by Bruce Blake
When he turned around, he saw his da fighting a man with feathers poking out of his skin while Athryn and Emeline rushed toward Khirro, who was laying in the mud.
She killed him. She killed the tyger.
Graymon’s eyes moved away from his friends to scan the plain. Through the tapestry of falling snow, he saw the pile of wreckage that was once the dragon—green-hued smoke rising from a heap of red rock. His heart lurched at the sight, and he thought of his toy dragon and its broken wing, of the way the woman had manipulated it when he first met her. She stood not far away, naked and laughing, her arms outspread, her hair tossed by the winter wind. The entire length of the staff in her hand glowed green.
Graymon’s fingers wrapped around the hilt of the dagger Khirro gave him. He felt the rough feel of the jeweled hilt against his skin, the cold metal of the pommel. He swallowed hard, pulled the dagger from his belt, careful not to cut himself, and started toward the woman.
He felt like a brave hero at first, fortified by doing the right thing, but with each step, his courage flagged; as he drew closer to the woman, fear crept in. He reminded himself of all the things she’d done, of the way she tricked him, of what she did to his da, to the kingdom, and now to the tyger. She was the one who raised the dead, so if a dead soldier killed Khirro and the tyger, then it was her fault, just as if she'd wielded the sword herself.
As he walked, he looked at the ground in front of him instead of at the woman. He knew if he looked at her, or at the fighting around him, he would surely lose his nerve. So he averted his eyes and counted his steps to distract himself.
When he’d gone a hundred paces, he heard his name and took it as the cue to finally raise his eyes again. He looked into the face of the witch.
She stood ten yards away, staring at him with a bemused look on her face. She raised an eyebrow and one corner of her mouth followed it up in a lopsided smirk.
“Well, well. To what do I owe the honor of your company, my prince?”
Graymon stopped and concentrated on making an angry face instead of the afraid one threatening to usurp his expression. He gritted his teeth and pressed his lips together the way his father did when he was angry; he tried hard to make his eyebrows touch like Nanny’s.
“You killed the tyger.” He said the words quietly, hoping she wouldn’t hear the terror steadily building inside him like water threatening to overflow a dam.
The woman threw her head back and laughed. The sound echoed and rolled across the plain. It seemed to toss the falling snow about in its wake and it touched Graymon like fingers groping in the dark. It might have tickled if he hadn’t been so scared. He shivered.
“The tyger should have stayed dead the first time I killed him,” she said directing her gaze back to the boy. “It would have saved a lot of lives.”
“If you hadn’t attacked, it would have saved lots of lives,” Graymon yelled at her, his voice quaking. He breathed a few short, stiff breaths through his nose, held the dagger out in front of his chest and started toward her again. He made it one step before the arm encircled his waist and picked him up off the ground.
Graymon wiggled and fought against the arm, slashed at it with the dagger, but a hand grabbed his wrist. The boy looked over his shoulder and saw his father’s face looming above him.
“Da!”
But his father wasn’t looking at him, he didn’t respond. Instead, he glared at the woman and made a much better angry face than Graymon had been capable of; angrier than he’d ever seen his father.
“Ah. The traitor king has returned.”
Graymon’s feet dangled above the ground as his father backed away. The boy looked from his father to the woman. She didn’t look amused anymore; her faced looked even angrier than his da’s. Hatred and rage twisted and warped her face, dissolved her beauty. Her lips pulled back to reveal gleaming teeth, sharp with points; her hair whipped out behind her as though she stood in the midst of a hurricane; she seemed to grow taller.
The woman held the glowing green staff in both hands in front of her and brought the butt end down hard against the ground. Thunder clapped, lightning jumped toward the sky and the earth rumbled. Behind her, a tornado of white smoke and snow rose up, swirling and twisting higher and higher, expanding wider and wider until it blotted out the sky.
Therrador put Graymon down, grabbed him by the hand, and pulled him away.
“Run,” his father yelled.
