She hoped they would make it before the injured gate-keepers were discovered. With each lieutenant she’d sent a rebel Verander to hide the unconscious gatekeepers, tend the bleeding with a special powder she had made, and stand in for them until it was time.
From a distance Sadora caught a glance of the general Wolrijk. He turned to her for a brief moment and she looked into his eyes—scarred, darkened, odd, like peering into the eye sockets of a mask. Quickly the general dipped his head in a respectful bow as a flare shot up. It was Kaxon’s by the look of it, curly, showy sparks floating to the earth. Wittendon’s flare was much more direct, a straight line to the sky. She hadn’t seen it for the better part of an hour. She fingered her necklace and chewed her lip. Without Wittendon they would fail. The Septugant would be dispersed, forced to wait and then regroup in another hundred years. She looked constantly to the healers, who collected the downed Veranderen. If Wittendon was injured, it would be partly her fault—largely her fault. Not only would they fail, but the only other Verander as dear to her as Sarak would be harmed because of a plot she had helped form.
For a minute, her perfect posture sagged.
Then the stutterer Damiott caught her eye and risked a wink. He would have been struck with a club if a Verander or guard had noticed the gesture to a lady of the court. None did. She nodded to the man, a touch of smile on her face. The ladies of the court would not have lent her as much as a hair pin, but these humans and dogs and rebel Veranderen would offer their lives, and gladly.
Her only wish—the wish she hoped would not turn to regret—was that Sarak would forgive her when all was done, for he had been her best and only friend for so many years.
She knew he waited impatiently for her in the box, dreading each minute he had to sit alone with the solemn king and stoic guards. “I’m sorry, brother. Your wait will run long today.”
He was the one with the sword, not the explosives. And he had drawn his pretty blade almost immediately—obviously preferring weaponry to magic. Not the best choice considering Kaxon’s unseen advantage in the weapon’s department.
Again and again Kaxon struck the sharp-fanged Verander called Quidin. Each nick from the Grey refused to seal and the Verander seemed to ooze with blood. Even the crowd below had noticed—they had begun stamping and calling with an ardor that turned Kaxon’s stomach. Blood was unusual among their thick-skinned, quick-healing race. Blood was part of the novelty and thrill of the Mal. Yet, with each nick of his blade Kaxon felt the simplicity of his life fade.
“Will you not quit when it is clear that my skill exceeds your own,” Kaxon asked.
“Nothing is clear until all is complete,” Quidin responded, getting a good jab in below Kaxon’s armpit. The sting angered Kaxon and he pulled back, just as Wittendon could be seen jogging up the hill. Apparently, he had beaten the Verander with the explosives. Kaxon knew he was out of time. He swung his scythe in a tight quarter circle, plunging it into Quidin’s shoulder—at least two inches deep—deeper than he had really intended to go. The Verander gasped in pain too intense to scream. “Your blade,” he choked.
Wittendon turned suddenly, seeming to hear what Quidin had said.
“Smarts,” Kaxon said, finishing Quidin’s sentence and hoping that Wittendon would wait at a distance.
“No,” the Verander Quidin said.
Wittendon ran to them with a speed only a body as long and lean as his could.
Quidin had begun to tremble, the blood pouring out of his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Kaxon said, looking at his opponent in a way that was truly fearful and full of regret, “but I have come too far.” Again he brought his scythe back and swung, aiming at his opponent’s chest as though to drag the curved Grey through his ribs. But just as the weapon was about to hit, Wittendon ran in front of the Verander—like a frightened and stupid rabbit—taking the weight of the blade along his side in a jagged line that extended from shoulder to waist.
“No,” Kaxon screamed, dropping his scythe.
“No,” Quidin whispered, fainting finally from lost blood.
“No,” Wittendon said firmly. He stood in front of his brother and shook his fur as though he had just swum through a creek—droplets of water and blood showering Kaxon.
“Forgive me, brother,” Kaxon begged. “You were not my target.”
