. He began to search for shelter for the night. Little did it matter where, so long as it was dark and forsaken.
He laced his way among the clusters of towering boulders, searching for a small grotto or recess where he could sleep. If he could find sleep. Restlessness and nightmares no doubt awaited him. Could it be worse than the waking nightmare that haunted him even as he walked under the moonlight?
He rounded a bend immersed in shadows. A sudden movement awakened his dull senses. Before he could react, a strong hand stifled his mouth. An arm strangled his neck and pulled him against his unseen assailant.
“Do not cry out or I shall knock you senseless,” whispered a hurried voice in his ear. “Tell me who you are and what your business is. But keep your voice down. Do you understand?”
Skylar nodded his head the best he could under the man’s firm hold. The large hand
slowly uncovered his mouth. Convinced Skylar would not yell, the attacker jerked Skylar around to face him. A tall hooded figure stood before him. Skylar’s own hood was drawn back.
“Skylar?” said the man. “How did you...come, lad. Let us not tarry in the open.”
The man was Krom. Skylar could not mistake the voice.
Laying a hand on Skylar’s back, Krom ushered him deeper into the shadows.
“Watch your head,” said Krom.
Before him, the dark surface of a stone barred his way. From its base a black arch rose and peaked just above the ground. An opening. Crouching low, he inched his way through the opening, feeling the ceiling at his head as he went. A short distance into the rock, the ceiling broke away and Skylar stood up. Krom slipped in behind him.
The enclosure was a sort of roofless cave, a hollowed out stone that opened up to the sky some meters above their heads. The stars beamed down through the aperture. Two other figures occupied this improvised hideout. Lasseter and Endrick. The dim green glow of a phosphorescent torch suddenly illuminated the companion’s faces. Krom moved nearer to Skylar, holding the torch in his right hand.
“You are lucky to be alive, lad,” said Krom. There was heavy reproach in his tone and manner. “You should never have run off like that.”
He paused, his eyes fixed on the young prince. Skylar remained quiet. He had nothing to say.
“We saw your signal,” said Endrick. “That’s just the sort of thing Grim would do. What did you do with him, anyway? Ran off to fight Morvath, likely.”
It was the moment he had dread; the reason he wished they had never found him. How could he tell them what had happened?
Silence lingered until it suffocated. “Well?” said Krom, a touch of impatience in his voice. “What’s the matter?”
There was no point prolonging the task any longer. It wouldn’t make it any easier. Skylar met Krom’s gaze without letting his eyes falter. Trying to be a hero had gotten him into this mess, but he refused to be a coward now.
“Grim is dead,” he said.
The words felt awkward coming from his tongue. He immediately wished he could pull them back, to erase their reality. Far too late. Nothing could fix what was broken now. The words, however clumsily delivered, had their effect. Krom scarcely batted an eyelash at the news. Too proud to show grief. Yet it was there. It pained Skylar all the more to see him holding it in.
When no one else spoke, Skylar began recounting all the events that had transpired since he stole away from their camp two nights before. He talked, uninterrupted, for nearly an hour, holding nothing back. He told of Grim’s imprisonment and release; of the new governor; of Morvath; of Gyle and Lothor, sent to follow Grim; of Barryman; of their escape and journey around the valley; of their trek up to the mountain pass and encounter with Morvath’s servants; of how Grim tossed him over the cliff; of finding him dead.
At last, when he’d finished, the heavy silence fell once more.
Krom lifted it.
“A hand charge. He always carried one. I’ve tried to get him not to. He always insisted he would never use it unless there was no other choice.”
“You think Grim caused the explosion?” said Skylar “Why would he—”
“Of course he set if off,” responded Krom curtly. “Don’t you realize? He threw you off the cliff so he could detonate it. He must have thought he couldn’t defeat Lothor and Gyle on his own—especially if they were going to use Morvath’s weaponry. So, he sacrificed himself to kill them. They would have hounded you to the end of the galaxy had he not.”
“But—”
Skylar broke off. Grim throwing him, telling him to fly...it all made sense now. The weight of that realization overwhelmed him. He felt he could not speak.
“And had you stayed with us,” said Krom coldly, “had you listened, Grim might yet be alive.”
Skylar bowed his head.
“I know that. And I am sorry. I know that he was like a son to you. No one shall lose his life on my account ever again.”
He turned to his uncle.
“Lasseter, I wish to go home. I want no more part of this running and hiding. I am no prince. No heir to the throne. This is not my life. All I want is to go back to Haladras.”
“Fool!” boomed Krom’s voice. “Do you think Morvath will let you go back to your old life, now that he knows of your existence?”
“I don’t care about Morvath. Let him come after me. He can have my word: the throne is Tarus’. I want nothing to do with it.”
Krom’s tone dampened, his expression somber.
“It would have broken Grim’s heart to hear you speak thus.”
Skylar felt a hot surge of anger.
