Eleven spears gleamed in the near-darkness—their tips shimmering like the moon. The cats scampered back to the ranks of the Septugant and for one long minute nothing happened.
“The blades of Crespin,” the wolf Rorof whispered.
“Crespin’s blades no longer,” a voice replied from the crowd. “Good Rorof, it pains me that you did not join our force,” Sadora said, coming forward. “And though it brings me no pleasure to fight one such as you, we cannot let you destroy the Tablet.” She paused, smiling weakly. “I have not yet even kissed it for love.”
“You gave me your word,” Rorof said.
“And my word was good,” she replied. “I did not kill the king. I did not so much as spill a drop of his blood. But I do lead this rebel band. Return and you shall have mercy at our hands. Continue, and these blades—the very blades the king used to secure his reign, will spill the blood of our good people. Please,” she said, sincerely. “They are blades intended to kill an unkillable race. Return.”
“You know that is not a thing the Königsvaren can do,” Rorof said. Lowering his head, he released his troops. They tore through the most vulnerable humans with ease as Rorof barreled toward Sadora. She lowered her shaft. Rorof’s face was white, his fur a light, shiny gray. Sadora was determined not to kill him. When he leapt at her, she ducked, her body almost flat against the earth. As his body sailed over her, she drove the spearless shaft into the air above her, hoping her estimation was right. It struck Rorof’s hind leg, shattering the bone. The wolf landed in a heap a pace away from her. Running to him, she raised her shaft again, bringing the bottom end down with all her force onto the center of his forehead. “There,” she whispered, as he slumped to the earth. “I might be a fool, but I’ve tried to return the good turn you did to me. You should be passed over as quite dead.”
Behind her, she could hear the cries of the humans in her army falling and giving way, but she could also hear the swishing of weapons—human-made weapons stronger than any the king’s guard had known. Several of the miners carried hammers and picks, which landed with loud cracks on the heads of the wolves, although they couldn’t harm the Veranderen force. To her left, she could see the stutterer Damiott swinging and jabbing with his Grey spear. A group of four Veranderen had surrounded him—which was four more than she feared any human could handle. He moved back and forth, jabbing and turning with the spear. Just before she reached him, the last Verander fell, not quite dead perhaps, but maimed beyond recovery. Sadora willed herself not to look at the fallen of her own kind and stared instead into Damiott’s triumphant face.
“I see you have this area covered,” she said. Then she turned and ran into the fray to help the others.
Wolrijk pressed against Wittendon with the confidence of a conqueror. Wittendon let him. Above them on the hill, the humans fell like gnats before his race. There was no pure one in sight. And Wolrijk would not rest until Wittendon’s blood flowed in a stream down this hill.
Near the periphery of the battle just above them, Wittendon saw Pietre standing to the side, looking for someone. The boy, Wittendon thought.
Wolrijk noticed Wittendon staring at the child, held his weapon steady and grinned. “The child,” he called up the hill to the wolves. “Kill him.”
“Have you gone mad?” Wittendon asked, but it could barely be heard over the howls of the wolves. Wittendon saw that Humphrey stood beside Pietre, but even with the enormous dog, the two figures on the hill looked impossibly small.
The Veranderen remained to fight the Septugant while the wolves ran at the boy. The wolves seemed glad to do it. They knew the child—the village orphan who had pushed his way through gates and guards, who had struck and weakened wolves with his sling. And Wolrijk was not the only wolf who enjoyed revenge.
Steadily, Pietre began to swing his sling—though it was just a normal sling with a normal stone. In his other hand, he held the dagger his father had made. It was more weaponry than he had ever held, but looking to the mass of predators that ran for him, he knew he was a blade of grass on a field about to be plowed.
The wolves howled with the same blood call Pietre had heard every night of his childhood when the Blødguard had run through the woods in eager pursuit.
Pietre released his stone. It sailed away from his sling and landed with a quiet plunk on the forehead of one of the wolves. The animal stumbled and fell, but all the others—hundreds of them—still ran at Pietre. Humphrey leaned back on his hind legs, ready to jump and tear into the sea of wolves, ready to fight until he himself was shredded to a skeleton. Pietre loaded another stone, swung, and released. Again, it struck with a small plunk, but this time the noise seemed to echo over the hill—sounding as though hundreds of new footsteps had begun to pound the earth behind them.