In the distance, King Crespin stood and stepped out of his box. What was Kaxon doing, pleading like a lover, weaponless and exposed? The king sprinted to his sons just as Wittendon sent up a red flare.
Wolrijk followed close to the king. The two of them stopped at a distance—the afternoon sun at their backs—and watched.
Wittendon picked up Kaxon’s blade and tossed it back to him with a roar that shook the branches above them.
“My liege,” Wolrijk said, gesturing with his head to Kaxon’s blade. The king saw it suddenly—the blade Kaxon held—the way the metal tip was just brighter than it should have been. It was a tell-tale sign of paint enchanted to cover extra inches of the Grey. The king saw something else too, something Wolrijk hadn’t yet noticed—he saw the way Kaxon stood, shaking and confused at the line on Wittendon’s side that shimmered gray, instead of red.
“By the elders,” the king whispered, connecting each secret his sons had so carefully concealed from him. “Move,” the king said firmly to Wolrijk, not wanting him to see.
“But my lord,” Wolrijk began.
“Back,” the king commanded.
Wolrijk obeyed, moving back several lengths and waiting for his next order. Even the king remained at a distance, watching carefully.
Kaxon held his blade tightly, though it still hung at his side. Wittendon held his scythe in front of his face in challenge, waiting.
“Who are you?” Kaxon asked, staring at the gash now fully sealed.
“Someone who is just figuring myself out.” Wittendon nodded at Kaxon’s blade. “As are you. Come now, our father waits, anxious to declare a winner.”
Kaxon frowned, then growled, lifting his blade in front of his face. Each brother paused for a long moment. Then, like two lightning bolts touching the earth, the scythes of the brothers met—the clang of the metal carrying to the crowd below. The throng gasped and cheered at the noise from the two figures so far up the hill they could barely be seen.
Sarak, on the other hand, had a fabulous view. He sat in the king’s box, relieved Crespin was finally gone, but confused by what he saw. Kaxon’s hesitation had been just as baffling as his ferocity now was. Wittendon and Kaxon fought like demons—screeching, scratching, and flying at each other. The movements of their blades might as well have been the movements of their hands—as innate and powerful as natural-born parts. And yet, they fought like brothers too, each anticipating the others’ movements in the same way Sarak knew how Sadora would move in dance.
It was beautiful and terrible all at once. Sarak watched Kaxon slash at his brother with the force he would have used to kill a poisonous snake. It seemed like the world had turned upside down.
Silently the king was considering a plan for himself and his kingdom. He could simply allow Wittendon to defeat Kaxon. With his obvious advantage, it would be inevitable. Kaxon would not enjoy this, but he would be spared the shame of a disqualification. But if Wittendon won this way, the king would lose a chance he wasn’t sure he could afford to lose. If Kaxon was disqualified; if Wittendon was forced to fight another instead, Crespin might be able to eliminate an enemy he had lately wondered how to dispose of gracefully.
With a mighty clap of his hands and a golden spark from his staff, the king strode forward. The battle between the brothers halted, as did any sound or movement from the crowd below.
“My son,” Crespin said, looking to Kaxon and summoning the long-bladed scythe with a slight gesture of his hand. Carefully, the king ran his finger up the shaft, stopping at the point where the metals joined. The king sighed, as though disappointed. “My son,” he repeated.
Kaxon looked a
t his father. “Call the match. They do not know,” Kaxon said, gesturing to the crowd. “Please Father, call the match. Give the position of Chancellor to Wittendon, but spare me.”
“I am sorry, my son, but I cannot.”
Kaxon seemed to crumple. Wittendon wished he could hand him a toy like he had when they were young, and make it better between them. “Call the match, father,” Wittendon said.
“That’s right,” Kaxon said, straightening a bit. “Wittendon wants you to call it too.” He stared daggers at his brother. “The blade you hold—it is not mine.”
“What?” Wittendon asked.
“They were switched in the battle. Look,” Kaxon said, pointing to a small flower engraved on its handle. “A moonflower. His lady’s favorite.”