***
“Get him,” Athryn snapped, but Therrador had already taken off after his son. “I must begin the spell.”
“Do you have to?”
Emeline’s voice held a pleading tone and anger flashed through Athryn. He wanted to ask her why she should show concern for him now, after what she’d done to his friend, but he bit back his ire and gestured at the wound in Khirro’s belly instead. Blood still oozed from it, though the flow had ebbed.
“If not this, he will die anyway, then we lose both Khirro and Braymon. And the kingdom.”
He glanced over his shoulder and saw Therrador scoop Graymon up in his arm.
“I have to begin.”
Emeline lowered her head and touched Khirro’s cheek.
“I’m sorry.”
Athryn traced his fingers along the tattooed lines on his torso, felt their power flow up his fingers, along his arms, and into his chest to infuse the air in his lungs. The charged air rose into his throat and spilled out of his mouth in words of a language he didn’t know. Finger traced, lips spoke; this is how it needed to be since Maes died and his magic returned. His flesh went cold and numb; sweat beaded on his forehead. A vibration started at his knees and shook its way up his spine.
Khirro gasped a sudden breath and Emeline cried out in concern, but Athryn didn’t let it distract him. The arcane words tumbled from his lips fluently, though his mouth had never formed them before and they felt uncomfortable on his tongue. The world narrowed to Khirro lying on the ground in front of him, Emeline and Iana at his periphery, the sound of the chant collecting in his ears, multiplying in his head.
Dimly through it he heard a crack of thunder, sensed a flash of light. The ground quivered beneath him with a vibration greater than what might accompany the casting of a spell; he focused on his words, on tracing the scrollwork’s path. Power built inside him, churning, straining to break free. He closed his eyes and concentrated on control as his finger continued its path, his lips continued their words.
In the distance, somewhere outside himself, he heard a voice strained with urgency. It came closer and a second voice joined it, this one higher pitched, a woman. He heard his name amongst the words they spoke and focused tighter, concentrated harder to shut them out, to keep from being pulled out of the spell and have the power welling up inside him dissipate.
Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, grasping it, shaking him. Athryn stopped chanting and opened his eyes.
Emeline stood over Khirro, her hair whipped by strong wind Athryn hadn’t felt in his trance, her face distorted with fear. She gripped Iana tight against herself as the baby wailed. Therrador stood beside Athryn—it was his hand on his shoulder—and Graymon was beside him. Thunder rumbled across the sky bringing goose bumps to the magician’s bare chest.
He struggled to his feet and looked around.
Green lightning flickered and jumped from the staff in the woman’s hand, flashing out to strike down the living or raise the dead, depending on which it touched. A host of her newly-raised soldiers ambled along behind her, fresh wounds dripping, weapons covered with the blood of the men now marching beside them. Behind them rose a wall of cloudy white smoke and snow that hid the horizon and reached to the top of the sky.
Athryn bent and retrieved the Mourning Sword from where it lay on the ground beside his fallen friend, then nodded to Therrador. The king guided his son to Emeline and put the boy’s hand in hers. He touched Graymon’s cheek and his lips moved, whispering words of love, a promise, then he returned to Athryn’s side.
>
“You must stay with Khirro,” Athryn said to Emeline as he and Therrador started toward the Archon. “Without him, all is lost. Your love for him can keep him alive until I return.”
If I return.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
For the first time in his life, Therrador wanted nothing more than to flee from the fight before him, to turn and run and leave the fighting to someone else. He imagined himself scooping Graymon up in his arms, taking the boy away somewhere safe, and leaving the kingdom in the grip of the madwoman into which he’d delivered it.
Not much of a king.
Instead, he pressed forward—likely to his death—at the side of a man he didn’t know as his son watched.
The first wave of dead men rushed them, putting any thought but survival from the king’s mind. He should have been too exhausted to wield his sword, but knowing his son crouched a few yards away, and that letting one of the things past would surely mean the boy’s death, brought energy and urgency to his limbs.
