Dylanna stared up at the great dragon. She knew that it was Yole, but somehow she could not believe it. Then she felt the barrier slipping from her grasp. With a cry, she reached after it, as it was wrenched out of her control, but she could not find the end of it. She stared at Leila, who looked back at her with wide-eyed wonder.
“He figured out how to make it stand on its own,” Leila whispered.
“That’s all very well and good, but will he know how to clean it up when the barrier is no longer needed?” Dylanna grumbled in irritation, still reeling a little. She rubbed a hand across her eyes; the shock of so much magical weight being lifted from her shoulders in so little time had left her with a pounding headache.
“He does need some pointers on his technique,” Leila agreed, wincing a bit. “But it does free us to use our magic more actively.”
“I suppose we’ll have to thank him when this is all over,” Dylanna sighed. “Bother.”
Yole flew down at the enemy with a great roar. He opened his great jaws and threw a burst of flame at a group of Dark Warriors. They fell backwards with cries of disbelief and shock, and then their cries became frantic shouts as they tried to put out the fire.
Yole laughed a great dragon laugh. He felt strong, stronger than he ever had. He delighted in the feeling of freedom that came from being stronger and larger than his enemies, but even as he relished in his newfound body, he realized he could not turn the tide of the battle alone. Already the enemy warriors were beginning to point their bows his way, and although an arrow or two would not hurt him, enough of them could bring him down. He would need help. Instinct drove him, as it had when he strengthened the barrier around Fortress Hill; he stretched out with his thoughts and called. For a moment he thought nothing had happened. Then he felt a voice in his head saying, “Friend? You called?”
He looked and saw in the distance the dragons silhouetted against the horizon.
“We are being defeated, will you help?” he asked.
“We were already on our way, youngling,” the voice replied.
Several dragons, gryphons, and pegasi joined in the fight. Yole was disappointed at how few had come, but then he thought, how many dragons do you really need?
The warriors of Aom-igh flinched a bit at the sight of the great beasts who suddenly covered the sky, but as it soon became apparent that the creatures were fighting against the Dark Warriors, the knights redoubled their efforts with renewed ardor.
Yole was flying low over the enemy, the wind from his wings wreaking havoc on the enemy arrows, when he spotted Rhendak. The great silver-green dragon was flying just a little to his left. The King of the dragons was soaring and diving and blasting fire down at the battle as though he had no care for himself or his own safety. Yole stopped and stared in awe. Rhendak fought with ferocity and precision. His eyes were solid silver and seemed to shoot sparks of molten steel down towards the enemy. His claws gleamed like deadly silver sabers in the light of the Dragon’s Eye, and his rows of teeth shone like golden daggers when he roared his challenge to the Dark Warriors. Death gleamed in his silver eyes as Rhendak raged over the battlefield.
The creatures of Krayghentaliss rallied behind the fearsome wonder that was the Dragon King. But despite the fearsome beasts and the renewed energy of the men of Aom-igh, the Dark Warriors still held the advantage of numbers. A gryphon fell to an arrow, and then a dragon fell, seven flaming arrows tearing holes in its wings; as the huge beast crashed to the ground, the Dark Warriors surged forward, their confidence and courage restored.
As the enemies discovered that the creatures they now faced were not invincible, they regrouped and began turning their bows upwards, shooting arrows at the dragons and other creatures. Yole’s concern grew as this counter-attack took effect. He saw that when the myth-folk got within range, the well-aimed arrows managed to severely wound and even kill many of their number. The enemy warriors now gave a great cry of triumph and surged forward again. Yole felt his heart drop; even with the help of Krayghentaliss, the people of Aom-igh were still losing.
❖ ❖ ❖
The top of Fortress Hill had suddenly become a chaotic panic of women and children as they watched the battle rage below. Zara, Dylanna, Leila, and Kamarie tried to calm the others, but their efforts were in vain. The feeling of defeat hung heavy in the air, and helplessness reigned at this last line of defense for Aom-igh.
