by Bruce Blake
“Let me take over,” Ghaul offered, apparently having the same thought.
“I’m fine,” Shyn replied continuing to stroke the oar through the water.
Khirro wanted to say the same thing, to keep the activity and warmth to himself, but that wouldn’t be fair. If they took turns when rowing was hard, they should do the same when it was desirable. Besides, he didn’t really want to watch Elyea snuggled up to Athryn, for warmth or otherwise.
“You can take my place.”
He pulled his oar from the lake and balanced it across the boat. Shyn stopped rowing and gripped the oar being exchanged as Khirro and Ghaul completed the awkward dance of trading places on the unsteady boat.
Khirro settled into place on his knees at the bow. No longer rowing, he noticed his muscles aching from exertion. He swung his arm in a circle, stretching the muscles as the rhythmic splash of oars dipping into water resumed. A smile no one else saw wrinkled the corners of his mouth-when Shyn and Ghaul rowed together, it was the only time they worked toward a common goal.
The snow fell harder, swirling around them. Khirro pulled his tunic tight under his chin, squinting and blinking as flakes the size of a copper piece flew at his eyes. The shifting white curtain obscured the shore ahead, but it was growing closer.
Snow gathered on the edge of the boat and on the shoulders of Khirro’s tunic. He brushed it away, but it took little time to gather again. The green algae coloring the surface of the lake disappeared, seeking warmth in deeper water. A shiver shook Khirro as he saw the scum replaced by a rime of snow. He looked at the water directly in front of the boat; the prow pushed aside a thin layer of ice as they advanced.
“The lake freezes,” he called over his shoulder, teeth chattering.
Snow collected in the bottom of the boat, dusted the surface of the lake. The trees on the approaching shore wore the same white cloak. The ice grew thicker until it began to impede their progress, slowing them, making Shyn and Ghaul pull harder and harder on the oars. With the shore tantalizingly close, the blade of Shyn’s oar glanced off the ice instead of finding water. He tried again and failed to penetrate it. The same happened to Ghaul. The rowing stopped and soon after the boat did, too.
“What now?” Ghaul threw his oar to the bottom of the boat. Khirro turned toward the others, knees creaking and aching from kneeling in the cold.
“The shore isn’t too far,” he said, though it had been a while since he could see land clearly through the veil of heavy flakes.
“How can you be sure?” Athryn asked. In the frigid weather, Khirro found himself envying the magician’s mask. “Shyn, can you take to the air and see?”
The border guard shook his head. “It would be suicide to fly in this.”
“So what’s the hold up,” Ghaul said half under his breath. Shyn glowered at him.
“We have no choice,” Khirro interjected. “We’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”
“I..is the ice th…thick enough?” Elyea asked.
As if in answer, the ice around them crunched and creaked, squeezing against the hull of the boat. Khirro stood, knees popping, but the boat didn’t move. He swayed from side to side, gently first, then more aggressively. Ice held the boat fast.
“It’s freezing quickly.” Shyn thumped the blade of his oar on the ice. “Perhaps we should wait to be sure it will hold us.”
“We freeze quickly, too,” Athryn said, his words carried on a plume of mist; a ring of frost encircled the mouth hole of his black mask.
“Athryn’s right. My toes already lose feeling. If we wait too long, we may not be able to walk.” No surprise Ghaul’s words contradicted Shyn’s.
“I’ll go first,” Khirro said, surprising himself. A gentle warmth spilled through his chest-the vial tucked into its place at his breast.
Is it the king’s blood itself giving me warmth and courage, or the spell keeping it alive?
He strapped on his sword belt, threw his pack over one shoulder and the shield Athryn and Maes conjured him over the other. The boat didn’t bob or sway or quiver-frozen solid. He went to step on to the ice but Shyn stopped him.
“Take this,” he said handing him the oar. “Test the ice with it.”
Khirro nodded and extended the blade over the side of the boat, prodding the ice. The tip touched and slipped to the side, twisting in his grip. He recovered and poked again. The ice proved solid.
