by Shae Ford
Kael knew he couldn’t possibly hope to outwit the man who’d brought the Kingdom to its knees, and so he wouldn’t try. He wouldn’t fight back.
Instead, he would take a leaf from Setheran’s book: he would do exactly what Titus expected him to.
Kael would walk straight into his trap.
Chapter 40
Here at the End
“Ho, that was a wicked thing you done, lad!” Morris panted, half-laughing as they stumbled down the frozen slopes. “Are you sure he’ll find it?”
Kael was positive. He was certain the Earl had been watching him through the falcon’s eyes. He’d seen what Kael had done to his soldiers, and he’d likely sent a force to retrieve the vial of mindrot the moment the falcon had perished. When his soldiers arrived, they’d find the vial exactly the way it’d been delivered: corked and with its wax seal melted back into place by the hearth fires. Titus would have no reason to believe anything was amiss.
“How’re you holding up, lad?” Morris gasped as they picked their way down a particularly nasty slope.
With darkness shrouding it, he hadn’t realized just how treacherous the path to the cottage had been. Now a gray dawn had begun to creep over the horizon. The edge of the path that he’d thought dropped a mere few feet actually dropped several hundred — and there was a field of sharp, ice-covered rocks waiting at its base.
Kael’s head spun when he glanced down. “I think I need … a rest,” he managed to say. He felt as if the insides of his throat had frozen over. His breaths slipped clumsily out, and his lungs never seemed to get enough air.
He sat on his knees, careful not to jostle the dagger. They’d managed to bind his left arm against his chest. Morris had held a strip of the soldiers’ bedding in place while Kael had woven a very clumsy, one-handed knot around it. The binding wasn’t as tight as he would’ve liked, but at least having his arm pinned would keep the wound from tearing.
“Aye, take a breath,” Morris said, propping his nubs on his knees. “But let’s make it a quick one — I’ll feel better about things once we’re back amongst those rock-hurling lads.”
Kael agreed. “It shouldn’t be far, now. Just a few more …”
A howl rose over the top of his voice. It trailed faintly in the gray dawn, falling until it disappeared. He hoped he’d only been imagining it, but then it came again — and this time, two others joined it.
Morris’s eyes went wide. “What in Kingdom’s name —?”
“Hounds,” Kael cried, scrambling to his feet. “It’s the Earl’s hounds! Run!”
The yelping grew frenzied, rising as the hounds picked up the scent of his blood. Soon the separate wails molded together. They became a never-ending chorus of screams — a tide rising to take them.
Kael urged his legs into a run. He hobbled across the slickened rock, trying desperately to will them on. Every breath stabbed his lungs. The dagger in his arm dug painfully against the ragged ends of his flesh. He felt as if a second dagger had been thrust between his ribs.
Soon his legs shook as he brought them down. The motion of his jog beat his body too roughly. He felt an unnerving warmth trickle down his chest as his wound spat out a fresh helping of gore. Beside him, Morris wasn’t faring much better: the old helmsman’s gasps had grown so labored that his face was white with the effort.
They might’ve made it another half mile or so, had Kael not lost his footing.
Rocks beat his back. He curled up as he rolled across the frozen ground, trying to protect his wound. But somehow, he managed to catch the edge of a stone at just the right angle — and he was hurled on top of the dagger.
The blade bit deeper into his flesh; the ragged wound wept freely. Kael cried out as the pain clamped down upon him, trying to fight against the blackness.
“Come on, lad!” Morris wheezed. “Come on — throw your arm across me … there’s a good lad. We’ll get there … don’t you worry … we’ll …”
They didn’t get far.
Screams burst up the slope. The hounds were so close that Kael could hear the panting between their frenzied cries. At any moment, they would be overtaken. “Morris, you have to go.”
“No, lad. I’m not —”
“Go!” Fury raged above Kael’s pain, turning his words white-hot. “The hounds can smell my blood. That’s the only reason they’re after me. They won’t stop until they’ve killed me!”
