“I told you,” said Aelon, through gritted teeth. “I cannot see.”
Raegar muttered something and was about to continue when a voice hailed him from outside.
“Emperor! You are needed! The matter is urgent!”
“That’s Commander Eolus calling me,” said Raegar. “Something’s happened.”
“Something will happen if you don’t find that spiritbone,” said Aelon.
Raegar drew in a seething breath and went charging, half blind, through the shadowy storage room, heading straight for them. Farinn heard him slamming into objects, stumbling and tripping, yet coming ever closer.
Farinn drew the sword from the sheath, his hand shaking so he almost dropped it. He had no idea how to use a sword and he knew Raegar would likely laugh as he killed him, but he needed to be able to tell Skylan, when they met in the gray ruins of Torval’s Hall, that he had tried.
Owl Mother’s hand closed over his.
“I said you should be brave. Not foolish.”
“We have to do something!” Farinn whispered, agonized.
“Have faith in the gods,” said Owl Mother. “They are fighting the last battle.”
Farinn scarcely heard her words. All he could hear was Raegar coming closer and closer, hurling aside objects in his impatience to reach Aylaen, who seemed to have no idea of the danger.
She was holding the helm in both hands and, as Farinn watched, diamonds sparkled and dazzled. Gold burned in her hands, setting the gold and silver of the other spiritbones ablaze.
Aelon appeared, drawn by the light.
“Raegar!” she cried, smiling, triumphant. “Come quickly. I have found her!”
The god’s eyes went to the spiritbone on the golden helm, then to the others: the torque, the necklace, the bracer, and the brooch. Her gaze lingered on the spiritbones and her smile stiffened; triumph was replaced by fear. She managed to control herself, however.
“You have been deceived, Kai Priestess,” said Aelon, soft and wheedling. “Your gods lied to you. The spiritbones are not life. They are death. Give the helm to me and live.…”
Aelon drew near, hands outstretched.
The god did not reach her. Vindrash stood in the way.
Turning her eyes to Farinn, Vindrash held out her hand. As he silently gave Vindrash the sword, the blade of which burned with her light, the goddess seemed old and frail. Aelon cast Vindrash a look of scorn and tried to pass. Vindrash raised the blade to Aelon’s throat, steadfast, unwavering.
“How can you protect her? She holds your doom! Let me pass!” Aelon cried. “I will stop her, save us both!”
Vindrash shook her head. “We were not very good gods. But unlike you, we meant well. I suggest you take this time to flee, Faceless God, find some new world.”
Aylaen raised the helm. Diamonds glittered. Gold gleamed. Silver flashed. Aylaen placed the glittering gold helm on her head.
Aelon, her eyes wild with fear, stumbled back.
Aylaen fell to the floor, her body limp.
Farinn gave a heartbroken cry and started to go to her. Owl Mother held him fast, and try as he might, he could not break the old woman’s grip; her fingers dug into him, sharp as wyvern talons.
Vindrash dwindled and disappeared. The golden light started to fade. Aylaen lay still and unmoving. Aelon raised her head to gaze at the body. Her eyes narrowed. She made no move to approach it.
Raegar appeared, rushing into the waning light, his sword in his hand. He was disheveled, bruised, dirty, and angry.
“I have looked everywhere! You said you found her, Revered Aelon. Where is she?”
Aelon pointed to the floor. Raegar looked at the body and gave a startled gasp.
“Aylaen! Is she … is she dead?”
“I tried to keep her from putting on the helm,” Aelon said. “The magic of the wizards killed her. The spell is broken. You can safely take the spiritbones.”
Raegar stared at the corpse and gulped. Sweat rolled down his face.
“You want me to take those bones? I won’t touch the evil things. That could be me lying there!”
“But it isn’t,” Aelon returned in sharp tones. “Have faith in me. Take the helm and the other spiritbones. I assure you, you are perfectly safe.”
Raegar eyed her, frowned, and made no move to obey. Instead he half turned to look back at the entrance, where the cries for the emperor were growing louder.
“Something has gone wrong.” he said. “I must go find out—”
Aelon caught hold of him.
