The Dragon had turned to climb for another pass at the beast-men still inside the fortress when Durren was ripped from the body of the Beast. For one long terrifying moment as he fell, he heard nothing. No swish of wind under giant leathery wings, no thunder of a huge heart, no creak of sinew and flesh as joints moved and muscles gathered. There was only this dizzying plunge into the abyss, without warning, without pain, without anything resembling death so that he couldn’t believe he was truly dead—at last. Before he could marvel at that, he stopped.
Was that it? The end?
Why am I still thinking?
And then…he breathed.
Dank warm air rushed into lungs that had forgotten how to expand, delivering a kick to the heart they surrounded. Blood surged, and pain fired along every nerve the life-force replenished. In the darkness, Durren howled. His body bucked as if lightning-struck. He plunged once more, this time into something warm, wet, and soothing. As he slid under the surface, he realized where he was. Somehow, he’d come back to himself, to his own body, in the pool deep beneath Drakkonwehr fortress.
His muscles responded to commands, and he broke the surface. Panting, he sucked in air he’d never expected to breathe again. Someone must have moved his body to the pool because a quick hand-search told him everything he remembered was intact, including his clothes. Muscles still quivering from their recent death, he pulled himself out of the water and rested.
He would thank Ayliss from the bottom of his heart, but only if Mirianna was safe, and he had no way of knowing that from here. How long had passed since he’d last seen her facing down Syryk? The Dragon had urged him to trust her to use her power, and he did. But that was when he could still help her, could still see how the battle fared. Now, however, there was no more voice in his head to advise him, to show him what he’d overlooked. He ought to rejoice after years of constant interference. Instead, he felt bereft.
But Durren had no time for grief. He poured water out of his boots, pulled them back on and stood. His legs shook, but they would hold. They would have to. He had a long way to run to the surface.
Chapter Thirty-One
“Damn you, woman!” In his mind, Syryk heard thunder in his voice. All this pathetic body could expel was a whisper. He wanted to shake his fist at the warrior woman’s departing back, but his hand refused to rise from the grit into which her heel had powdered his last, best weapon. Somehow, she’d seen through his illusion. Even against the power of both crystals, she’d seen. And she’d taken the bloodstones away with her.
Rocks pelted the ground, kicking up dust around him. Syryk raised his head. Nearby, an old man he recognized as the gem cutter limped around a fire pit, tossing sticks onto rising flames. Shrieks filled the air, shrieks Syryk knew all too well. Sweat beaded on his forehead, stinging afresh the cut there, and he staggered to his feet. Krad surged out from every nook and cranny, from every shadow and crevice! Syryk clutched both crystal shards to his chest and shambled in a circle. We’re going to die! We’re all going to die!
His foot caught on something, and he stumbled, recovered his balance—and forgot to breathe. Beside the singed toe of his boot, lay a smooth, round ash-covered stone about as big as his thumb tip. Was it—? By the Demon Master, it was! Dizzy, Syryk fell to his knees. His first grab missed. More rocks showered around the fire pit, but he forced himself to take in air, to reach deliberately for the prize, to capture it with blackened fingers screaming with pain.
He sat back on his heels, heart drumming, while the old man tossed more wood on the fire. Its roar echoed the rush of his blood, and the rising heat seared his face, but Syryk took his time bringing his prize closer to the crystal shards in his other hand. The stone flickered, and he breathed more words over it, like a man lost in the snow coaxing a reluctant fire to light. Another glimmer, and another. By the Demon, yes! Energized, he surged to his feet and shouted, “Karachorynth alyminor! Beggedon ominor et!”
Silence reigned. No more clatter of rocks. No yowls. Only the crackle and pop of the fire continued. Around the fortress the Krad stood frozen in various poses. Now, almost as one, they turned toward him, and dark, feral eyes fixed on him. Syryk swallowed.
“You…idiot!” hissed a voice he’d once thought dear. “What in the name of all that’s holy have you done?”
Ayliss stood, teetering, scorch marks streaking the cloak she wore, her bare arms, her face. From the tangle of hair fringing her face, she glared at him.