His shoulder was far too mangled to draw his bow. So he chose a knife from his wallet and tried to ignore the fact that his hand didn’t seem to remember how to throw it. Without the warrior in him, he wasn’t sure he could throw it. But he had to try. “I’ll hold them off as long as I can. Once they’ve got me, they’ll go back to Titus. But you’ve got to run, Morris. You’ve got to tell the others what we’ve done.”
He took a deep breath. He braced the knife against his knee, holding the point upwards. If he couldn’t throw it, then at least he might be able to skewer one of the hounds. If he held it against his chest when they attacked …
Morris’s stocky arm thudded across his shoulder, chasing the darkness back. “All right, lad. I just want you to know … I want you to know that I was happy to be at your side, here at the end.”
Kael took in every edge of his features, every line on his face and every wire of his beard. The light in his watery eyes steeled him, gave him courage — it reminded him of what needed to be done. And he was proud to do it.
Screams split the air between them; the hounds were at the crest of the hill. He could hear their clawed feet scraping against the ground, but he wasn’t afraid. “Tell Kyleigh that I love her, all right? Make sure she knows.”
Morris gazed up the slope, where three twisted, screaming bodies were tearing down to meet them. And he smiled. “No, I’m not going to do that, lad. You tell her yourself.” Then he slammed the blunt of his arm onto the top of Kael’s knife.
The blade went through Morris’s leather gauntlet and deep inside his wrist. He stood and ripped the knife out with his teeth. A red torrent spewed from the ruptured veins as he lumbered for the cliff. The hounds screamed. Their dark-pitted eyes burned beneath the folds of skin on their faces. Their claws screeched against the rocks as they turned from Kael and headed straight for Morris.
The old helmsman stopped at the edge. He turned his back on the hundreds-foot drop and the jagged rock field beneath him so that he could fix Kael with one final, gap-toothed grin.
“You finish it, lad!” he called, raising his blood-soaked arm. “You finish what we started!”
The hounds crashed into him. They swallowed his stocky body and tumbled over the edge, ripping the whole way down. The faint thud at the bottom of the cliff broke Kael from his shock.
He screamed.
*******
“No! No!” Titus’s fists pounded into the arms of his throne as the last of his hounds perished and their windows went dark.
He’d had him. He’d had him! Stupid, blood-mongering beasts. He’d led them straight to the Wright, he’d held so tightly to their chains — he’d willed their legs to pound! Then they’d ripped from his grasp at the last moment, charging after that worthless, crippled pirate …
Titus pulled roughly on his tangled beard, trying to force himself to calm. This chance might’ve been taken from him, but there would be others. His greatest weapon had yet to be unleashed. One of the falcons had arrived at the cottage ahead of the hounds. He’d found the vial intact.
The moment will come, he reminded himself as he paced. The victory is all but assured. Be patient.
“Your Earlship?” A soldier leaned cautiously around the door. “It’s one of the beasts, Earlship. He wants to speak with you.”
“Send him in.” Titus leaned back on his heels as his most powerful creation stalked into the room.
He’d been right about the man named Marc. The weakness of his spirit meant his body had been easily twisted. Sorrow and hate had devoured him at the Tree — spitting out a creatu
re that was a reflection of everything Titus could’ve ever asked for in a warrior. Had he been able to split his soldiers open and pull out their souls, he imagined they’d all look like Marc.
“What is it, beast?” Titus said.
Marc sat on his haunches before the throne. His monstrous claws rested, curled upon the ground beside him. He spoke clumsily around his fangs: “I have information for you, Earlship.”
Odd. Titus hadn’t remembered seeing anything through Marc’s eyes that he thought might be useful. Then again, he rarely looked. For all his hulking size, Marc’s vision was disappointingly dim. He feared the pain that might come from his collar if he ever disobeyed a command, so Titus never had to hold his chain too tightly.