Working tirelessly to turn their despair into resolve, Dylanna remembered. She stopped, reached into her pocket, and drew out a small object. She removed its wrappings with care, and stared at it as it lay atop the blue handkerchief in her hand, glistening in the dying light of day: the Dragon Pipes. The instrument whispered of hope, but Dylanna also knew that they were not hers to wield. She glanced around and caught sight of a flash of dark hair. Certain that it was Kamarie, she made her way through the throng of people and pressed the instrument into the girl’s hand. Turning her attention to Leila’s call for help, Dylanna simply said, “Play this!” and turned to run to her sisters. Glancing back and catching a glimpse of the woman’s face, Dylanna realized her mistake.
❖ ❖ ❖
Rena was searching for her daughter. Kaitryn had gotten separated from her in the confusion, and Rena was growing both frantic and desperate. She had visions of her daughter getting trampled or wandering down the hill into the battle, and she was quickly becoming terrified. Where is everyone going? The angry thought flitted through her mind. There is nowhere to hide. The top of the hill was approaching pandemonium, and nobody seemed to know what to do. Someone pressed something into her hand and ordered her to play. She turned to argue that she had to find her daughter, but when she turned around whoever it had been was no longer there.
Rena stared down at the object she was holding. It was a set of shepherd’s pipes, but they were much more beautiful than any she had ever seen before. Silver in color with just a hint of green, they seemed to be formed from some kind of metal. They shimmered and glittered in her hands and seemed to beg her to play. Just holding them gave her a sense of peace amidst the commotion, and she wondered what it would be like to hear the music from such an instrument. Without any conscious effort on her part, Rena raised the pipes to her lips. She blew into the delicate instrument, and a single, lovely note came out of the pipes. Suddenly, all other noise ceased. The women and children on the hill turned towards her as if frozen in time. The sound of battle slowed as the note hung in the air.
Rena took the pipes from her lips stared down at them with awe and just a little fear. Then, as if against her will, she raised the pipes to her lips again and she began to play. She had never played such an instrument before and was shocked to hear the unfolding melody that sprang from the instrument. The pipes chose their own song. The sweet, fragile notes strengthened into chords and danced across the breeze.
As she played, she began to lose herself in the music. It carried her far away as if she had wings. She flew along the chords, her soul aching with the beauty of the music and the land and the people. As she played, she poured herself into the song: she played for the men who had given their lives, she played for the women and children who had lost their husbands and fathers and sons in the war, she played for the people of Pearl Cove who had lost their homes, she played for the time before the war, mourning its loss, she played for peace, and she played for victory. The song seemed to spread out all across Aom-igh, and the hearts of the people rejoiced.
❖ ❖ ❖
At the first note, Oraeyn’s sword jumped in his hand as if in recognition. He turned to the music, drawn by some irresistible impulse, listening. The song floated down across the battlefield, and as he looked around, he saw the men around him begin to smile. The music played on, freezing time. It tugged at something in Oraeyn’s heart, making him remember what he was fighting for. He felt as though he was being carried away on the wind, staring down at Aom-igh from high above, his heart leapt at its beauty. He saw the people of the
realm, working for their living in peace; he saw families drawing together and laughing together as they worked and played. He saw their enemies, and they were no longer the stuff of legends and scary bedtime stories; they were simply men, men who were attacking his people for unknown reasons, but still just men. And, in that instant, Oraeyn knew that they were capable of winning the battle, because they were not fighting nightmares, after all.
The melody swelled and then softened and then ended. As the song faded away, the knights of the realm, the farmers, the workers, the shopkeepers, even members of noble families, all who had donned armor, taken weapons and entered the fight joined together once more and began to slowly beat back the enemy. They had all seen similar visions as Oraeyn, and they were all filled with a new determination and confidence. The music had strengthened something within each one of them, reminding them that they were stronger than they believed. The tide turned, and the Dark Warriors now fell back, unable to stand against the swords of their foes. The battle raged, but now it was the Dark Warriors who were losing ground.