“Leave Skylan and his warriors to me! Take the spiritbones! Have you faith in me or not?” she demanded.
“Skylan!” Raegar repeated, looking back at her, his expression dark. “What do you know of Skylan? What warriors?”
Torchlight flooded the room, sending the shadows fleeing. A voice shouted.
“Sir!” Eolus shouted. “Where are you? Are you in here?”
“I’m in the back, Commander,” Raegar called. “What is so urgent that you disobey my command?”
“The fleet is under attack, sir,” the commander said. “The galleys are on fire and so are most of the other boats. A messenger brought the news.”
“Attack…,” Raegar repeated.
“We do not know who the foe is, sir,” Eolus added.
“I do,” said Raegar, grinding the words. “Surrender terms be damned. We will butcher every man, woman, and child and put this city to the torch, starting with this foul cellar. Burn it down!”
He stared at Aelon in grim ire, then tore his arm free of her grip. Leaning close, he said to her, “If you want those accursed bones, you take them!”
“You will pay for this!” said Aelon.
The god vanished. Raegar grunted, turned away, and stalked out.
The torchlight grew brighter as his soldiers flooded into the cellar, setting fire to whatever they could find, then flinging the torches into the blaze. The air grew hazy with smoke. Flames crackled and the soldiers hurriedly departed.
Coughing in the smoke, Farinn ran to Aylaen. He put his hand on her wrist, beneath the bracer that held the spiritbone. Her skin was cold to the touch, and he could feel no pulse. Tears filled his eyes.
“The gods failed,” he said, choked. “They let her die!”
“Do you know the secret?” Owl Mother asked, coming to stand behind him. “The secret Aylaen knew?”
“Who cares?” Farinn cried, looking up at her. “She is dead! The secret is worthless!”
“Love,” said Owl Mother.
Farinn heard a sound, a soft sigh. He raised his head and looked into a radiant golden light.
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The pain was terrible, but ended quickly.
Aylaen lay in the comforting darkness, feeling the five bones quiver with life. The sparkling drops of dragon blood that had once rained down upon the world combined to form an ocean and came rushing back to her in waves, filling her, nourishing her body.
The five broken bones began to knit together and other bones sprang from these five: rib bones, the thick bones of the enormous legs, the bones of a massive skull, the vertebrae of the spine, the graceful arched neck, the tip of the tail, and the thin, finer bones of the wings.
Muscle and lungs and a heart, so long stilled, now beating. Fang and claws of iron and stone. Scales of gold and silver and flame.
Her heart beat. Her blood flowed. Her wings stirred.
Aylaen opened her eyes and looked forward to the end of time and backward to the beginning.
She saw the world Ilyrion had loved, for which the great dragon had died, a tiny star in the vast forever, teeming with life, burgeoning, blossoming. She saw the world Aylaen had loved, withering, languishing without her. Her love was without end.
In that moment the wyrds of god and mortal joined.
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Skylan stood on the shore watching Raegar’s fleet go up in flames. The two galleys were ablaze, the fire casti
ng a lurid orange glow over the waves, so that it seemed the ocean was burning.
“Raegar’s army will have to walk home,” said Bjorn, laughing.
“What’s left of them when we get finished,” Sigurd added with a grin.
Watching the sailors who had jumped overboard desperately swimming through the flame-streaked water, Skylan nodded agreement. Wulfe’s oceanids were doing their part, swamping rescue boats and overturning them or pushing them back toward shore.
Fala and the traitor dragons must have been either still out hunting or sleeping with full bellies, for they were not around to challenge the Dragon Kahg and he was able to continue his attack unimpeded, fanning the flames with his breath and sending burning boats smashing into others that were trying frantically to escape.
Skylan wondered if Raegar was out there somewhere watching victory disappear in smoke. Skylan hoped he might meet Raegar before the end, to let him know who was responsible. But perhaps Raegar already knew. For good or ill, their own wyrds were bound.
Skylan’s thoughts had no need to go to Aylaen for they were always with her. He was wondering where she was, if she was safe, if she had found the spiritbone. Sigurd rudely jostled him.
