Two whyvrens attacked at once from opposite sides of the dragon king. Rhendak darted his head forward and snapped his teeth down on the neck of the creature in front of him, killing it instantly. Then he twisted, catching the one behind full in its twisted face with a burst of flame, but not before the venomous stinger had embedded itself in his shoulder between two scales. Rhendak roared in pain. He felt the poison burning through his veins, weakening him. He beat his wings harder, but the effort soon became more than he could manage. Dipping and faltering, he fell to the ground. The remaining whyvrens followed.
Rhendak landed with a heavy thud in the middle of the enemy army. The creatures near him let out a victorious howl as they caught the scent of the whyvren’s poison working its way through their foe. Rhendak raised his voice in a trumpeting, clarion call of defiance.
Deprived of flight, the dragon king became a cyclone of death. Whirling and whipping his tail through the ranks of the enemy, he amassed their carcasses around him in a barricade. Other dragons flew overhead, jaws snapping and claws ripping at the enemy between bursts of fire in a tremendous effort to protect their king, but the whyvrens were too numerous and they overwhelmed the great dragon. They swarmed over him, clawing and biting and stinging him without mercy or restraint. Even as other dragons tore them away from their king, more werefolk piled into the fray.
At long last, the great dragon, King Rhendak roared his last, desperate challenge. He surged up from underneath the mass of enemies in a vicious and desperate struggle for survival, but a snarling wulfban clamped its jaws to Rhendak’s great neck, its fangs tearing through the great dragon’s throat. With a gasp, Rhendak spurted one more magnificent burst of flame that reduced the were-creatures around him to ash, and then he fell, shaking the ground as he collapsed.
The dragons sent up a mighty roar as they saw their king fall amidst his enemies. From the wall, the knights of the realm watched in quiet shock.
The battle did not cease for the fall of the dragon king. The enemy gained confidence with this victory and redoubled their efforts. Though the myth-folk fought with great courage, their spirits collapsed with their king. Then Justan’s battle cry rang out over the field.
“Rhendak!” he cried, his voice rising to the sky. “Rhendak! For Rhendak, for Aom-igh!”
Justan’s blade whirled and slashed, and his enemies fell before him and the plunging hooves of his war horse. The knights of the realm roused themselves at the sight of their leader fighting with such daring. They followed him into the fray, taking up his cry. The myth-folk rallied to the call as well and delayed once more the defeat that was sure to come.
The battle raged through the day, and Justan fought with his comrades, leading them, encouraging them, until his sword arm ached with fatigue and his throat was raw and hoarse from shouting. A sudden rain of arrows poured from the sky, causing the enemy to fall and recoil.
“Take a breather!” a voice shouted over the din of the battle.
Justan looked up to see a wave of fresh men plunging into the fray on either side of him. The reserve forces had moved to the front of the line to give the men who had been fighting the longest a short respite. Gratefully, Justan saluted and turned his horse, urging the beast to retreat to the back of the lines.
When he had reached a place of relative safety, Justan paused to take a long swig of water from his nearly empty canteen and survey the battle. The vile creatures were everywhere, and the death of his countrymen followed in their wake. Knights, women of the Order of the Shield, and now farmers, tradesmen, families, and even children lay dead among the ruins. It sickened Justan to understand that this scene that brought heartache and sorrow to his own soul brought delight to their enemy.
That is why we fight, he thought to himself. Win or lose, the only choice is to fight.
He brought his hand down and noticed distantly that it glistened with his own blood. He was vaguely aware of numerous wounds covering his body and a hazy pain that gained in intensity with every movement. Warm blood trickled across his skin in more than one spot, but there was no time to have his wounds tended.
The storm, sustained by Rena through the barrier’s power, had subsided long ago. The last they had seen of the shield was an eruption of flame from the ground that claimed many of the were-folk’s numbers. Then nothing. Rena’s power vanished. Justan had no way of knowing whether or not his wife was fading away from him or if she was simply resting, and he fought as if he did not care. He could not remember seeing anyone he recognized in what seemed like hours; although he could not have said for sure how long ago it had been since every minute of the battle raged for what felt like an eternity. He sighed and readied himself to charge into combat once again.