Arnaud also heard the music and felt renewed as he looked up towards the hilltop. Dressed in simple armor and fighting alongside his countrymen, he was where he had always wanted to be. He, too, cut down the enemy and fought with a grace and a ferocity that would have astonished his daughter had she been able to see him. Arnaud caught sight of Brant through the battle, and he fought his way closer to his old friend, determined to fight at his side one last time. Brant had a cold, fierce expression on his face, and he did not see Arnaud; he was moving through the enemy with single-minded purpose.
At almost the same moment, Oraeyn also saw Brant. He found he was much closer to the man than he had thought and fought his way towards him as well. As he fought his way through enemy warriors, he noticed Brant’s determined visage and realized where the man was heading. As Oraeyn looked towards Brant’s goal, he felt a chill go through him. Brant was directing himself straight towards the leader of the Dark Country. The chilling thing about it was that the leader of the Dark Country was watching Brant as he came. And the look on the face of the man that Brant was approaching was one that Oraeyn knew he would see in his nightmares for the rest of his life. The man just stood and watched Brant come, a fierce smile on his face. His black eyes were glittering with a cruel light. And it was in that instant that Oraeyn realized why the man had looked familiar: he could be Brant’s brother.
Seamas stood and watched Brant come. He had seen and recognized Brant the moment he had stepped out of the forest. But Seamas had been waiting for many years, and he could afford to wait a few minutes longer. He had not gone to meet Brant but had waited, knowing that Brant would come to him. He smiled now as Brant came closer, and he bit back the urge to laugh. Finally, after so long, Brant stood before him. The battle around them raged, but the two men glared at each other swords drawn, as if in the very eye of the storm. With wary looks, they circled each other, and then paused.
As he stood facing Brant, Seamas’ smile turned harsh. He had dreamed of this meeting. He had planned for years what he would say. Now, after all of his dreaming and all of his planning, the dream had finally become reality. His carefully planned words poured out of his mouth in a torrent, almost without his bidding.
“So, we finally meet again, brother. I have waited for this day for many years. They all thought you had traveled beyond the pathways of men, and they all mourned your death deeply. But I did not mourn. I would have known if you had died; after all, you are my brother. No, I knew you were still among the living, and I was glad, because it meant that I still had the chance to kill you myself.”
Seamas took a step closer to Brant; the two were of equal height. The battle nearest to them had slowed to a half-hearted buzz, and those who could see and hear them had stopped fighting in order to watch and listen, each man holding his breath, irresistibly drawn to the strange conversation that was taking place in their midst. The silence moved out from around the two men like ripples in a pond, until the battle came to a complete halt. It was obvious to all who were watching that the two were related. Their faces could have been carved from the same slab of stone. They both had the same dark hair and dark eyes, and their build was very similar, although Brant was perhaps a hair shorter than the man he faced.
Seamas continued talking, his voice growing louder and more agitated, “I was the firstborn son, the crown should have been mine by birth! I should have been the heir! But no, the prophecy ruined all that, changed all that, and I was overlooked. You were the one who was chosen as heir.”
Seamas’ voice deepened into a snarl of rage, “Well, the throne ought to have been mine, and I vowed that it would be mine someday. I have known for some time now that I would have to kill you. At first I did not like the idea of killing my own brother, but it is the only way to secure my position as king. I thought this would be hard, but it is not, now that you are standing before me I find that it will be easy. You are no longer my brother, you are just a shadow that I must sweep away. I have hated you for so long, and now I have finally found you.” He paused, a sneer written on his face. “Now,” he continued, “I am going to kill you.”
The last words were uttered in a flat, expressionless tone, but Seamas’ eyes were gleaming. His whole face was contorted into a snarling mask of vengeance. Oraeyn, standing just a few feet to the left in the circle that had formed around the two, was terrified.