Wittendon said nothing, only stared.
“Hold it, brother. See how well it fits your hand.”
The king examined the engraving on its handle, slowly and thoughtfully, then held the blade out to Wittendon. “Hold it,” he said. “Warm it.”
Wittendon did not move.
“Perhaps,” the king said, “the two of you have forgotten who still rules this kingdom. Hold it.” He threw the blade with force toward Wittendon’s body. Instinctively, Wittendon caught it. He held it for several moments, looking from his brother to his father then back to his brother again.
“Now give it back to me,” Crespin said. Wittendon did. The king held the warm hilt, turning it several times. He then held it up to the afternoon sun so that it caught the light.
“Too clever for his own good,” Crespin muttered, turning the hilt away from the sun. “I am sorry, Kaxon, it is clearly yours. The Greysmith made sure of that.”
Kaxon looked to his father who held out the scythe. Between each petal of the moonflower was a carefully etched letter of Kaxon’s name—an etching made of old, unstable Grey that darkened when the blade was warmed by another.
Without a word or an apology, Kaxon walked from the field.
“Kaxon,” Wittendon called, but his brother ignored him. “Kaxon. There is still opportunity in these times to create honor for yourself.” Wittendon took a step forward. “Kaxon,” he shouted, but his brother did not look back.
The king looked to his oldest son, whispering so no one else could hear, “You, lord of the Grey, have a great advantage. However it is one of natural gifting and as such you may—by the terms of this game—continue. Nevertheless, and especially under these circumstances, I cannot in good conscience declare you conqueror on a disqualification.”
Wittendon raised an eyebrow and waited.
“I have recently received information clarifying Sarak’s parental line. He is of high lineage. Though not traditional, it is permissible in such unusual circumstances as this to allow one of equal blood to step in and fight in the place of another.”
“Fight Sarak?” Wittendon asked.
“Yes,” the king replied, turning his back to his son. Crespin walked the distance back to Wolrijk and held out Kaxon’s long-tipped scythe. “Return it to my box,” the king commanded. The scarred wolf took it in his mouth, careful to avoid the Grey tip, and obeyed.
Standing on the side of the hill, the king raised his staff and called, his voice amplifying across the kingdom, “The warrior Kaxon is no longer qualified for this competition. In his place will stand one dark and bold with magic and strength to rival kings past. Come forth, Sarak—son of the ancients—child of Tomar.”
Below the audience seemed to have been struck perfectly dumb. And then, beginning with a few voices and rising to a wave of sound so great it shook the rocks and beams in the mines below the hill, the crowd broke out into a mighty noise. “Hail, Sarak, son of Tomar. Hail, Wittendon, the once-verlorn prince.” The names rocked back and forth in the crowd, combining eventually into a hysterical scream.
The king had to admit he was pleased. A lost lord. An underdog prince. A way to destroy the child of Tomar and with him the witch’s prophecy about Crespin’s own destruction. It couldn’t have turned out more nicely if he’d been plotting it for years. Regally, he strode from the field.
From his spot in the box, Sarak looked around. One of the black wolf guards came to his side to escort him to the hill. “Is it I?” Sarak asked, and the wolf looked at him as though he was half-brained or half-bred or both.
“There is no other,” the animal responded, pointing with his nose to a scythe near the corner he had brought for Sarak to use.
Sarak sat there for a moment, picturing Kaxon as he had raised his blade—willing to chop it through his brother’s neck if the chance arose. Now Kaxon was gone and he, Sarak, an orphaned nobody was to enter the Mal. Son of Tomar. The words made him almost dizzy. He would fight his best friend whom he had trained. Not only that, but the king seemed perfectly thrilled about it. Try as he might, Sarak couldn’t quite put it all together. Wolrijk came into the box and dropped the Grey-long blade in the corner. Sarak looked at it.
“The world has gone insane,” Sarak muttered.
