Yorien's Hand (The Minstrel's Song Book 3)

by Jenelle Leanne Schmidt

  From where they had been standing and watching, Kamarie and Oraeyn clung to each other in terror, wondering if they had been struck blind. A weak tremor rippled through the cavern, far less violent than the previous quakes. Then, for the space of several heartbeats all was still. As they clung to each other, Kamarie and Oraeyn began to notice a hazy glow emanating from the spot where they had last seen Brant. The glow grew brighter until they could make out the figure of a man holding a sword.

  Oraeyn felt a jolt of shock as Brant became fully visible, his body filled with light. He strode towards them with confident strides across a floor that was once more a solid whole. The cracks and crevices caused by the earthquakes had sealed up like they had never existed.

  “How is that possible?” Oraeyn’s voice burst from his lips in the sudden silence.

  “It’s not over yet,” Brant said, not stopping as he passed them. “Follow me.”

  Together, as they had begun, the three of them raced back across the bridge. At the end of the bridge, several large boulders lay on the floor where they had fallen from the ceiling. The three companions crouched behind the largest of these.

  Kiernan was still holding his own against Ghrendourak, and Oraeyn felt admiration as he watched the minstrel fight. Kiernan only defended, he did not attack. His every movement was graceful, poised, and—it was obvious after just a moment of observation—designed to prevent his opponent from reaching the bridge.

  “Stay here,” Brant said firmly. Then he stepped out from behind the boulder and strode towards Kiernan. “Ghrendourak!” he boomed; authority rang in his voice.

  Ghrendourak paused for a moment, his sword halted in the midst of its arc towards the minstrel. He swung his head around to look at Brant. There was hesitation in his movements even as he responded to Brant’s challenge. He looked back at the minstrel and a strangled sound came from deep within the helm.

  “What mockery is this, Minstrel?”

  Kiernan’s lips twitched. He turned and his gaze found Oraeyn and Kamarie. He winked at them, grin widening.

  “Your time is done, Ghrendourak,” Kiernan said.

  Ghrendourak laughed, an evil sound that echoed gratingly off the walls. “What? This is not the one whose dreams I visited! You have made a mistake, Minstrel, and it shall be your last!” He took a single, menacing step towards Brant. “You are not the one who can stand against me. Haven’t you heard the prophecy? Only two can stand before him. Only one can hope to fell him. You see? You are nothing to me.” His words were confident, but his voice wavered, and lacked conviction. “I have defeated my greatest threat already: he is either dead, or he has not been able to finish his quest. All that stands between me and the throne is my old enemy here,” Ghrendourak gestured towards Kiernan Kane, “and he is soon defeated.”

  Brant’s voice was steady, “You are wrong.”

  But Ghrendourak had stopped listening. Turning his back on Brant once more, his attention was focused solely on Kiernan Kane. “Yours is the time that has come to an end, Minstrel.” His words ended in a snarl of hate, and the twisted, ugly blade swung with deadly speed.

  Faster than thought, Brant drew the Fang Blade and leaped between Kiernan and Ghrendourak. The sword hummed with power as it sliced through the air and halted the blow. The Fang Blade rang out with a mighty crash as it met the enemy’s sword solidly and stopped its descent. That sound as the two great blades collided was one Oraeyn knew he would never forget, no matter how long he lived.

  With a cry of rage that carried a hint of pain, Ghrendourak stumbled away, for the first time seeming vulnerable. He stared at Brant in disbelief and growled deep in his throat. With ominous steps he advanced. The warrior stood calmly waiting for his opponent. There was no fear on Brant’s face, only peace. As Oraeyn watched, he saw that there was a glow surrounding Brant in the same way that eerie darkness surrounded Ghrendourak. At first he thought it was because Brant was holding the Fang Blade, but then he realized that the light was coming from Brant himself. It began deep within him and radiated outwards. The closer Ghrendourak came, the more Brant’s appearance shone like the face of the Dragon’s Eye, until he blazed as bright as Ghrendourak’s darkness. Without a sound, Ghrendourak struck.