“Are we going to admire the view or do some killing?” he asked impatiently.
Bear Walker growled in agreement, and the rest of the ogre warriors shook their spears in the air or clashed their swords against their shields. Dela Eden and her Cyclopes waited in silence, armed with clubs and knives, ready to do what needed to be done. Skylan observed the confusion in the enemy camp and judged that it was time to put the second part of his plan into action.
“Our goal is to spread as much destruction and chaos as we can in the short amount of time we will have,” he reminded his warriors. “We will be facing well trained and disciplined troops and we must stay together, not run wild.”
He looked particularly at Sigurd as he said this. “If Raegar’s soldiers manage to separate us, split us apart, they will cut us to pieces.
“This means”—Skylan now fixed a stern gaze on Dela Eden and her Cyclopes—“you must listen for my signals and heed my commands. We face an army of thousands. When the time comes, we will stand together and fight.”
He almost said “fight our last fight,” but caught himself just in time. The others knew as well as he did that this battle would likely end in death, but no need to say the bad luck words.
Dela Eden gathered her Cyclopes around her and spoke to them in a low voice, perhaps saying some sort of prayer to the Gods of Raj, for many of them bowed their heads. Raven’s-foot rattled the gourd at Bear Walker and the rest of the ogres. He was about to rattle it at Skylan, who glowered at him. The ogre shaman thought better of it.
Sigurd and Grimuir were making bets on who would kill the most men. Bjorn was talking quietly with Erdmun. As usual before a battle, he was looking sick.
“What do you need me to do?” Wulfe called.
“What are you doing here? I told you to keep away from us,” said Skylan irritably. He had lost track of the boy and was annoyed to see him lurking in the tall grass that covered the sand dunes.
“I want to help,” said Wulfe.
Skylan felt inclined to point out that it would be difficult for Wulfe to help with the fighting while keeping a safe distance from the warriors and their iron weapons.
“I don’t have time to argue, Wulfe,” Skylan said, growing impatient.
“I don’t want to go back to my mother,” said Wulfe. “I already told you that.”
“Go wherever you want to go, then! Jump in the sea with your fish friends,” Skylan said, exasperated. “Just stay away from the fighting!”
Wulfe scowled, but he left, walking off down the beach, though he was slow about it, his steps dragging. Skylan bid the boy a silent farewell, wondering briefly if the fae child would remember him after he was gone and, if so, for how long.
Skylan shifted his attention to the campfires of their foes, to the rows of tents that stretched on and on in seemingly endless ranks and the hundreds and hundreds of soldiers milling about like angry hornets searching for the foe that had knocked down their nest.
Skylan put his hand to the amulet. “Torval, strengthen my sword arm and embolden my warriors, and, although this might be the end of our song, we will make this a song to be sung for generations.”
His last thought was for Aylaen. He pictured her grieving his death, as she had grieved for him once before, knowing this time he would not return. He imagined her walking the sunlit shore, going on with her life, leading her people, keeping him in her heart.
He kissed the amulet and added, “Watch over her and, if it be possible, Torval, let me meet Raegar one last time!”
Skylan drew his sword.
“For Torval!” he cried.
“For Torval!” the Vindrasi yelled.
“For the Gods of Raj!” Raven’s-foot howled.
Armed with spear and sword, shield and hammer, axes and clubs and a gourd, Skylan and his warriors ran, thundering like Torval’s wrath, headlong toward their foes.
* * *
Wulfe didn’t like the stench of iron and the thought of the fighting and dying made his stomach shrivel. He didn’t want to stay and at the same time he didn’t want to go. He resented being told to run off to his mother, as if he were some stupid Ugly child. His mother and her court would be watching the battle from a safe distance, of course, for the fae were always amused by the spectacle of the Uglies killing each other.
Wulfe didn’t want to be safe. He wanted to help Skylan. He just needed to think of some way to help that didn’t involve coming anywhere near swords and axes and bloody entrails. He flattened himself among the grass-covered sand dunes and slunk on his belly, doglike, as close to Skylan as he dared.