“Justan,” a soft voice halted him.
He turned in his saddle, half raising his sword instinctively. It was Dylanna. Justan relaxed at the sight of a familiar face. Breathing a deep sigh he let his sword fall to his side.
“Dylanna, you startled me,” he commented needlessly.
Dylanna’s gaze swept over him in concern. She took in the weariness about his face and the wounds he had sustained. “How are you holding up?”
“Does it matter?” Justan asked. “I must continue the fight. While I still have strength, I must remain.”
“You need to keep your strength,” Dylanna cautioned. “You must not use yourself up, you will be needed…”
Justan raised a hand. “I have the strength, Dylanna. Please understand me: my men are dying, our castle is overrun, and the day is almost done. I must continue to lead the fight or the men will lose hope. If they do not see me, they will assume I have fallen and that will break their hearts, taking away what hopes they do have. Dylanna, look around. We are defeated, we cannot avoid defeat. Our numbers are too small, we are too weak to stand before so vast an enemy. There will be no victory march for us, no triumph at the end of this day. We fight now merely to give the king more time. If he succeeds, then our deaths will have meaning, our deaths will be worth the cost of this day. A free world for our children?” Justan scowled. “My death is worth that.”
An unearthly scream rent the air above them, and both Justan and Dylanna froze, staring at the sky. The silver-winged werehawk flew in a giant circle. Its rider, the one they had identified as Ghrendourak, was emitting bellows of pain and anger that shattered their way across the battlefield. For a moment, all fighting ceased. Then, the werehawk wheeled and winged its way out across the ocean, away from the battlefield. It flew swiftly, disappearing in an eye-blink.
Justan turned to Dylanna, his eyes wide and questioning. She paled.
“My guess? King Oraeyn reached his destination.”
“I only hope we’ve given him enough of a head start,” Justan replied quietly.
Before either of them could say more, the battle reached them and Justan pushed Dylanna back, away from the fight, raising his sword to the attack. He spared a quick glance for the wizardess and saw that she was preparing to enter the conflict as well.
“No!” he shouted. “You have skills no one else does. Go back inside the castle! Help Zara. We need your magic more than we need your sword.”
Then the enemy was upon him and he did not have time to see if she heeded his orders.
❖ ❖ ❖
Dawn did not come to Llycaelon. Instead, ominous clouds covered the sky and enemies surged over and through the land. The sheer number of were-folk pouring onto the battlefield through the gap in the cliffs was overwhelming. The aethalons fought fiercely, but even their warrior skills seemed pathetic against the great enemy facing them.
Early in the fighting, Devrin led his troops in and smashed them against Stephran’s anvil. The ploy had worked brilliantly, and any other enemy would have fallen to it, but the fact remained that there were not enough aethalons to make a difference.
Leila had never felt so helpless as she did standing on the hill watching everyone else fight. She had been left t
o guard the refugees, the women and children, and those too injured to continue fighting. Everyone else had gone to battle. She tried to watch Jemson, and for a while she had been able to spot Devrin and Shentallyia, but now they all blurred together in a sea of battle.
“We just have to hold their attention long enough for my uncle to succeed in his quest,” Jemson had said to her mere days before.
“And if they don’t succeed?” she had asked quietly.
“Then there is no hope for any of us anyway,” Jemson had replied. “I prefer to die fighting. Perhaps we can hold them back; perhaps there are not as many as we anticipate.”
But there were so many more than they had feared. Leila stared down at the battle and desperation filled her. It was only a matter of time before they were all dead. Defeat was inevitable, it hemmed them in on all sides.
“Steady, Wizardess,” a clicking voice said.
Leila turned and faced the old gryphon that had come up behind her. “Hello again, Kanuckchet. And I am no wizardess.”