“Grim is dead because of me and the demented, aimless mission you’re all so fixated on! I want it over. It’s not worth the cost—whatever the gain may be.”
Krom’s voice returned, biting and cold.
“Grim did not die so that you could become a mere commoner, a mindless, self-serving boy. He died so that you could become king. King! If you’re not willing to accept who you are, it would have been better for you to die than Grim. For at least he possessed a noble heart.”
Krom’s words pierced him to the core and boiled his blood all in the same instant. He couldn’t bear it any longer. Without a word, Skylar rushed from the shelter of their hideout, slipping into the darkness of the night.
He ran a short distance before stumbling over a rock and hitting the ground. For a while he laid there, unmoving. He was unhurt. He didn’t get up. What was there for him to get up for?
“I’ve never known you to give up so easily,” said a voice behind him.
“Nothing about this has been easy,” replied Skylar to the man he’d called uncle for his whole life.
“No. And it will in all probability yet get harder. Nothing worthwhile comes without a price.”
“I don’t want it, though. Oh, why did you bring me into this, Uncle?”
Skylar’s face was out of the dirt now, staring into the luminous green eyes of that man who had been a near father to him. He suddenly felt young, like a little boy crying for his mother.
“My dear boy,” said Lasseter with a sigh, “I kept you from it as long as I could. This is not what I wished for you, or your mother. No one can make you be king, but you cannot escape who you are, what you are meant to become. Your destiny was set before the stars and planets were shaped and formed. It is yours to claim or reject as you choose. But Skylar,” his voice grew hoarse, “you were destined to become king, to serve a people who desperately need you. It is a hard reality to bear.”
“But how am I supposed to even become king? All we’re doing is running from the one who has power over the throne.”
“That,” said Lasseter gravely, “is not easily answered. Though I fear it will require the lives of many more.”
“That is what I cannot bear. Grim’s death is more than enough for me. I refuse to be the cause of anymore.”
“Then you sentence this people to a fate more loathsome than death, Skylar: a life without freedom. Think of the people on Quoryn. Would you have your own mother subjected to such wretchedness? Remember the maiden in the village? Would you have had Grim captured and enslaved by the empire, his soul crushed by tyranny?”
Skylar did not answer. Inside, Lasseter’s words were battling with his emotions. How could he know the right course? Where was the clear line that separated truth from error? He had always thought choosing the right so easy before. His decisions had never carried such heavy consequences before.
Oh great ruler of the stars and planets, guide my heart aright!
“I believe Krom was wrong about one thing,” resumed Lasseter after several moments, “Grim would have sacrificed his life for you whatever you were destined to become. He loved you. Prince or pauper. That was his nature.”
Skylar nodded absently, and let his head drop in defeat.
“Where do we go from here?”
NINETEEN
“WE SHALL HAVE to cross the Boldúrins,” said Krom on the morrow following their partial reunion. “There is no way around them. From pole to pole, those fierce ridges stretch. Arsolon lies directly west of here. If the weather holds, it will take a week. If it doesn’t...there’s little chance of us making it through alive.”
It was a somber morning. The gray curtain of low-hanging clouds had reconvened some time during the night. An even colder air bit at their fingers, ears and noses. The companions spoke little. All thoughts were heavy and pensive after the previous night’s events.
Krom and Skylar had made a sort of reconciliation, Krom offering a stolid and terse apology and Skylar half-heartedly accepting. Yet, Skylar couldn’t help feeling some tension between them.
Skylar ate his cold but filling breakfast—more than he’d eaten in the last two days. It gave him a strength he didn’t realized he lacked. Strength he knew he would need. Endrick had returned to him his bag and satchel, which he had left at camp on that fateful night. He thought how cruel and ironic it was to have what he least cared about restored to him.
Somewhere overhead, above the cloud’s cover, a low hum passed as the companions shouldered their packs and set off into the mist. Not one of the companions halted to look up. Skylar himself had only half heard the sound.
“Let us hope,” said Krom, “that we may not find Arsolon infested with Tarus’ soldiers.”
The day advanced slowly, one monotonous step after another. Skylar followed behind Lasseter as a man consigned to some dreadful fate. Scarcely did he lift his eyes from the ground on which he trod. His mind was full of thoughts which often flashed scenes of Grim’s death. They panged his heart with grief. He wondered how he could go on hurting so.
As the day grew older the clouds grew denser and darker, as if echoing Skylar’s mood. By midafternoon they began pelting the travelers with raindrops.
Wrapping themselves in their oilskins, the companions continued walking. The rain fell with greater intensity. A short time later, they entered a dense forest. Its canopy of branches did little to protect them from the cold downpour or from the angry winds that were growing ever stronger. Thin trees were bent almost to the ground under its force. The older trees groaned and creaked as they shivered at its strength. Thunder rumbled all around like giant boulders crashing together. Within a matter of minutes, the rainfall had become a fierce tempest.
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