by Shae Ford
“Same rules as last time: open-handed, and keep your feet planted. Last man standing wins.” He smiled. “Are you ready?”
Kael said nothing — which seemed to put Griffith on edge.
His eyes swept the length of Kael’s tattered clothes. He was searching for weaknesses, looking for cracks in his armor. There was just one problem: he couldn’t see Kael’s armor.
While they stared at each other, the wildmen’s mutterings grew to a hum. The craftsmen’s fists began to pound against the tables. Gwen leaned forward in her chair, legs splayed and elbows balanced across her knees — staring sharply through the lines of her paint.
The wildmen seemed to realize that something was about to happen. Kael could hear their excitement thrumming through the air. For some reason, the craftsmen’s song thudded more fiercely than it had the night before. He swore he could feel his heart slow to match its beat …
No. The warrior in him tried to force its way to the front, but he held it back. He wouldn’t let the craftsmen’s song get to him. He watched, waiting for the thrill of the fight to take Griffith over — for the moment when the wildmen’s thumping drove him to attack.
And when he finally lunged, Kael was ready.
He thrust his hand up just as Griffith swung hard for his face. The boy yelped when he slapped the hardened back of Kael’s wrist. He slung his hand out to the side, just like he’d done the night before — and Kael saw his chance.
He thrust his hands forward and shoved Griffith hard in the chest. The boy’s feet came unglued. He stumbled backwards, swinging his arms for balance. Kael stuck a foot behind his heel and shoved again.
Griffith tripped and fell hard onto his rump.
“Finish him!” one of the wildmen cried, but Kael shook his head.
“The fight’s over. I hit him with an open hand, and I’m the last one standing.” The Hall went silent as he turned to Gwen. “That means I win.”
Her hand moved from her lips to rest beneath her chin. “I suppose it does … though that was easily the worst caddoc I’ve ever seen.”
“It was clever!” Griffith said as he got to his feet. “It was exactly the sort of thing the Man of Wolves would’ve done.”
“It was a trick, nothing more. We aren’t going to stomp the Man of Wolves with tricks — we’re going to stomp him with our swords.”
The wildmen cheered loudly at this.
Gwen waved them back to their table with a flick of her hand, and Griffith scowled as he marched away.
Dinner went on as if nothing unusual had happened. The wildmen passed their plates in a circle around the table, each one scooping a portion of whatever dish sat in front of him before handing it off down the line.
The mood in the Hall was undeniably light. The wildmen buried themselves in their meals, eating in the same silence they worked, chewing through their grins. Baird downed his venison and then dunked his scraggly face directly into the middle of his plate, slurping down the gravy.
Kael was halfway through his dinner before he realized that Kyleigh’s arm was pressed against his. He had no idea which of them had moved closer — and frankly, he didn’t care.
For now, Kyleigh was here, sitting next to him when she could’ve been sitting anywhere else — pressed against him arm to elbow when she could’ve moved away. And even though he knew she’d probably been responsible for the roof, he didn’t press it.
For now, he would sit calmly and enjoy the moment.
When dinner was finished, the wildmen left their benches and sat in a ring upon the floor. Silas curled up next to Gwen. He rested his great furry head in her lap and she stroked him absently, her fingers running down between his ears.
Kael’s face burned as he watched them. “He’s got to tell her sometime. He can’t keep lying to her.”
Kyleigh had her fist pressed against her lips. She stared for a moment, her face inscrutable. “He will, I think. Though you never can tell.” Her gaze narrowed to daggers’ points as she added: “Nothing’s too low or despicable for a cat.”
Silas must’ve heard. His glowing gaze slid over to them and a deep, rumbling purr trembled inside his chest. It was clearly a taunt … and Kyleigh gave him a gesture to think about.
“Tell us one of your stories, bard,” Gwen commanded.
Baird immediately got to his feet. Griffith led him into the center of the ring where he sat, cross-legged. His head sagged forward and he took a deep breath. His exhale hissed loudly through the silent Hall.