“Can there be more wolves that come now from behind?” Pietre whispered to Humphrey, sad as he looked to the empty Tablet. Humphrey turned to face their new foe, about to attack when a line of dogs rounded the hill and barreled past him toward the stream of wolves that was about to overtake Pietre. The wolves did not slow, nor did the dogs and when they met, it was with a deafening crack of bones and teeth—dozens of animals driven to the earth almost before Pietre had time to blink.
The dogs fought first in silence, fully focused on the enemy in front of them. They jumped and bit, dodged and ran. Some fell, but most pressed into the force of wolves that stood against them. As they did, their voices rose up—in snatches of song at first—a shrill note, a mournful howl; then broke into lines and verses as haunting and steady as death. The melodies swayed above the wolves in triumphant tones while the harmonies dipped into the worst dreams the wolves had known. Perhaps the dogs would not speak or sing again when this night was through, but today they sang into the bones and blood of their enemies. Some wolves fled to the woods without a scratch, others whimpered at the feet of the dogs who tossed them aside where they lay shaking. Those who stayed to fight moved left when they had meant to go right, jumped when they had wished to duck, finding their attacks distracted and misplaced.
Pietre stared entranced, his sling slack at his side. The dark form of Ellza appeared at his side. “My child,” she said. “Your time has come. You must let the dogs now do the work always intended for them to do.”
Humphrey faced the cat.
“You,” she said. “Go with the boy and never let it be said that half-breeds have no place in this land.”
Humphrey did not need to be asked twice.
Wittendon saw Pietre disappear from the mass of wolf and dog, and turned. When he did, the hook of Wolrijk’s scythe caught him in the neck. It missed his carotid by a breath, but it brought Wittendon down and when he fell, Wolrijk pounced, landing on his stomach, prepared to rip at his chest with razored teeth.
Wittendon gasped for breath, trying to push the wolf-man off of him. For the first time since the clamor had begun around him, Wittendon noticed the screams of the crowd below. They had no idea what was going on, what had happened to their king, or who it was that fought the king’s guard. They did not care. They screamed now for blood, for battle, for a taste of things they did not understand because most of them had been shielded from death their whole lives. They screamed for Wolrijk to kill and as soon as Wittendon freed himself from Wolrijk’s teeth and stood up, they screamed for him to fight back. It was a sound Wittendon wished he could ignore, though now that the terrible noise had caught his attention, it was difficult to let go.
Wittendon’s chest bled into his torn clothes and his flesh felt like it had gotten caught in the cook’s meat grinder. Not all of the bites were intensely deep, but Wittendon could see bits of his skin hanging from Wolrijk’s teeth, which made him almost as dizzy as if he’d lost pounds of blood.
“It is finished,” Wolrijk growled, circling him. “Your rebellion falters, the wolves fight with vengeance at my command and it seems that I might even get my revenge on that precious little man child. Your father and friend are dead. Your lady wi
ll soon be too. Your brother is gone. Soon, I will win my rightful rule of this land and at my hand, your father will look like the Flower Prince and all but those most faithful to me will ache for what will then seem the gentleness of his reign.”
Wittendon put his hand into his pouch. The stone was still there, but what good could it do? What Wolrijk said was true. Wittendon’s body quivered; the rebels fell fast at the hand of the trained Veranderen soldiers; and the boy would be attacked or stampeded before Wittendon had the strength or opportunity to get to him. Still, he had no desire for Wolrijk to know of his mother’s stone, much less own it. With a quick movement of his hand, as though wiping sweat from his face, Wittendon dropped the gem into his mouth, intending to swallow it and thus carry it with him to his grave. But as soon as the stone hit his tongue, his body felt like it had erupted with lightning. Light shone from his nails and the ends of each hair shot up from his skin, tipped with white. He took a deep breath and as he did, the skin across his chest stretched and healed. He ran his hands over his face and arms and legs, sealing every nick and cut.
Wolrijk stepped back a pace and below them people screamed and howled and cheered at the burst of unexpected light.