“No my lord,” a voice behind him said quietly. Zinder stepped up beside Sarak. “The world has always been thus. You have only just now had cause to notice.” And with that, the white wolf turned and grabbed the extra-long blade with his mouth. He ran, heading for the hills as though on some desperate errand.
Sarak had never heard a wolf gasp, but Wolrijk clearly gasped. The general turned to look for the king who was still at a distance on the hill. Then, cursing, Wolrijk followed after the white wolf at a ferocious speed.
“Insane,” Sarak repeated to himself. The black guard stared after the other wolves for only a second before regaining his composure.
“Come,” he said, leading Sarak out onto the field and into the fevered cheers of the crowd below.
Chapter 52
The dogs walked steadily in the direction of the Motteral Mal. If all had gone as planned, Humphrey, Pietre, and the rest of the Septugant had gone through the gates hours ago and were now waiting at the base of the eastern slope. If all had not gone as planned and Wittendon was defeated, the rebels would soon disperse and return to their homes. That would be the easiest thing. There would be no choice for the dogs to make and all would go back to what it had been.
Markhi knew that most of the dogs were hoping for this outcome. In the unlikely event that Wittendon did succeed long enough to empower the stone, the dogs were faced with a decision—a decision they had been arguing about for days. None of them wanted to fight, but the packs near the burned wood grew hungrier. Even worse, no less than two hundred pups had gone missing this week—more than were recorded for any other year of the Motteral Mal. A terrible hondsong had arisen in their camps, mothers and fathers weeping and singing for their lost babes. And yet, to fight did not mean to win and to win did not mean any guarantee of freedom for the dogs. Their race was strong without language, but it was not nearly as strong and every single one of them knew it.
In the long green meadows outside the capital, the outline of the Hill of Motteral rose up in front of them and their walk slowed.
Zinder dropped the weapon as Wolrijk caught up to him, grabbing at his hind legs with his teeth and toppling the large white wolf to the ground.
“You’ve gone mad,” Wolrijk growled, kicking the other wolf and snarling.
“No more than anyone else,” Zinder said, getting to his feet.
“Give me the blade. I need to return it to the king.”
“Oh, yes, you’ll return it, I’m sure. The king’s welfare is certainly your central concern.”
“As though it is yours.”
“Mine has become clouded in the last several weeks, it is true, but your purpose—your mission as general—I do not think it has ever been cloudy or compromised. I think you have always known what you wanted and what you were going to do. And I don’t much think it involved the king.”
Wolrijk growled. “It has always involved the king. Just not quite in the expected ways.”
With a harsh
laugh, Zinder kicked the blade to Wolrijk. The general stopped it with his front paw.
“Go on,” Zinder said. “Pick it up. Use it. I’m sure you’ll find that terribly easy to do when fighting with it in your mouth.”
For a long moment, Wolrijk looked at the white wolf.
“You know you’re not the only misfit in this world, don’t you?” Zinder asked, stepping closer to Wolrijk.
“I know there are no others like me on this earth,” Wolrijk responded.
“Perhaps,” Zinder said. “But there are others with eyes that watch and ears that hear. I’ve noticed you know much about magic and history—” Zinder paused. “For a wolf.”
Wolrijk struck him without hesitation—sharp yellow claws across his eyes and one ear. But Zinder did not even take a step backwards.
“I am a strange creature pieced together as well,” Zinder said. “Only my stitching is on the inside.”
“Well, soon you will need some on the outside also,” Wolrijk said, striking again and clipping off Zinder’s other ear while taking a step closer, his teeth bared.
Zinder stepped toward him as well so that very little space was left between their faces. “You convinced me to swear allegiance to the king. I watched him go on witch hunts where he cared not how many wolves fell. I tended their torn flesh and carried them home. I felt Gog sweating in the asylum where he might have been healed except that he was pulled out to be used again. I suffocated as the land of the dogs burned leaf by leaf. I pulled the only surviving sentinel from the ashes, and I felt my feet drag under the dogs’ songs of mourning.”
Grey Stone Page 31