“What do you have to offer me?”
“Memories,” Marc grunted. “I know the boy who leads the savages — I remember him.”
Titus leaned forward, trying to keep his face as smooth as possible. “I see. And how are your memories supposed to help me?”
“You want him stopped. I know how to stop him.”
Titus snorted. “I’ve already got him beaten. His army will be helpless against the bite of my poison. Once I’ve weakened them, I’ll have my pick of skulls to crush.”
“He’s too sly, Earlship,” Marc said. “You’ve got to dig your fangs into his throat and keep them there. Give him a breath, and he’ll crush you with it.”
These were echoes of the worries that plagued Titus’s sleep — the whispered ends of all the little things that might go wrong. The Wright had already proven himself to be rather slippery. If there were any way to ensure he would fall, Titus would gladly take it.
“Tell me, beast — how do I hold him by the throat? How do I make sure he never breathes again?”
“You’ve got something of his, Earlship … you’ve got Amos. March that old coot outside, and he’ll walk straight into your hands.”
“The healer?” Titus breathed. “What would the Wright want with a common healer?”
“That’s not just any healer, Earlship.” Marc’s fanged lips twisted into a wicked grin. “It’s his grandfather.”
*******
Kael wasn’t sure how long he walked. It seemed as if he collapsed at every few steps — and each time he fell, he swore it took the last of his strength to pull himself up. But somehow, he found more. There was always more. No matter how much he’d given, he found he always had a little left to give.
Kael’s knees struck the ground again. He clutched at the dagger in his shoulder, holding it in place as he prepared to drag himself to his feet. Finish what you started, he thought to himself. Finish it — do it for Morris.
The force of that thought pulled him up, held him steady. He shoved the little black spots aside and willed his legs to carry him on. They were numb — either from the cold, the loss of blood, or the crushing weight inside his heart … he wasn’t sure.
His legs fumbled a paltry few steps before he found himself sinking again. The ground was rushing up; the black was creeping in. His knees were inches from the rock when a pair of strong hands caught him under the arms.
“Well, look what I’ve found — a ragged little mountain mutt.”
“Gwen,” Kael moaned.
She grabbed him under the knees and scooped him into her arms, carrying him like a child. Her neck arched back and she let out a sharp whistle.
A hawk screeched in reply.
“Evening … wing …”
“He went out looking for you this morning — followed your trail, saw what a state you were in, and came screeching to the first person he could find. Lucky for you, I was hunting nearby,” she said with a smirk. “I’m disappointed, mutt. I thought you’d grown out of moaning over flesh wounds.”
Kael’s anger cut through the pain. “It’s not just a wound … it’s poison.”
Gwen pursed her bluish-black lips. “Like wynn venom? Then why aren’t you dead?”
“It’s not that kind of poison,” Kael said evenly. “It’s like venom for whisperers … a poison that keeps me from using my powers.”
Her pace slowed considerably. “I think you’d better explain yourself, mutt.”
He did — or he tried to, anyways. It wasn’t easy to get Gwen to understand what he’d seen at the cottage, and how what he’d seen meant that Titus had a plan for them. When got to the part of what he’d done to the poison, she let out a frustrated growl.
“Why didn’t you just throw it in the fire and be done with it?”
“Things will be better this way. You’ll see,” Kael insisted when she rolled her eyes.
At least she understood what had happened to Morris. Her grip on him had tightened to the point it was almost painful by the time he’d finished speaking, but he didn’t mind it. Focusing on how hard her fingers dug in kept the darkness from swallowing his heart.
“We’re going to stomp him,” Gwen snarled.
For once, Kael didn’t argue: “We’re going to do more than that — the mountains will run red with Titus’s blood.”
They walked in a smoldering silence for a while before a rumbling growl made him flinch. Kael raised his head enough to see Silas the lion striding out in front of them.
“Have you forgiven him, then?”