Beside him, the magician hacked and hewed their adversaries, fighting with a ferocity Therrador wouldn’t have expected from a magic-user. The blade of the Mourning Sword glowed first red like the blood for which it thirsted, then orange and yellow, and back to red again. It shone on the faces of the men it cut down, reflected in their armor before cleaving it in two. Heads rolled and bodies fell as they made their way toward the woman.
Therrador’s sword found the eye of the last standing soldier of the first wave of undead, and he looked up, ready for the next attack. There was none. The other dead men hung back, standing on either side of the woman and behind her, the snowy wall of white mist pressing close behind them.
The king’s gaze fell on the woman. She stood with her legs spread to shoulder width, her arms extended as if awaiting his embrace; the sight of her stole the breath from his chest. His eyes moved slowly from her face to her neck, then her chest, his gaze flowing over her body like honey. His sword drooped in his grasp and he forgot what reason had brought him to this place.
Why should I want to kill such a beautiful creature?
The woman smiled, laughed with a sound like gold, her teeth pearls, her eyes sapphires. The hatred and rage in Therrador’s chest loosened and his mouth opened to profess his love.
Before his throat struggled the words into being, a yellow glow fell on the woman. Her smile faded and she diverted her eyes. Therrador’s chest lurched at the precious gift of her attention taken away, wrung from his heart so suddenly.
The glow brightened, illuminating the woman without shadow, without deceit. Her pearly teeth became fangs dripping venomous saliva, her sapphire eyes flashed jealousy and disgust, her laughter became the growl and roar of a beast.
Therrador shook his head and looked to the magician beside him. He squinted against the Mourning Sword’s blinding glow and raised his hand to block it from his eyes as he realized it was the blade’s golden light he’d seen upon the Archon’s face, reminding him of the truth of her. Athryn lowered the sword and fell to his knees, lips moving with the words of a spell, and Therrador shook the last of the woman’s deception from his head.
He knew what he needed to do.
The king gritted his teeth and moved forward as the undead throng rushed from around the Archon. The wall of mist and snow descended on them, enveloping them all.
***
When the mist rolled forward, enshrouding the magician and the king, Emeline pulled Graymon close. Iana, hugged tight against her chest, cried and protested; Graymon stared wide-eyed as his father disappeared in the fog.
The white mist moved inexorably forward, devouring the dead and the living, the earth and the sky with its advance. The day dimmed before it, the quake of magic shaking the ground quieted beneath it.
A wisp of mist touched Emeline’s face, its tendril cold against her cheek like the caress of a bony finger. She flinched away. It touched her again, this time on the head, a hand smoothing her hair. She felt Graymon tense in her grasp—he felt it, too, the way the icy fingers of fog acted in the manner of a living thing.
“Close your eyes,” Emeline said to Graymon as she did the same and put her hand over Iana’s. “Hold your breath.”
She felt the mist envelop them, its cold touch coddling them. With it came silence. She heard only the beat of her own heart in her ears, the pulse of the blood in her veins. Iana made no more sound, Graymon was silent, the clash and clang of battle ceased. Fearful the mist might be poisonous, Emeline clung desperately to the breath in her chest until her lungs burned and she could hold it no more. In the deathly quiet, air whooshed as it escaped her lungs, then whistled as it entered her mouth and found its way into her chest.
Then she was floating.
The swirl of snow and mist lifted her, held her aloft like a cork floating on a lake, bobbing gently but neither rising to the sky nor sinking beneath the surface. Her arms dangled loose at her sides. At first, she felt the pressure of Iana and Graymon against her, but that lifted, too, as the mist cradled them. In the back of her mind, she knew she should be concerned they were no longer with her, but she couldn’t bring herself to pay attention to the tiny voice of warning.
The mist will take care of them.
And she felt assured it would.
She floated for a time she couldn’t fathom, the air around her rejuvenating and refreshing her until the return of sound took it from her.