Skylan was talking to his Ugly god.
“And if it be possible, Torval, let me meet Raegar one last time!”
Wulfe pricked his ears. He hated Raegar, who had beaten him and sent soldiers to kill him. The Uglies believed faeries could grant wishes, or so his mother had told him.
Stupid Uglies.
Yet perhaps Wulfe could grant Skylan’s.
Wulfe watched Skylan and the other warriors eagerly rush toward death and then he stood up, scratched himself, and looked into the fire-lit water where some of the oceanids, his adoring subjects, were swimming in the shallows, hoping to be of use to their prince.
Wulfe waded into the sea and the oceanids eagerly gathered around him and asked if wanted to join their friends, who were screeching with delight at the fun of capsizing boats and watching the Uglies flounder in the water. Wulfe was tempted, but he declined, holding fast to his resolve.
“I need to find the Big Ugly,” he told them. “The one with the purple cape and silly crown.”
The oceanids laughed. “A centaur said the one who calls himself emperor went into the city.”
Chewing his lip, Wulfe walked toward the gate of the walled city on the plateau. The gate was surrounded by soldiers who were covered head to toe in iron. He had no idea how to find Raegar or what he was going to do to bring Raegar and Skylan together, but Wulfe wasn’t worried. The fae never planned ahead. As his grandmother said, the future was the present in one eye blink and the past in another, so why bother?
He was confident he’d think of something when the time came.
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Skylan could see the light of campfires reflected off shining breastplates and helms. The soldiers who had been tasked to guard the camp’s perimeter had remained at their posts despite the celebrating, although their comrades had seen to it that they had their share of the food and wine. The sight of an unknown foe coming out of the night to attack their ships caused them to drop their flagons and grab their weapons.
The guards were few in number. Beyond them were the first rows of tents, barrels, and wagons filled with supplies and stacks of armaments.
The guards were obviously nervou
s, their attention divided between watching the flames devour one ship after the next, and peering out into the night. They heard Skylan’s force before they saw it and he could imagine their growing fear and uncertainty, as they listened to the howls of the ogres and the uncanny wailing of the Cyclopes, and felt the ground shake with the thudding of many feet.
Moonlight glimmered off swords and shields, and battle lust glittered in the eyes of those who had given themselves into the hands of the gods. His warriors surged through the camp like a tidal wave of blood, smashing and breaking, stabbing and slashing and trampling men underfoot, setting fires as they ran. The guards shouted a warning and then died.
The warning came too late. The soldiers of Oran were overwhelmed by the suddenness and ferocity of the attack. Thinking the war won, they had laid aside their weapons to celebrate and had to scramble to arm themselves. Many had run into the sea to try to save the burning ships, leaving their camps deserted. Some took one look at the rampaging warriors and bolted for the woods. Those brave enough to stand their ground met death instantly, speared, decapitated, or trampled. Skylan and the ogres stopped only long enough to grab torches or snatch blazing branches from the bonfires and hurl them into tents, setting them ablaze, while the Cyclopes smashed water barrels and set fire to wagons, food supplies, and stacks of weapons.
Faces popped up in front of Skylan and were gone in a sword stroke. Beside him, Sigurd was bloodied to the armpits, eerily laughing as he swung his axe, chopping down foes as though cutting through wheat. Grimuir matched Sigurd, though without the unnerving laughter. Bjorn was workmanlike, methodical, while his brother, Erdmun, slashed wildly at anything that moved.
Bear Walker wielded a gigantic sword and carried a shield as big as a house and, like all the ogres, started the battle with a fistful of spears that he hurled with deadly accuracy or drove clean through breastplates. Raven’s-foot howled and cast his shamanistic magic, freezing soldiers dead in their tracks with a rattle of the gourd.
Glancing back, Skylan was amazed to see how much ground they had covered and all of them relatively unscathed. Flames crackled, the air was thick with smoke, and soldiers lay dead or groaning. He could also see the lumbering ogres were slowing down, falling behind, and the Cyclopes were scattered all over the beach. He caught up with Sigurd, who was racing ahead with Grimuir, both mad with battle lust.
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