Bending over, Wittendon picked his scythe up from the ground and as soon as he touched it, Grey ran up and down along the hilt until the entire weapon was shimmering and hardened with the metal. Quietly, he held it in front of his face in challenge. “Do you, Wolrijk, know now who I am?” The stone moved in Wittendon’s mouth like part of his tongue—each word a shot of light from his mouth.
Wolrijk tried to grimace, but as he returned the challenge with his own blade, his hand trembled.
“I am Wittendon, son of Loerwoei, and Lord of the Grey.”
Wolrijk licked his dry lips.
“You are not the only one with secrets. You will not rule this land, nor will my father if he lives,” Wittendon said. He lowered his blade and plunged toward Wolrijk. Wolrijk struck with his own blade several times, staggering back as Wittendon cut his shoulder, side, and arm. Each wound bled continuously.
Wolrijk panted, then threw his scythe to the side and held only his claws in front of him. “And I am Draden. But perhaps you are right to call me Wolrijk, youngling, for that is who I have become. A creature stitched of the Pallium—its grains embedded in the creases of my nails and seams of my flesh.” Quickly, he slashed Wittendon across the face. Wittendon touched it and, though the blood slowed, it did not heal entirely.
Wolrijk advanced, aiming his sharp claws at any exposed part of the prince. Wittendon, likewise, stabbed at each piece of Wolrijk’s skin that he could reach until both of their bodies gaped with hundreds of small wounds that would not seal. Wittendon held the gem tightly in his mouth—the last piece of his mother he possessed.
Strangely, at this moment, he thought of her beauty, not her power—of her graceful step, her long hair, her delicate fingers. At once, Wittendon stopped, offering a tiny murmur of thanks. Again Wolrijk swiped with his daggered nails and at once Wittendon returned the blow—not to the skin of the wolf-man as he had been doing, but across the tops of his fingers. He was careful not to hit the Pallium-seamed nails, which he thought might deflect the force of the Grey. Instead, he aimed just below, lopping off each finger at its center—left then right. The deformed creature howled in a way that seemed to pull the earth into itself.
He ran at Wittendon, teeth bared. Wittendon held his blade in front of his body—ready to pierce his crazed opponent, but just before the tip of Wittendon’s blade swung into Wolrijk’s bloodied flesh, Wolrijk leapt over scythe and prince and ran through an empty field toward a pine wood at the northern foot of the hill.
Pressing down on the stone in his mouth one last time, Wittendon could feel the pull of the Grey beneath him in the mines. Above him, several of the Veranderen—both of the guard and the rebellion—staggered and fell. The wolves slowed in their attacks, breathing heavier and running more clumsily.
In a moment the boy Pietre appeared in front of Wittendon, carried on the back of the dog.
Slowly, Wittendon spit the stone into his hand and below him the crowds erupted into screams and cheers. With one voice they began to chant, “Hail Wittendon, Lord of the World.” Wittendon gripped the stone, feeling the jolt of power flood his veins, and paused. The hill, the head city, this continent, their world. His. All he had to do was raise his arm and release the golden flare. The sun was almost gone. No human would make it to the peak anyway. With one hand Wittendon held the stone; his other palm he opened toward the sky about to release the winner’s flare. Pietre stared at him long and hard as the roar of the crowd grew louder.
Quietly, the boy whispered, “My prince, I need the stone.”
Wittendon looked down at him. Oddly, he had forgotten he was there. “I can take it,” Wittendon said. “In just a moment. My speed is needed anyway.”
Pietre shook his head, barely daring to move. “No,” he said. “I need it.”
“You defy me?” Wittendon asked. “I said I could take it.”
At Pietre’s side hung his sling—one lonely, plain rock from a lonely, plain stream the only weight at its bottom. It was a grain of dust against the gleaming prince with his white tipped fur and glowing face. With one quick circle, Pietre pulled his arm back and launched the rock at Wittendon. The stone landed soundly on Wittendon’s forehead. Pietre expected it to bounce off like a pebble hurled at a stone-wall, but the prince-king staggered back, grabbing his face, though he did not fall. With a growling scream, Wittendon sprang at the boy, his blade aimed at Pietre’s neck. Humphrey moved faster than Pietre—shoving the boy aside so that Wittendon’s blade missed his neck and instead sliced up the side of Pietre’s face—a burst of blood where his ear had been.