The gryphon’s beak parted. “You wish to be something else now? What wish you to be?”
Leila shook her head at the misunderstanding. “No, I do not wish to be something else, but I am forced to find something new anyway.”
The gryphon’s feathers rustled, and he jerked his head in a sort of twisting motion. “Foolish wizardess. You do not lose magic like you can lose your memory or misplace a beloved object. It cannot be torn away from you like a limb, nor can it be stolen from you like a possession. Wizardess is what you are: as much a part of you as your name; it cannot be lost, merely forgotten. Even the Ancient Enemy cannot make you lose what you are; he can merely make you forget. Speak your true-name and possess its meaning, and you will find yourself again.”
“I have tried, I cannot.” Leila’s hands lifted of their own accord, a poor attempt to convey the depths of the misery that consumed her. “I must find a new function.”
“You are who you are and you must find a way to remember. We have great need of you this day, Wizardess.”
“Stop calling me that! I am no longer a wizardess!”
“No,” the old gryphon said. “It is you who must stop. Stop binding yourself to the lie that has blinded you.”
Leila stared at the great myth-creature and began to shake her head in denial, but she paused. There was a knowing look deep in the gryphon’s bright gaze that caught her attention, a memory that tugged at her mind. She stared into his wise old face and he returned her stare with unflinching faith.
“Who are you?” she asked wonderingly.
The gryphon threw his head back and clacked out a long name in gryphonese. “My name is Kanuckchet, which means ‘guide.’ My parents named me well, for I have learned to find what is lost and return it to where it belongs. Now, I have told you my name; what is yours?”
Leila felt foolish and her cheeks flushed. “We don’t really hold with true names where I come from…” she began but Kanuckchet cut her off with a sharp click.
“It matters not. Tell me who you are.”
“I am Leila.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Leila,” the wizardess said it louder.
“What are you?”
“I am a sylph: part mermaid, part wizardess. My father was a great wizard named Scelwhyn and my mother was a creature of the sea, a mermaid. I am a bridge across worlds, a combination of two races. I am full of their strengths, but I must always remember that I bear their weaknesses, too.”
As she spoke, the gryphon stared at her with a frightening intensity. She felt the world begin to spin around her. Her own voice thundered in her ears and she reached out with her mind, attempting to grab hold of something solid. As she did so, she heard her name being repeated over and over again, and then like a door swinging open everything came flooding back. In horror she remembered how she had locked her magic away when she had been floating in that awful portal. She had hidden it where the Enemy could not reach it, but then he had made her believe that he had stolen it instead. After days of endless imprisonment, she had believed his lies. Kiernan Kane had come to rescue her, but not before she had accepted the lie as her own truth.
Now the real truth sprang up before her. She was not defenseless. Nothing about her was broken or defeated. She was whole and strong and capable. She felt power surge within her, bursting forth and begging to be used. As truth washed over her, Leila fell to her knees, salty tears of relief and healing streaming down her face.
“My name is Leila,” she repeated. “My name is Leila,” her voice grew stronger as she said it again. “My name is Leila. And I... am a WIZARDESS!”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Despite Brant’s admonition to move quickly, Kamarie found it impossible to hurry. Slowly, reverently, without making a sound, she followed the others through the doorway and into the great cavern beyond. She gazed around in the sudden light, experiencing an overwhelming sense that she was small and inconsequential. No longer did they stand in an earthen passage, but in a palatial hall designed by the obvious hand of a master architect. The floors were a gleaming obsidian and the walls were of polished silver. Massive pillars led the eye upwards to an expansive ceiling of pure, brilliant gold so bright it was painful to look at it. As they emerged into the spectacular hall, the secret door slammed shut behind them with a crash that resounded and echoed throughout the chamber.
“Well, that cuts down on our options,” Oraeyn commented wryly.
Kamarie chuckled nervously, then fell silent. She stepped up to his side and slipped her hand into his. Together they stood still, taking in their new surroundings and gazing about in awe.