“Let me get twenty paces before you follow.” Khirro threw his leg over the side, shifting his weight carefully. “Come one at a time, ten paces between you. Follow my tracks.” He looked at them and forced a smile. “Go no farther if you come upon a big hole in the ice.”
“Be cautious,” Athryn said.
Elyea stood and leaned between Shyn and Ghaul to hug him and kiss him on the cheek. Her body shivered with the cold, but the kiss spread warmth across Khirro’s face. She sat back down, saying nothing as Khirro brought his other leg over the side.
A layer of snow more than an inch deep crunched beneath his boot; the ice creaked but held. He took one small step, then another, creeping forward, prodding the ice before him with the tip of the oar. A cold wind whipped across the lake throwing snow in his face, flapping his tunic as though the air wanted to tear it from his shoulders.
Khirro counted off step after tentative step, his jaw aching from clenching his teeth. At his twentieth step, he looked back to see who they’d send next, but the blizzard concealed the boat from sight. Likely Athryn would follow next, then Elyea, leaving Shyn and Ghaul to argue over who’d do the soldierly thing and bring up the rear.
Khirro turned his attention back to the expanse of snowy ice before him.
One foot in front of the other. Almost there.
“Almost there,” he repeated aloud, his words whipped away on the howling wind’s response.
He stared ahead at where he thought the shore should be, the blowing flakes dizzying him as they spun about his head. The blizzard quickly filled in the bare streaks left in the snow by his shuffling gait. He advanced carefully, distributing his weight equally between both feet, and soon saw shapes of jagged boulders lining the shore.
The snow is abating.
He moved forward more quickly. Twenty yards from shore, the ice cracked beneath his feet, loud as a thunderbolt to Khirro’s ears. He halted, dispersing his mass equally. The sound ceased, the ice held. He looked at his feet, then at the shore. A tentative step forward brought more reaction from the ice, a sound like thick cloth tearing. Khirro hesitated, fear knotting his gut. The vial radiated warmly against his chest, fortifying him, prompting him on. The ice creaked again, forcing his decision.
Khirro dropped the oar and broke into a run, feet slipping in the snow and on the ice it covered; his legs pumped but carried him nowhere. The deep-throated groan of the ice grew in volume and he wondered if he was destined to drown after all when his feet gained purchase and he bolted forward. Snow pelted his face as the wind attempted to push him back. His hands curled into awkward fists, contorting his frozen fingers inside his gloves. The cold air burned his ears.
He reached the shore and clamored up a boulder, feet slipping on its frosted surface. The ice’s growl stopped, like an animal giving up the chase. Khirro spun around, safe atop the rock, breathing heavy mist into the waning flakes of snow and saw his companions crossing the frozen lake. He waved his arms, directed them around the cracked ice. Ten minutes later, they stood safely ashore catching their breath. Khirro hugged Elyea close, felt her body quiver against his.
“Where do we go from here?” Shyn cleared snow from a rock and sat. His cheeks were red from the cold, his gray stubble frosted.
“In my dream, the keep could be seen from the shore of the lake.” Khirro scratched the sparse beard on his cheeks, scanned the area, then pointed. “That way.”
“We should hurry,” Athryn said. “We do not want to lose any lead we gained on our pursuers.”
Ghaul snorted. “I doubt we’re any farther ahe
ad after that cursed lake,” he said. “We would have been better off going through the forest.”
No one responded as they reslung packs and shields. Silently, they picked their way from the shore, over icy rocks and through banks of snow, Khirro leading the way, following the memory of a dream.
Chapter Forty-One
The keep stood a hundred feet high, and nearly as wide-a squat sentinel standing alone in the woods-yet they almost walked past it.
“More sorcerer’s trickery,” Ghaul grumbled.
Devoid of doors and windows, the tower appeared much like Khirro dreamt it. The stone comprising it was black instead of gray, the glittering a result of hoarfrost. Despite its stature, the ancient cedars and redwoods surrounding it dwarfed its size.
Shyn placed a gauntleted hand against the wall, brushed away frost. “There are no lines of mortar.” He looked up the tower’s face to the gray sky above; the snow had ceased. Khirro didn’t know if it was daytime dimmed by clouds or night brightened by snow. “It’s like someone carved the keep rather than built it.”