Wittendon raised the blade again, then paused. The boy’s injury was familiar—blood flowing from the child’s ear just as it had after he’d been attacked by the wolf Wolrijk. Only worse. Wittendon gripped his blade, trying to think why exactly he was holding it up against a child.
In his pause, the boy reached to the earth to grab another stone. “The rock,” Wittendon whispered, dropping his blade. “Solid as the earth itself.”
Pietre placed the stone into his sling, but did not yet release it. Beneath them the crowd screamed like waters breaking a dam. “Kill the human rebel, oh king. Kill him.” Wittendon shook his head and stepped back. Pietre looked at his prince—his king—with a determined defiance, a desperate fear, and a blink of something smaller, but brighter than everything else. “Please, Wittendon,” Pietre asked, the glimmer of hope leaking into his voice.
Wittendon looked at the steely blue eyes of the boy for one long breath. “Catch,” Wittendon said, throwing the empowered gem to Pietre. The boy jumped onto the dog who ran swift and straight—a sound pouring from the animal’s lips—not a howl like the wolves, nor quite a song like the dogs, but a single piercing note—clean and straight as a streak of light.
The Veranderen guard had broken through the Septugant defense at the top of the hill and now aimed their great force at the Tablet. Wittendon ran through the angry ranks to face them, his eyes glowing. Pointing his fingers to the hill, the prince-king pulled the Grey from its depths. The ground rippled and rose—a jagged ridge of rocky Grey between the guard and the mountaintop. “Stop,” Wittendon bellowed. “I am Wittendon, Crespinszon, Lord of the Grey, and—for about four more minutes—Chancellor and Ruler of this, the known world.”
In confusion the armies stopped, weakened by the jagged Grey ridge that had risen in front of them. Then one shouted, “You are no more than a traitor to the king.”
“And perhaps his murderer as well,” another chimed in.
They staggered forward against the Grey ridge, just as the boy and dog crested it, headed like lightning for the Tablet. The sun hung a sliver above the horizon, pausing in good-bye. The dog threw the boy toward the Sacred Tablet and in the next instant blackness soaked the earth—heavy and complete. Th
e stars sank into the darkness and the moon quivered and faded.
Wittendon could see nothing. He knew Veranderen and wolves stood only feet away, but he could not see them and any noise that came to his ears sounded muffled, as though he had been sealed in a jar. Everyone else must have felt it too because no one moved against him. No one moved at all. In fact, in the next few minutes a haze came into Wittendon’s head that felt strangely like sleep. His body sagged and grew tired, while odd images leapt up into his sub-conscious like dreams—shifting and rocking in his mind: the boy fallen to the side of the Tablet, his body knocked over like a butterfly in a tornado, the half-breed licking the child’s chin, then sinking down into sleep, the stone glowing and growing until it burst from its perch into the sky, hanging in front of the old moon and pushing it away.
Pretty dreams, Wittendon thought hazily to himself, then mumbling he hummed a few bars of the lullaby his mother used to sing him,
When the sun sinks low and the moon shines high.
When the light falls down out of purple sky.
When the night goes black and the stars retire,
It’s then you’ll go to sleep.
“Prophecy,” Wittendon murmured as he drifted further into sleep. “From my cradle she has sung it.”
Chapter 57
Pietre woke to darkness like none he had ever experienced. The blood where his ear had been was crusted into a scaly lump and his body hurt. He reached out blindly until his hand felt the soft fur he knew to be Humphrey. Finding the rise and fall of Humphrey’s breath, Pietre scooted over, ready to lay his head on the animal’s side when, to the east, a splinter of light broke the intense blackness. It stared at him above the horizon like a lustrous eye just opening. Beside him, Humphrey moaned in his sleep. The new sun rose quickly, pushing back the night over the eastern base of the hill and working its way up. As it moved, the people stirred. When the light hit the surviving Veranderen, they sank into their flesh forms, some still sleeping, some jolted awake.
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