“I did what you asked,” he retorted. “I helped you raise the Dragon. Now it’s my turn.”
“To call upon the powers of Beggeth?”
“I’ve got one damned bloodstone! I’ll use it however I wish. And right now, I wish to be gone from here! If I have to make a deal with the Demon Master to get my wish, I will!”
“You’re a coward and a fool, Syryk.”
“Good-bye, Ayliss. I’d hope to meet you again, but I don’t think the Krad will let that happen.” He shuffled toward the nearest group of beast-men. Even though their stench fried his nostrils, he choked back the urge to gag. The creatures were unpredictable and the bloodstone weaker than he’d expected, but with his two crystal shards, he had enough power to enthrall the weak-minded creatures into effecting his escape. The others, well…
“You have a few moments before the Krad regain their senses,” he told Ayliss as the group of beast-men he joined folded in around him. “I suggest you make the most of them.”
****
Durren saw flickering lights far ahead, but he lumbered on, breath sawing out of his mouth, before he realized these lights were not caused by his air-deprived blood sparkling behind his eyes. These shone only one color, and they were brightening. The floor of the tunnel leveled, and fresh air chilled his dripping face. His legs ached and his boots felt as if he’d never emptied them, but he dared not pause. The courtyard where he should’ve heard the screams of battle was eerily silent. And he smelled blood.
****
“Arrgh!” Mirianna swung her sword in an arc, cutting down three Krad. One part of her didn’t think it fair to kill them while they stood stunned, but the newly discovered part knew fair play didn’t matter against beasts, and there were yet too many of the creatures within the fortress. Nearby, Pumble wielded his sword with surprising dexterity for such a large target, and Rees shot arrow after arrow, moving forward as he retrieved his supply from fallen Krad.
She ignored the blood, ignored the stench, and charged after the vanishing mage, but Ayliss stopped her with an outstretched arm. “He’s getting away!” Mirianna yelled. “We need him to save Durren!”
“He’s done his part. The rest is up to us.” Dirty face grim, she turned and held out her hand. “Gareth, I need a weapon.”
Panting and drenched with sweat, the boy materialized out of the shadows of the Great Hall. He held out his staff and the Sword of Drakkonwehr.
“Stand behind me with the Sword,” Ayliss said, taking the staff. “We need to hold them off until Durren can get here.”
“He’s coming?” Mirianna gasped. “But he’s in the Dragon.”
“Not anymore.” Ayliss shoved hair out of her face. “Gareth put him back by the pool. Its healing power should restore him.”
Mirianna’s heart skittered at the ‘should.’ She thrust her hand into her pocket, reassuring herself the bloodstones remained next to her skin. They were warm to the touch—or maybe she fancied that. Regardless, her nerves calmed, and she knew she couldn’t wait for her hopes—for Durren—to materialize. The Krad were already awakening.
****
Outside the fortress, darkness enveloped Syryk. A small band of Krad padded on nearly silent feet around him. He would barely know they were there but for the stench and the insistent pressure of one or another paw guiding him, not downward into the valley, but upward, toward the gates of Beggeth. Overhead, a shadow passed, and he glanced at it, one last look at the Dragon lit by the distant fires within the walls.
So close�
��
But this new plan was infinitely better—or would be, if his charms could dampen the smell of his blood long enough for this band of Krad to escort him across the mountain tops to the Demon Master himself.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Gareth gripped the Sword of Drakkonwehr with both hands. He swung it from side to side, protecting the she-lion—Ayliss’s—back as she bashed Krad after Krad with his staff. The beast-men’s shrieks hammered at his ears, but they told him how many swarmed them and from which direction. He’d struck several with the broken blade, and his hands ran with something slicker than sweat.
He didn’t think about killing anymore. This was like fighting off wolves. You did what you had to do to survive. To protect those you loved. And he loved the she-lion—Ayliss. And Mirianna, and the Shadow Man. Even Pumble. He wasn’t sure about the man called Rees, but at least that man seemed to be helping them. Not like the traitor Syryk.