It began a far off rumble, in the manner of a thunder storm rolling in from the sea, but it grew from a rumble to a growl, then a growl to a roar that filled her ears, crowded her head and pulsed behind her eyes.
Emeline’s eyes snapped open to find herself lying on the ground. The rumble-roar shook the ground, rattled her teeth; the mist swept up and up, a twisting whirlpool in the air that collected and concentrated before it disappeared.
It stole her breath and, with it, the scream of despair when she realized the children were gone.
***
The muddy ground squelched under Athryn’s knees and his lips moved to call forth words to prime his magic and harness the power within him. His hand fell to his chest and his finger traced the tattoos etched across it, frantically and fruitlessly scanning them before moving to the ones on his arms. He found no spell that would help against Sheyndust’s awful power.
There is but one thing to do.
He watched Therrador engage the troop of undead soldiers until the mist descended over everything, smudging the king and his adversaries first to a blur, then hiding them completely. Athryn breathed deep and closed his eyes, readying himself, but the distance between himself and Khirro and Graymon was great, the difficulty of the transfer extreme. The yards of flattened grass, corpses, undead monsters and living soldiers that separated them diminished the chances of success. King Braymon might end up anywhere, or nowhere.
I have to try. It is our last chance.
His finger found the proper incantation inscribed on his abdomen again and the words began, bringing with them the power he’d felt before, returning it as strong as before Therrador’s touch interrupted him. The energy pulsed through his veins, taking the place of his blood; it gathered in his limbs, replacing his muscles; it reverberated in his head, supplanting his thoughts. His finger followed the cursive letters, his lips continued to chant, but his world became the power filling him, threatening to spill out of him.
“Athryn.”
The word sounded crisp and clear through the thrum of power in his ears, like a church bell struck on the dawn of a snow-frozen winter day. The magician opened his eyes.
At first, the white fog filled his vision. Athryn wondered if it was the mist he’d seen descend over Therrador and the Kanosee soldiers, or the same whiteness that took him when he lay dying in the forest, his throat opened by a Kanosee dagger. His eyes flicked side to side and found nothing to see. No more words were spoken, nor did he hear the chant intoned by his own mouth, though his lips still moved.
Two figures
stepped out of the fog to stand in front of him. Athryn nodded.
“Darestat. Elyea.” He licked his lips. “So I am dead, then.”
Neither spoke, not out loud, but he heard Elyea’s voice in his head.
Thank you.
He parted his lips to ask what she meant, or to beg for a few more moments to complete his spell and do all in his power to save the kingdom, but the Necromancer took a step. The old man moved like liquid, flowing toward him rather than walking. Athryn stood to meet him, grudgingly ready for the journey to his final destination.
Darestat paused a pace away from Athryn and their gazes met. The magician breathed deeply through his nose, bracing for whatever it meant to be taken to the fields of the dead, but the Necromancer’s figure wavered like heat rising over distant fields on a scorching summer day, and the old man stepped forward, into him.
Athryn’s body stiffened. He felt Darestat in him, as though the magician was merely a shirt and breeches the Necromancer put on. The power coursing through him combined with the feel of the man within him bulged Athryn’s skin and flexed his bones. His body jerked, his gut twisted with cramps. He bent over and retched.
An instant later, the power took over, soothing him, invigorating him. He straightened and stared straight ahead; Elyea was gone, but he saw figures moving within the mist. Swords flashed, blood flowed. In the middle of them, he picked out Therrador, his blade a blur of movement as he cut down undead after undead, made living soldiers into dead ones. Beyond him, Sheyndust swung her staff, its green light a sickly halo about her head. She smiled and laughed.
Athryn raised the Mourning Sword and took a step; the earth trembled beneath his boot. He set his jaw, lowered his head, and charged into the fray, each step of his advance shaking the ground.
The Archon looked up and her smile disappeared.
***
The earth rumbled beneath Khirro and he struggled his eyes open, the action of fluttering his eyelids made difficult by tacky blood and crusted mud. His fingers were numb, his face cold; the ache in his body suffused his bones.