  Oraeyn could not follow all the moves. Time stood still; he seemed to see in slow motion, and yet the battle raged faster than he could follow. Later, when asked, he said only that it had been a whirlwind of swords and a thunder of metal clashing against metal. He tried to watch, but the brilliant light pouring from Brant had been too bright for him to see much at all, while the murk that flowed from Ghrendourak made it impossible to see anything. That was never something Oraeyn could explain well, in all his years after. Kamarie found similar difficulty, later, putting the experience into adequate words. All either of them could ever say to anyone’s satisfaction was that watching Brant fight had been like staring into the molten center of a volcano or the mesmerizing flashes of lightning: hypnotic and beautiful, but deadly.

  Brant sidestepped and thrust and parried, his movements graceful and fluid. The swords rang as they clashed together. Light continued to pour from Brant, filling the air as he struck and retreated. Ghrendourak blocked each of Brant’s attacks, but his power appeared to be fading with every movement.

  At long last, in a blur of motion nobody could follow, Brant drove the Fang Blade through Ghrendourak’s defenses. The ancient enemy roared in defiant despair as the light of the blade grew brighter and brighter until all Ghrendourak’s darkness was swallowed. And then the enemy was no more. He neither vanished nor evaporated nor burned, he simply ceased to be. There was a rush of wind, a great howl, and then silence.

  Brant stood triumphant for a moment, radiant and untouchable. Then he dropped to the ground and lay there like a dead man. Oraeyn and Kamarie rushed out from behind the boulder to his side, but Kiernan Kane reached him first. The minstrel looked up at them, his expression reassuring.

  “Give him a moment; he will revive.”

  Brant gasped and convulsed and the others helped him sit up.

  “Hold on,” Kamarie said firmly, her voice resembling the same no-nonsense tone that Dylanna often used. “If you get up too quickly, you will only collapse again.” Her words sounded so normal in the aftermath of the battle that they made Oraeyn laugh out loud.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Well, we just saved the world,” Oraeyn broke the triumphant, weary silence as they gathered around Brant, who was still sitting on the cavern floor.

  “And the world has a new High King,” Kiernan added.

  Brant’s expression turned pensive and startled. “I hadn’t quite thought about it that way, yet.”

  “I’m glad it’s you,” Oraeyn said earnestly.

  Kamarie squeezed Oraeyn’s hand. “Me too.”

  “I’m not sure I’m the right choice,” Brant replied, closing his eyes in a sudden wave of dizziness. The world spun around him, taunting him. Prophecies and rhymes gathered around, shouting their words at him.

  “But you were chosen,” Kiernan replied, his voice quelling the flood of thoughts. “It was not a mistake.”

  The dizziness abated and Brant stood with a weary groan. He unbuckled his sword belt and extended the bundle containing the Fang Blade to Oraeyn. “Either way, I should return this to its rightful owner.”

  Oraeyn shook his head. “No, you keep it.”

  Brant frowned, not understanding Oraeyn’s reluctance. “But it’s yours. It was forged in Aom-igh, for Aom-igh. It should stay with her king.” Brant held the sword out and shook it slightly, mild exasperation creeping into his tone. “Here.”

  “No,” Oraeyn’s held his hands out, rejecting the proffered blade. “It is yours. The prophecy was about you. It was always about you. I was only ever supposed to hold the sword, not use it. To tell you the truth, I’m relieved, I never felt that it belonged to me anyway. But if you need another reason, then accept it as a gift:
my token of fealty to the new High King.”

  Brant lowered his arm. “You’re sure?”

  “Completely. More sure than I’ve ever been. The Fang Blade belongs to you. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Thank you.” Brant met and held Oraeyn’s gaze, and more passed between them than words could express. “Well then,” Brant said, eventually, “we should get moving.”

  “Are you sure you’re ready?” Kamarie asked.

  “I’m fine,” Brant assured her. “I just needed a short rest. Come on, it’s time we left this place.”