“Impossible,” Ghaul said.
“Nothing is impossible,” Athryn said. “Not for the Necromancer. How did you get into the keep in your dream, Khirro?”
“I didn’t.” Khirro glanced away from the others. If his cheeks weren’t already reddened from the cold, embarrassment would have accomplished the task. “The dragon attacked before I entered.”
Ghaul looked at Khirro. “Dragon? You said nothing of a dragon.”
“It meant nothing. A dragon statue that came to life in my dream.”
“The rest of your dream has proven true,” Elyea said. “The lake, the keep, everything.”
“I didn’t dream the giants, or the serpent. I didn’t foresee the heat or the cold.”
“It makes no difference. There is no dragon now,” Athryn said. “Had we found out a day ago makes no matter. We must find the entrance quickly.”
Shyn nodded. “I’ll go up to the roof,” he said unbuckling his belt. “You search the wall for a secret opening. There’s a way in somewhere.”
He strode away removing his armor as the others split into pairs. Khirro and Elyea followed the curve of the tower to the left, Athryn and Ghaul to the right. They groped along the wall’s surface searching for any hint of an opening or hidden switch. Khirro glanced back and saw Shyn at the edge of the trees naked, gray feathers pushing through his skin and looked quickly away from Shyn’s stomach-turning transformation. The change back to human form was worse-feathers, talons and beak fell to the ground, rejected by his man-form. When complete, it looked as though a huge bird had been savaged by a beast.
“You should have said something about the dragon,” Elyea said scrutinizing the wall above her head, scouring it with her fingers.
“It would have made our journey more difficult.” Khirro thought of the tyger’s words: your perils are only beginning. “You wouldn’t have been pleased at the prospect of rushing into the jaws of a dragon.”
“I’m not pleased about rushing into the grasp of a man who can raise the dead.” She paused and looked at him. “But I’m here.”
“You are.”
They returned their attention to the wall, inching their way along its curve. His dream and Shyn’s comments had been accurate: no individual bricks, no mortar. Whoever built the tower did so with incredible skill. Or magic.
Wings beat the air. Khirro whirled, expecting a dragon attack, but caught a glimpse of gray wings. Shyn landed beside his heap of clothes, then disappeared from sight as they advanced around the keep. Khirro nearly walked into Elyea-she’d stopped prodding the wall and stood staring toward the trees on her left.
“What’s wrong?” Khirro asked.
Elyea extended a shaking finger. Khirro stepped from behind her to see what she pointed at.
The dragon was like the tower-the same as in his dream, but different. It stood the same size as he dreamed, towering over him with wings half-spread behind it, but was also hewn of a different material than the dream dragon. Instead of gray granite flecked with black, its surface was translucent red stone-garnet or ruby. Black veins ran beneath the surface. No snow or frost rested on the statue’s surface.
“Is that your dragon?” Elyea asked, voice quieted with fear or wonder. He nodded.
Elyea padded across the snow toward the dragon, forgetting the wall at her back. Khirro watched, awed by the sight. What would even a small piece of such a statue be worth? Dreams of decadence and opulence filled his head; castles and servants and land swam through his mind, dreams of wealth and lordships. Elyea paced slowly away as his mind wandered. The warmth of the vial flaring at his chest startled him from the daydream and he realized the thoughts didn’t come from within.
A spell. A trap.
“Elyea!” He sprang forward, reaching her in three strides, and grasped her shoulder.
“It’s so beautiful,” she said, voice distant. “So beautiful.”
Khirro spun her around, looked into her deep green eyes; they stared back blankly and he wondered if she saw him. He shook her and recognition seeped back into her face.
“What are you doing?” Annoyance tinged her tone.
“It’s a spell. Another trap.”
She twisted her head to look over her shoulder at the dragon, then back at Khirro. He saw she understood. She buried her head against his shoulder.
“I thought I could have it.” Her voice muffled in the cloth of his tunic. “It beckoned me, offered itself.”
“It’s all right. Go warn the others. If they know, they won’t be affected.”