“In a dark age long since passed, the realm was ruled by dragons. They were fierce and fiery lords. The dragons breathed their judgment upon the holds of men in singeing bolts, driving them to seek refuge deep beneath the earth. Only one brave soul dared to stand against them — Sir Gorigan, a knight of the realm and champion among men.”
Kael had heard this story so many times he could’ve recited it by heart. It was a yarn so well-loved that it should’ve been worn thin. But Baird’s voice gave the words new life. Kael closed his eyes and let the dragons rise inside his head.
“Sir Gorigan forsook the safety of the earth and charged out into the light, sword drawn and heart bared for battle. He brought his blade down with a mighty cry. But,” Baird gasped, “it broke against the dragons’ scales. The fiery monsters mocked his plight. Their wriggling tongues coiled inside their molten throats as they closed in around him — already singing of his death.
“It was in that desperate moment that Sir Gorigan turned to Fate.” Baird raised his arms and shouted to the rafters: “My lady, my light — keeper of the threads of men. If I’ve found favor in your sight, help me quell the dragons’ din! Fate heard his cry and answered. Her gift fell to his feet: a sword forged from a ray of the burning sun. As Sir Gorigan drew her aloft, he called her Daybreak — for by her edge would he lead the world of men to a new dawn.
“The dragons fled Daybreak’s power. They took to their wings and soared into the Unforgivable Mountains — where they hoped their great father could protect them. For three days and three nights, Sir Gorigan battled the King of dragons. He was a fearsome beast with teeth the size of men and black wings that cloaked the sky. But even he was no match for Daybreak. Fate sent a howling wind across her blade, stoking her fires to a roar. All the power of the sun descended upon the dragon King in a fearsome gale. It melted his bones and turned his flesh to ash.”
Baird reached down and touched the floor in front of him. The soft tap of his fingers was the only sound in the Hall. “Do you ever wonder, friends, why this mountain sits a little higher than the rest? It’s because the dragon King is buried here. Oh, yes — the ridges are his bones and the rocks are his ash. Only one thing remains of him, the only proof he was ever here … his tail.” He raised a finger, holding it still as his audience looked on, breathless. Then he smiled.
The wildmen’s laughter broke Kael from his vision. “It isn’t a joke,” he mumbled to Griffith.
“Sure it is. The only dragons buried in these mountains are the ones we’ve put there,” he said.
“The Tail is real — I’ve seen it,” Kael insisted.
Griffith’s mouth fell open. “Really? Will you take me to it?”
Kael didn’t see why not.
*******
They left early the next morning. Kael watched the world through his warrior eyes: leaping over rifts and streams, coasting down rain-slickened slopes and picking his way across fields of jagged rock. It was like a dance — except instead of music, it was the pattern of the land that told him where to put his feet. His eyes watched and his body listened.
At long last, he led Griffith around a narrow, toe-curling ledge and straight to the base of the Tail. It stood alone at the edge of a cliff — a narrow, wind-worn tower that hung over the edge of oblivion. There were clouds above and mist below. All they could see of it was a smooth section the height of a castle.
“Fate’s fingers,” Griffith murmured when he saw it.
“Now do you believe
me?”
Griffith nodded. He crept up to the Tail and slapped his hands against its base. Then he leapt. His fingers curled and the toes of his boots scraped against the rock, but there wasn’t a crack to hold onto.
He slid back to the ground, frowning. “I wonder what’s up there?”
Kael shrugged. “There are some sights no man is meant to see.”
It was something Roland had told him years ago, back when he’d first taken him to see the Tail:
“There’s no way of knowing,” Roland had said. “There’s no way to tell how high it goes, or what it would take to get there. And even if a man did manage to make the climb … would he have enough left in him to climb back down? When you think about it, I suppose it’s really a question that keeps us grounded — not the height.” He’d smiled as he ran a swollen hand down the rock. “Maybe there are some points men aren’t suppose to reach, some sights we aren’t meant to see. It’s good to know the earth still has her secrets.”