  Together, they began the first steps of the long journey home.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Daylight penetrated the thick clouds, and the were-folk that did not vanish in its light fled from the battlefield with all the speed they possessed. Pain lanced through Justan’s body, causing his vision to waver and blur, but he forced himself to watch as the glow of the Dragon’s Eye swept over the castle, down into the valleys, and then out across the sea. It shone with a radiance brighter than ever before, at least, to Justan’s memory.

  The battle was over. They had held the enemy off long enough, and King Oraeyn had succeeded.

  From where he lay, Justan was unable to see much of the battlefield. The area around him was littered with the bodies of those who were dead or dying. At the retreat of the were-folk, the unicorns ventured out onto the field searching through the bodies for those who might still live, hoping to save as many as they could. He could see their equine forms picking their way towards him. He felt a surge of triumph at lasting long enough to see the enemy banished. Justan knew that grief would come soon, and tears for those who had given their lives this day, but for now he could not help but allow a slight smile to creep across his lips in the healing light of dawn.

  He was gravely injured and did not have the strength to raise himself from where he had fallen. But he could no longer feel the pain. It had passed with the arrival of the light. He was content to let go and drift away. If he died here, he died well, having accomplished what he set out to do. For now, that was good enough.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  The war was over. King Jemson watched in fascination as the rays of light drove the creatures into retreat. Victory came without herald. Light spread out over the land in a burst of glory, as if day and night had been held in an intense struggle for supremacy and day had won. Daylight overwhelmed every last vestige of night in its brilliance and those who had fought back the were-folk rejoiced in its welcome effulgence.

  Even in the midst of celebration over their triumph, sorrow and grief had their place as well. The cost of victory was dear. Stephran, and many others, had not survived the battle.

  Devrin found the body of his Chief of Staff, pierced by many arrows and surrounded by his fallen foes. With Shentallyia’s help he carried his advisor and friend back to the camp and gently laid his body amongst the others. Then he returned to Jemson’s side, his shoulders and head bowed with the weight of loss.

  The dead were counted and the numbers of their fallen overwhelmed Jemson. The battle had taken a terrible toll. As the aethalons searched through the bodies and recognized their fallen comrades and brothers-in-arms, they would call out the name of the man and a wail would permeate the air. The sound was not loud, but it carried eerily across the battlefield, memorializing those who had fallen.

  It was good to mourn now, Jemson reflected. Too often and in too many places, grief was not properly observed. He had witnessed his father eaten alive from the inside out by it, leading to tragedy for so many others. But that was not typically the way of the aethalons.

  There would be a traditional burial here later. The names of the fallen would be read and the families or warrior-brethren, would place memorial stones upon the field for every fallen aethalon. Their true-names would be whispered as the stones were placed, and then the living would depart. The stones were a memorial, but they were also a symbol that the mourning period was over, a reminder that just as those left alive could not carry the stones forever, neither should they carry their grief.

  “A heavy day,” Devrin said, coming up behind him.

  Jemson turned and looked at his commander. Earlier, Devrin and Shentallyia had flown after the enemy to ensure that the retreat was not a trick. They were just now returned. Jemson nodded at Devrin’s words, his face grave.

  “The were-folk are truly gone,” Devrin reported.

  “That is good news.”

  Devrin nodded, his expression vacant.

  “I am sorry about Stephran. He was your friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is a hard loss. He was a good warrior.”

  “And a good man. He will be missed on the Border Patrol… I had thought to make him a member of the King’s Helm, but now…”

  “He would have been a good choice.”

  Devrin gave a long, slow sigh and gave his head a tiny shake, as if still trying to grasp the reality of their situation. “The enemy is well and truly gone.”

  “Then King Oraeyn must have succeeded and Ghrendourak is defeated.”

  “A great victory.”

  Jemson shook his head. “There is no victory for us on this day. We stood our ground against a great evil, and a great price was exacted. But this is not victory, it is simply what was required on this day.”