“Left!” Ayliss yelled, and he thrust. Matted fur brushed his fingers. Gareth pulled the Sword back, and warm liquid sprayed his arm, his face. He gagged, but resisted the urge to swipe the blood away. He couldn’t drop the weapon now. The Shadow Man was coming.
****
Durren’s head swam—colors, images, memories, all a blur. The light ahead faded, and he thought he might fall—fail—inches before his goal. Then one image separated from the rest...
He saw himself crouching, as always, in a rock-hewn tunnel, lit by a distant torch, while tendrils of smoke oozed from crevices around a massive oaken door. They spiraled upward, feeding a thick yellow haze overhead. He coughed. Sweat dripped from his hair, stinging his eyes. The sound of rushing footsteps brought him swiveling to his feet, shield up, heart pounding. His fingers gripped the hilt of the ancient double-edged Sword of Drakkonwehr, where the large bloodstone embedded in the intersection of hand guard, blade, and hilt glowed softly, a dark, deep red…
With a gasped, “No!” he shook off the nightmare. He’d lived it long enough. This was the end; he would pay for his mistakes once and for all. If only he had the Sword…
He saw it just as he hurdled boulders nearly blocking the Great Hall door. Gareth and Ayliss, back to back, she swinging the boy’s staff and Gareth wielding the broken weapon, surrounded by Krad, alive and dead. Drawing his knife, Durren charged the horde.
He may have screamed some war cry. He had no recollection, and certainly no hearing other than the snick of the blade and the roar of his own blood rushing his ears. But the Krad fell over themselves—and their fallen comrades—fleeing into the shadows.
Ayliss lowered the staff and leaned on it, panting, while Gareth turned to her and said, “Now?”
“Now,” Durren’s sister replied.
The boy, instead of handing over the weapon, switched his grip on the hilt. Holding the Sword with the blade pointing down, he raised it over his head.
Dear Koronolan, the boy means to kill himself! Horrified, Durren gasped, “Gareth, no!” and threw himself at the boy. Ayliss, damn you! his mind messaged, Gareth’s not meant to be a sacrifice!
No. She smiled that serene cat’s smile he hated. He’s meant to do what neither you nor I can do.
The Sword hilt reached the top of its arc and paused for an agonizingly long moment while Durren willed his muscles to plow through air thick as mud pulling at him. He had to stop this senseless death. While he inched forward, time slowed, contracted, reversed...
He saw himself once more before the oaken door. Rushing footsteps brought him swiveling to his feet, shield up.
His best friend—and second in command—Errek Eolen rounded the corner. “I’ve bolted the tunnel door. I don’t think the guards know we’ve made it down here.”
Durren blew out the breath he’d been holding. “The dragon’s stirring. We have to stop the mage first.” He nodded toward the door. “Think your axe’ll open that?”
“Three strokes—if there’s no spell on the wood.”
“There won’t be.” When the big man shot him a questioning look, he stifled a sigh. He hoped he wouldn’t have to explain how his whole plan relied on the little he remembered of Owender’s History of the People. He wished—again—he’d paid more attention to the scrolls, but it had always been the Sword that drew his hand and his heart. Gripping it now, he recited, “‘True hearts and no fear, against a mage’s power, hold dear.’”
True hearts. The words penetrated the nightmare, and he recognized Ayliss’s voice. Trust me, Durren. For once in your life, think before you act.
For as much as Ayliss confounded him, they were blood, and his blood told him Ayliss would never hurt Gareth. Twisting in the air, he stopped his forward motion. And time returned.
The Sword flashed. Durren’s heart dropped to his stomach, but the boy plunged the broken blade straight down into the stone pavement between his feet.
Sparks flew. The ground shook. A crack split the stone like a tear ripped in the very foundation of the fortress. Rocks tumbled from the walls. Ayliss threw herself over the boy, who had pitched forward as the Sword sank to the hilt. “Don’t let go!” she cried.