A howl jolted Kael from his thoughts. Griffith’s cry echoed around them for several moments before it faded. “You’d have to be more than rattled to climb this thing,” he declared.
Kael crossed his arms. “Weren’t you just trying to charge up it on all fours?”
Griffith shrugged, grinning. “Well, you can’t blame me for trying. Gwen says that I’m supposed to try things — that I’m never to let anything hold me back.”
He stretched his thin arms high above his head, yawning up at the clouds. Then suddenly, he bent and picked a rock up off the ground. It bounced between his fingers as he tested its weight. Then he hurled it straight into the air.
The rock whipped through the clouds and disappeared. They waited for so many long moments that Kael had actually begun to forget about it. He was rather surprised when they heard the faintest of clicks from high above them — the end of an echo.
“So there is a top,” Griffith said.
Of course there was a top. There’d never been a chance of there not being a top. When he said as much, Griffith rolled his eyes.
“You don’t get it, do you? Warriors don’t care about answering questions — we do things because we can.” He stared up at the Tail for a moment more, and the blue marble rolled between his fingers. “If I show you something … will you promise to keep it between us? You can’t tell Gwen I’ve told you about it — otherwise, she’ll skin me.”
The worry in his voice put Kael on edge. “All right, I promise.”
“Gwen doesn’t want the others to worry. She says if we keep quiet, it’ll eventually go away. But I’m not sure.” Griffith took a deep breath. “The Man of Wolves is building something near the village.”
Chapter 22
Impossible
A few miles up the slope from Tinnark, Earl Titus’s soldiers were hard at work.
They’d chosen a steep portion of land and had begun building what looked to be the start of a rather large wall. It was made of stone, held together by thick lines of mortar, and was already more than a man’s height.
Behind the wall, a rounded tower was almost finished. Large piles of wood were scattered around its edge. They were being nailed together — each one forming a stout base topped by a long, deadly arm. Kael recognized the weapons immediately as catapults.
He and Griffith lay on their stomachs beneath a thick tangle of shrubs, watching through the leaves from a distance. “How long has Gwen known about this?” Kael said, staring in disbelief at the tiny dots of soldiers that worked along the tower’s sloping roof.
“A while, I suppose. They came down the mountains behind us.”
“And you didn’t do anything about them?” Kael said incredulously. “You just let them hover over you and build?”
“We didn’t want that land. And what does it matter if they’re building?” he said defensively. “It’s not as if having a castle is going to help them much.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Well, it didn’t help us.”
Kael dragged a hand down the side of his face. He knew it would do him no good to try to explain that having a castle built on the slope above them would give Titus every advantage. If the wildmen ever tried to attack, they’d quite literally be fighting an uphill battle.
“I just thought since you showed me something, I’d —”
“I showed you a harmless old rock.” Kael thrust a hand at the tower. “This is serious!”
Griffith’s scalp burned red on either side of his stripe of hair. “Gwen says there’s no point in worrying about it. Those soldiers aren’t going to attack us — and if they ever try, we’ll stomp them.” He slid back on his elbows and disappeared into the woods without a sound.
Kael lay still long after he’d gone, watching the soldiers at work. There was no doubt in his mind that if the Earl’s men ever came into Tinnark, they would be stomped. Surely Titus must’ve known this.
Perhaps he’d only built the fort in the hopes of goading the wildmen into an attack. Perhaps Gwen had done the wiser thing by not falling into his trap. Kael hoped that was all it was.
But his stomach still twisted in worry.
*******
When he returned to Tinnark late that afternoon, Kael found a surprise waiting for him at the hospital: sometime while he’d been gone, the craftsmen had finished the roof.
“Yeah, Gwen got tired of listening to that beggar moan about how his treasures were going to get ruined at the first sign of rain,” one of the warriors called when she saw him looking. She had the bodies of two boars tucked under her arms, their legs swung limply as she marched down the hill. “A storm’s coming tonight. Can you smell it?”
Kael didn’t have to smell it. He could already see the army of charcoal clouds bearing down on them from the mountain’s top. It must’ve been near the end of summer — the rest of the season would be one long string storms. They’d soak the ground through just in time for winter, when the cold would turn it to ice.