Gwen sighed heavily. “When my brother got … lost, it was the cat who found him in the woods. That’s how Griffith knew his name — Silas must’ve stayed with him all night. So as much as I wanted to crush his furry little skull for deceiving me,” her hands tightened again, “I couldn’t. Not after I realized that he’d protected Griffith. Instead, I’ve decided to punish him by binding him in service to the wildmen. He’ll do exactly as I say until his debt is paid. Or I will crush him.”
Silas’s eyes glowed haughtily as he glanced over his thick shoulders, and his tail swished in an unconcerned loop.
Chapter 41
Misguided Courage
High in one of Midlan’s winding towers, Argon the Seer was more frustrated than ever.
The book that’d once been so troubling now lay open before him. The words were no longer sealed, but written plainly. He’d read The Myth of Draegoth once already, expecting some great secret to come pouring out from between its pages. But instead, he’d found the tale to be disappointingly vague.
There was very little information at all about the monsters called draega — the beasts that’d inhabited Draegoth before the rise of the first King. A precious few lines mentioned the draegas’ savage ways and their dark, terrifying magic. Even the pictures showed them as nothing more than the shadows dancing around yellow flame.
No, Argon realized early into his reading that he would gain very little knowledge of the draega from this book. He wished there’d been more lines dedicated to the history of the tale … and far fewer on the illustrious nature of the first King.
The book droned on about him, talking of how he’d come to the Kingdom from the barren Westlands — seeking a new life for his people. The historians bemoaned the fact that no matter how the King tried to befriend them, the draega refused to turn from their savagery. And so he’d been forced to lay siege to their royal city of Draegoth:
By his magic had the King conquered the whole Wildlands, but not even his mages could stand against the draega. Their champion would rise from the city’s white walls, using the deep night as his cloak. He laid waste to the King’s army with a single spell — devouring both flesh and steel. So great were the champion’s powers that whole of the King’s mighty army trembled at his coming.
As night passed into day, mankind was forced to see how the draega had ravaged them. The King knew he could not breach the city’s walls until the champion was slain. So in his wisdom, he sought the advice of his archmage — who knew at once what must be done.
From the bonds of magic pure and earth’s most gleaming vein, the archmage did forge the King’s salvation: a protection called the Dragonsbane.
This was the part of the story that had Argon most puzzle
d. He wondered what sort of magic the draega might posses that a mage would not. There was no doubting that the chamber Crevan had led him to was heavily spelled — crusted in symbols written to seal in a powerful enemy … but which enemy?
Surely not the child they’d discovered hiding in the ruins. Argon was certain he had no gift for magic of any sort, least of all one that might strike fear into the hearts of mages. No, he was certain the boy was perfectly, completely harmle —
A loud whoosh startled him, followed by a flash of light from under his door. Argon cursed as he threw it open. He stumbled out into the tower’s main room and clawed his way through a cloud of rather foul-smelling smoke — already dreading the damage.
A handful of young mages clumped tightly in a far corner of the room. They whirled around at the noise of Argon’s shuffling steps. He knew things were going to be dismal when he saw the guilt staining each of their faces. But it wasn’t until they parted to let him through that he saw their latest mess.
How many times had he warned them? You can’t drop lion’s teeth into a cauldron with troll blood, he clearly remembered saying. But of course, they’d had to try it for themselves.
He supposed he should’ve expected nothing less from a roomful of young mages — especially ones who’d spent their lives bound in service to the King. Their studies had been neglected straight though their most formative years. None of them had developed enough to forge his own impetus. Each one still carried a wooden staff: a coarse vessel whittled by an older mage and inscribed with only the most basic of spells.
As the last of the mages parted and Argon got a clear look at what they’d done, he couldn’t help but be a little proud. One of mages had actually thought to cast a shielding spell around the cauldron. It was very crudely-drawn and leaking slightly out the bottom. But for the moment, the bulk of the disaster was contained within an orb of swirling, foul-looking smoke.