Above, the Dragon screamed. Durren fell to his knees. Pain like the stab of a red-hot knife stole his breath. He doubled over, gripping his side, feeling the old wound fresh and bleeding under his fingers. Dear Koronolan! He dragged himself forward as the Dragon crashed to the paving stones behind him and the fortress shuddered with the impact. “Ayliss! What in Beggeth…?”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Mirianna clung to her sword and torch, but raised her arm against the dirt peppering her face. She dared not close her eyes, lest any of the beast-men shrieking around her recovered sense enough to strike.
From what she could make out, the Dragon had fallen out of the sky and crushed a score or more of Krad. The giant head still snorted flame, and leathery wings beat at the ground like a bird trying to right itself. Over the clatter of falling rocks, she heard Pumble’s panicked screams cut short by Rees’s barked command. She glimpsed them standing back to back against the remaining horde, who once again had lost focus. No thanks to the mage this time, for the Krad seemed not enchanted but, she hoped, demoralized by their mounting losses. The shadows still crawled with furry bodies, but more fled than entered. If she and the others could keep the momentum they’d gained…
She risked a glance over her shoulder. Amid the settling dust, her father had fallen, but he waved away her concern and, still kneeling, tossed more wood on the fire. Near the Great Hall she spotted three forms sprawled but moving on the pavement, Ayliss, Gareth, and—her heart lurched—the man she loved. She stuttered a step forward, calling, “Durren!”
****
Gareth spat grit. The she-lion—Ayliss’s—weight had flattened his every bone, even his chin, into the stone. His elbows burned, and the fall had likely scraped away both sleeve and skin, but none of that mattered. What mattered was the ground no longer shook. And he still gripped the Sword.
Ayliss lifted herself off him, and he breathed—then coughed. She grasped his shoulders. “Hang on to the hilt, Gareth. You have to get up and pull.”
She helped him to his knees. The movement dug knife-edged pebbles into his forearms, and he sucked in a hiss. He hoped the quaking earth hadn’t tipped over the bucket of that special water. He would need its healing power when this was over.
Ayliss’s arms circled his chest, and her hair brushed his cheeks. Her heart beat against his shoulder blades the way her lion-heart had once soothed and cradled him not so very long ago. “Are you ready?”
He nodded. Dragging first one foot and then the other forward and underneath him, he concentrated on holding tight to the hilt while she balanced him. He took a breath, spat more grit from his mouth, and pulled. For something buried only a hand-span or two deep, the blade stuck fast. Tightening his grip, he pulled harder.
The Sword gave with a sudden shriek of steel. Just as Ayliss stopped his backward stumble, Gareth flinched at twin screams of pain, t
he Shadow Man’s very human one and the Dragon’s bellow.
****
One hand pressed to his side, Durren crawled toward his sister and the boy. His head buzzed with pain and the sound of someone shouting a long way off. His name? He couldn’t tell. The buckled pavement separating him from his goal rose like a mountain, but he had to know if he could trust the image imprinted on his brain. The Sword should never have penetrated the stone. It should have shattered upon impact. Had it? Were those sparks bits of the blade disintegrating? By Kiros!
Mere feet away, Ayliss had wrapped arms around the boy, helping him gain his footing. Gareth’s face shone white and pinched under its coat of dirt, but he clung to the buried hilt. Straightening, the boy began to pull.
What in Beggeth…?
Steel sang. Sparks cascaded. Light flashed on a broad, gleaming blade, and before Durren could comprehend what he’d seen, the thing that pierced his side a moment ago, now pulled back, searing a white-hot trail in its wake. He writhed on the ground, screaming, while his nerves vibrated with shock and pain.
And then it was gone, and he collapsed onto his back, spent and boneless. When he opened his eyes, Ayliss and the boy stood over him. “It’s over now, Durren,” she said, sagging with both hands on the boy’s staff. “You’re whole again. You and the Dragon and the Sword.”
Gareth dropped to his knees at Durren’s side. “Are you all right, sir? I’ve fixed your sword…I think.”
Durren sat up. As though in a dream, he grasped the weapon the boy held out. The blade shone in the firelight, the full unmarred, restored length of it. The hilt fit to his hand, just as it always had, and the weight of it balanced perfectly, so light he could be holding nothing but air. Nothing but an illusion...
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