Brant did not flinch or show any signs of emotion at all as Seamas spoke. As the King of Llycaelon uttered his final words, the corners of Brant’s mouth twitched in what Oraeyn recognized as a smile, but the light in Brant’s eyes was hard and cool. He raised his drawn sword and stepped back into a fighter’s crouch.
Then he spoke, and his voice was so soft that Oraeyn had to strain to catch the words, “You can try.”
A noise very much like a growl rose up in Seamas’ throat. He bared his teeth, his face contorted into a hideous mask of anger and hatred. Brant met the furious gaze calmly. A muscle twitching in his jaw was the only visible sign of how hard he was working to maintain his exterior calm.
“I will make you pay dearly for those words, brother,” Seamas’ mouth twisted around the word “brother” as though he did not like its taste. He swung his sword at Brant’s legs. Brant stepped back and parried calmly. Another blow, and another parry. Brant’s parry threw Seamas off balance, but instead of pressing his advantage, Brant stepped back to allow the other man to regain his footing.
Brant stared unflinchingly into Seamas’ eyes, and Oraeyn thought he saw sorrow in the man’s dark eyes. “Then you will have to strike the first blow, for I will not raise my hand against you except in defense. You say you have hated me for years, but know this, brother, I have never hated you. I have never desired anything that was yours. I never wanted to be king, and I still don’t. But if you must kill me to feel secure on the throne that is rightfully yours, then you must try. I warn you, though,” Brant’s voice became edged with ice, “do not begin something you don’t intend to finish. I am not a child anymore Seamas. I am acquainted with death and battle, and I am not easily defeated.”
“You will run, and I will hunt you down. You will be the one who cannot finish what you start. You have always run, and you always will. You never had the strength to complete anything, you never had the steel, you never had what it takes to be king.”
Without warning, Seamas attacked with an overhand swing of his sword at Brant’s head. Brant met him with a parry and kicked at Seamas’ knees, forcing the other man back. He held his sword up in a defensive position.
“I am not running anymore, Seamas. I have learned how to stand my ground, and I will never run again, not from you, not from anyone. I suppose I should thank you for that lesson, the lesson of brutality that you taught me when you had my home attacked and my family killed!”
A glimmer of surprise flitted across Seamas’ expression, and he half-lowered his sword as a whisper of shock r
ustled through the ranks of the Dark Warriors. “If you had not run away in the first place, they never would have been in danger. You endangered them with your presence; you should have known I would never rest until I saw your actual body. I never believed you were dead, not even when my wife told me that you were, not even when the captain of the King’s Helm, my oldest and most trusted friend told me you had died.”
“Who threatens you, Seamas?” Brant half shouted, half growled the words. “Are you so insane that you could not see I was never coming back? I did not know the aethalons would suffer themselves to be led by a madman. The only threat I see here is you! You are the one who has caused this bloodshed and this grief, and it has all been unnecessary.”
“Their deaths are on your head, and on the heads of the aethalons who disobeyed the code of honor, not mine,” Seamas said almost flippantly. It was the wrong thing to say, and Brant’s expression grew even harder.
“You gave the orders, brother. Do you know that your orders were carried out flawlessly? Did you think that there was even a chance they wouldn’t be? You know better than that! Who carried your orders to your men? Were they trustworthy messengers? Or were they men with their own agenda? Aom-igh is a great prize to promise, a prize that would corrupt most men. Do you know that you ordered innocent women and children killed? Do you know that the noble aethalons performed these brutal deeds because of their undying loyalty to you? What does that say of their king? You have manipulated your warriors to bear a tarnished stain on their ribbons; do you want your name to be recorded as such? As the king who ruined the reputation of his people over a petty childhood jealousy? In your quest to find me, who is actually ruling Llycaelon?”
King's Warrior (The Minstrel's Song Book 1) Page 38