A clanging sound filled Tinnark like a song. When Kael glanced down the slope, he saw a clump of craftsmen gathered outside the forge, beating iron plates into suits of armor.
They’d come to him a few days earlier, asking if he knew anything about forging. He’d told them all he knew: he’d led them through the pages of Blades and Bellows and showed them his memories. He’d even taught them how to trap a forge’s heat and use it to bend iron with their hands. After they’d been taught, the craftsmen drifted away — going one by one to join Kyleigh at her forge.
As part of her punishment, Gwen had ordered her to craft steel weapons and suits of armor for her warriors. “Once my men are fully equipped, we’ll be ready to stomp the Man of Wolves,” she’d sworn.
Kael was rather looking forward to that day. The warrior in him stirred to life at the thought of marching on Titus, stoking fires that’d sat dormant for so long — summoning flames he’d been certain would never rise again. The craftsmen’s new skills had quickened their task, and he knew the day would be upon them before long. Soon, Titus would pay for what he’d done to the mountains.
With the rain creeping towards them, Kael knew he’d have to spend the day in-doors — which meant his thoughts might drive him mad if he didn’t find someway to distract himself. So he slipped inside the hospital and went immediately in search of Baird.
He stopped in the office doorway. There a strange man sitting at Amos’s desk — a man with short-clipped hair and a neatly trimmed beard. There was no dirt under his nails, no grime on his skin. Kael likely wouldn’t have recognized him at all, had it not been for the bandages over his eyes.
“For such a young man, his steps are heavy,” Baird murmured. “These should be his brightest years — filled with hope and dreams and love.”
“Yes, well, I’ve got a lot to think about,” Kael muttered.
Baird had the Atlas opened in front of him. He ran his fingers down its weathered pages, his lips moving silently. “Hmm, it isn’t the thinking that wears
you down — it’s the worry. Fretting too much about one thing or another can age you quickly, young man. It’ll twist your spine and crush your knees. You’ll hobble through the tail end of your life wondering why you’ve given so much of your time to worry. That’s no way to live.”
Kael supposed he was probably right. And had he known how to live any other way, he would’ve gladly done it. “Are these your treasures?” he said, waving to the many books that now adorned the shelves.
Baird smiled widely. “Marvelous, aren’t they? I’ve spent my whole life collecting them. To be a bard is to be a beggar. Rarely did I ever have two coins to rub together, but I’ve always been rich in friends. Each of these books was a gift. There’s a story behind every story.”
Kael stepped closer to the shelves, a faint hope tapping inside his heart. “Have you got anything about dragons?”
“There should be a copy of Tales of Scales in there … between Types of Trolls and Griffins: Fact or Fiction?. I always try to keep all my beastly books together.”
There was a noticeable gap between the two books Baird had mentioned. Kael wasn’t at all surprised. “Kyleigh was here.”
“She helped me with the trimming,” Baird said cheerily, slapping a hand to his face.
“Of course she did,” Kael muttered.
“There are whispers swirling around the village, young man.”
“Aren’t there always?”
“But these are troublesome,” Baird insisted. “The craftsmen say that Kael the Wright has abandoned them — that he refuses to step inside the forge. Has something powerful driven him away?”
“He hasn’t abandoned them. He just doesn’t want to get too close to Kyleigh.”
Baird snorted. “The Swordmaiden? Why should he fear her?”
“He doesn’t fear her. He just …” Kael sighed heavily. “He loves her. He’s desperately in love with her, but she won’t have him — he understands why, though. He knows it’s because they’re too … different. That she would never even think of him. But still, he can’t help himself. He isn’t quite strong enough …” Kael gripped a fistful of his hair, trying desperately to keep his anger at bay. “The thing is, he knows it’s going to hurt — he blasted well knows it! And if he had any sense at all, he would forget the whole thing. But he’s too big an idiot to let it go. That’s precisely Kael the Wright’s problem: he’s a stubborn, irredeemable idiot.”