“It’s so bright,” she commented. Her words felt hollow, but she could think of nothing else to say.
“This part of the tunnel is well lit by Yorien’s Hand,” Brant explained. “Let us leave the unused torches here for the return trip.”
“In all creation, there is nothing that takes my breath away more than this place,” Kiernan’s voice was barely a whisper, but his words were yet loud enough to be heard.
Kamarie squinted at him. “You make it sound as if you’ve been here before.”
“Yes,” Kiernan replied. “Many times.”
“What?” Brant turned to the minstrel, dumbfounded. “How many times?”
“This is my sixth visit, I believe,” Kiernan surprised them all with his willingness to answer Brant’s question. Kamarie stared at him. It was so out of character for Kiernan to give information freely and devoid of riddles.
Brant opened and closed his mouth several times, his brow furrowed. At length he gave his head a small shake. “I don’t even know where to begin,” he growled. “What possible reason could you have for coming here six times?”
Kiernan’s mouth quirked up on one side. “Six High Kings,” he replied, then he shivered slightly. When he spoke again, it was not in hushed tones. “Come, the end of your quest is near.”
He moved away, beginning the trek across the hall with long, sure strides. Kamarie watched him, mystified. His words gave her a chill, and she rubbed her arms briskly.
Hope was fresh in her heart and it grew with each step towards the end of their journey. She could tell there was a lightness to the others as well. Yet the fear of failure was far more acute now that their goal was within their grasp. The hall grew brighter and brighter the farther they continued. The ceiling sloped up, or perhaps it was the floor that sloped down—Kamarie could not have said for sure—she glanced up once and instantly regretted it; the brilliance made her dizzy. Reflected light bounced off the walls in a dazzling display and Kamarie noticed scattered diamonds glistening in the floor.
“It’s like we’re walking above the sky at night,” she murmured.
They were halfway across the hall when the path began to grow narrow, leading up to a bridge across a deep, yawning chasm. As they approached the bridge, the chill brought on
by Kiernan’s words earlier returned. Kamarie hung back, loath to set foot on the bridge.
Why did I come on this journey? She forced herself to continue, following Kiernan, and asking herself the question she had been avoiding. Here they were, nearly to their goal, and she was compelled to admit to herself that she had added no value to the quest. She had only endangered her friends along the way. Kiernan had discovered the portal. Brant, Oraeyn, and the dragons had fought off the whyvrens. Ina had given them the key to the secret tunnel. Even Leila, trapped by the enemy for days, had given them more useful information and insight than anything Kamarie had been able to contribute. She had done nothing helpful. Her thoughts strayed to Oraeyn’s arguments against her coming and her shoulders slumped.
“I shouldn’t have come,” she whispered.
Even as she spoke, she felt a presence behind her and whirled, searching for the source of her discomfort. A moment later, bursting into the cavern from the tunnel’s exit, three creatures came racing across the floor.
“Brant!” Kamarie shouted.
“Dracors!” Kiernan’s voice rang out.
Brant and Oraeyn rushed back to Kamarie, their swords drawn as they stepped in front of her. They stood their ground as the dracors reached them and halted. They were lizard-like in appearance, and a foot taller than a grown man. Their eyes were filled with hatred; saliva dripped from their mouths, soiling the beautiful floor beneath their wickedly sharp claws. The creatures crouched and roared, the sound reverberating off of the walls. Kamarie clapped her hands over her ears and cried out.
“Kamarie?” Oraeyn asked, though he did not turn. All of his attention was fixed on the three dracors.
“I’m all right,” Kamarie felt shaky. She pressed the palm of her hand to her temple. “Their voices... they... it hurts my head, but there are words... not words, um, pictures? I can’t explain it.”
“Just back away,” Oraeyn replied. “We’ll hold them.”
The dracors prowled forward, their claws clicking on the ground. They roared again and shook their heads, their blunt noses raised, testing the air.
Yorien's Hand (The Minstrel's Song Book 3) Page 32