She nodded and went to the tower sneaking another glance at the dazzling statue. Khirro watched her stay close to the wall as she disappeared around the curve. He gazed back at the dragon but this time, instead of seeing riches, the blood red stone seemed solid fire waiting to be unleashed. He moved closer, staring at the black veins within as they seemed to pulse and pump. He blinked twice to dispel the trick of the light.
It’s ash. He took another step. Ash flows through the veins of a dragon, not blood.
He stalked a cautious semicircle around the statue, starting in front and ending near its tail, staying ten yards away the whole time. Snow crunched beneath his feet but the ground lay bare and muddy a few yards out from the statue. The dragon crouched halfway between sitting and lying down, its belly not quite brushing the ground. Khirro stared hard, imagining he saw bones in there, the remains of its last victim. He was kneeling, peering beneath its hanging belly, when the others rounded the tower.
“This is your dragon, Khirro?” Ghaul said with a laugh. “It doesn’t look so dangerous.”
“It also began as a statue in my dream.” Khirro didn’t look up. There was something under there, something he couldn’t quite see.
“What is it?” Elyea asked.
“Dragon teats,” Ghaul commented; no one laughed.
“I think there’s an opening.”
He moved closer, feeling braver now his companions were there. A yard from the beast, he crouched again.
“There is. Right under its belly.” He shuffled closer, mud splashing his boots.
“Wait, Khirro,” Elyea called. He ignored her.
No more waiting.
He stretched for the opening. The dragon’s belly rested six inches above the opening-not enough room for a man to get to it.
There has to be a way.
Sweat rose on Khirro’s brow as he inched closer. His cheek touched the dragon’s belly; it was rough and pitted, not smooth as it appeared from a distance, the stone hot. The heat on his cheek intensified but he reached farther. Another inch or two and his fingers would reach the opening, maybe confirm it the entrance to the keep.
One of his companions shouted something he didn’t hear. Other voices joined the first, but he was so intent on reaching the hole, they might have spoken a foreign tongue.
A little farther. The voice in his head drowned the others out. Just a littl
e farther.
The dragon’s belly lurched up, revealing the opening. Khirro saw wooden stairs disappearing out of sight before the red belly slammed down narrowly missing Khirro’s arm as he pulled away. His companions’ voices rose to fearful shouts. This time he heard and understood.
“Get away, Khirro! The dragon lives!”
Chapter Forty-Two
They saw the fortress wall rising against the horizon while they were still leagues away. To many, the sight instilled wonder and awe, but not to Therrador. The first time he visited, in his idealistic youth full of dreams for the future, he’d felt what others felt as he’d gaped at the wall standing fifty yards high and running the entire width of the isthmus-more than two leagues. The wall had endured for a thousand years, each stone brought by wagon from quarries across the kingdom. The immensity of the structure and the complexity of building it deserved awe, but years spent behind the wall caused reverence to erode into indifference.
“How hold the troops?” Therrador asked.
“The wall holds,” Sir Alton Sienhin replied from his right, his horse half a length behind.
“I didn’t ask about the wall,” Therrador said between clenched teeth. Traveling always made him distraught-too many times the trip ended at a fight. “The wall has stood a thousand years-I’m not concerned for the wall. How are the men?”
“It’ll be good for them to have their leader amongst them. It’s been difficult with Braymon gone. The officers do what they can to maintain morale and fight despair.” The sound of hooves on beaten earth filled the silence as he paused. “The constant rain of rocks and fire from the Kanosee does nothing to cheer their spirits.”
“They’ll have their leader soon.” Therrador shifted in his saddle, searching for a spot on his ass not yet sore. “We’ll be there by nightfall.”
“And the coronation, your grace?”
“The day after tomorrow. That will give enough time for news to spread.” He smiled to himself. “News the new king has arrived.”
They rode on in silence and Therrador thought about Graymon, wished he could have brought the boy, but a fortress during wartime is no place for a child. Certainly no place for the heir to the throne of Erechania. In two days, his son’s future would be assured and all those years of servitude would be paid in full. Therrador smiled again as his entourage rode across the plain, a cloud of dust billowing behind to mark their passing.