  Devrin winced. The Dragon’s Eye blazed overhead; together they basked in its warmth. As they stood together on the battlefield, sorrowful and weary, yet grateful to be alive and witnessing the start of a new day, Jemson wondered where his uncle was standing on this morning. He knew the quest to find the Hand of Yorien and defeat Ghrendourak had succeeded, but he did not know how that success had come about. His place was here in Llycaelon, he accepted that, but he could not help but wish he had been there to see the end of that auspicious quest.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Justan awoke to familiar surroundings and a splitting headache. He was lying on a bunk in the barracks, a blanket drawn up to his chin. All was still; soft light filtered in through the window. He sat up. Soft snores, punctuated by quiet groans drew his attention to the other bunks in the long room. Each held a slumbering form, and pallets had been arranged on the floor for even more wounded and weary soldiers. He put a hand to his head, gingerly touching the bandage wound around it. His other wounds had been dressed and, though he felt sore and dizzy, it was apparent that he would survive. After a moment, the dizziness abated a little, and he felt ready to stand. Moving with great care, he rose and tottered over to the window. It was nighttime.

  He remembered the light breaking through the clouds and flooding the battlefield with a brilliant luster. He remembered thinking he was going to die.

  “Rena,” he whispered.

  Every step was excruciating, but Justan made his slow way across the palace grounds and up the stairs to the room where Rena was sleeping. He lifted the latch and pushed the door open.

  Rena lay on the bed within, her expression serene. Justan stared at her for a long moment, drinking in the sight of her. Kessella was sitting at the bedside. She half-rose, turning as she did so, when the door swung open.

  Justan felt a wave of gratitude sweep over him at the sight of the ancient unicorn.

  “Thank you,” he rasped, “for staying with her.”

  Kessella’s eyes were large and mournful as she met Justan’s gaze. Then she gave the tiniest shake of her head.

  There were no words. None needed to be said. Justan’s head throbbed with renewed intensity and his vision narrowed and dimmed.

  Kessella crossed the room and placed a steadying hand on his arm. She looked into his face with a questioning look, and Justan took a shaky breath and waved a hand.

  “I, um, thank you, I...” he faltered, unable to speak another word, unable to think another word as his world collapsed.

  The woman nodded, then slipped out the door, leaving Justan alone with his grief.

 
He stood in the doorway long after Kessella was gone. With halting, trembling steps he crossed the room and sat in the chair that was already pulled up to the bedside.

  “You did it,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and filled with pain. “The shield provided what we needed in order to give King Oraeyn time.” He paused, then lifted her hand in his own. “It’s done,” he could barely force the words past the lump in his throat. “You can come back now.” Tears wound their way down his face and he pressed his lips to the lifeless hand of the woman he loved. “Please,” he whispered.

  A hollowness filled his chest as he bowed his head, shoulders shaking with sobs of grief and loss.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Kiernan strummed an idle, cheerful tune on his mandolin as the companions reached the end of the tunnel and emerged once more into the palace of the High Kings. The long passage felt much shorter on the return trip, and though they were weary to their very bones, the companions talked and laughed along the way. There was a lightness to their hearts that had been absent for many days.

  As they exited the tunnel, Oraeyn gasped in wonder. The walls of the palace were whole and strong. The roof was freshly timbered. Veins of gold outlined the windows and adorned oaken trim in intricate, decorative filigrees. Chandeliers high above them glittered with diamonds, casting rainbows on the walls. Tapestries of velvet and silk, woven with threads of every color imaginable, hung from massive wrought iron rods. The floor was carpeted with thick, soft rugs and the windows gleamed in the light of day.

  The four companions wandered through the palace in amazement until they came to the front doors. Brant pulled them open, and they stared out at a true courtyard, with a garden in full bloom. The hedges were neatly trimmed, and every flower had burst open, even the ones not in season. The gates were adorned with gold plating and the painting on the doors was fresh and new. But as they gazed about the garden the greatest wonder of all was seeing Yole, in human form, limping up the garden path towards them.