“Don’t you forget about me.” Profigliano hopped out next to the Colonel and wiggled his tail again. “You ain’t seen nothin’ till you’ve seen a red-breaster on the battlefield. I been doing beak exercises for three straight mornings.”
The hounds reached within ten yards of the forest edge when the Colonel and Profigliano released their spells. The Colonel’s magic swirled elegantly from his mouth and nostrils, a mix of gas and liquid. It enveloped four of the hounds in a slow-moving carousel. Profigliano conjured a golden defense bubble around himself, and from it sent a stream of smaller bubbles, which burst against the hounds’ forelegs. The gold skins adhered, binding their legs together like glue. As Profigliano’s victims collapsed, Ryon pelted another hound between the eyes.
But then, one of the Colonel’s victims blasted a red, ragged rip through the golden carousel. Now free of the Colonel’s spell, the hounds vaulted straight for him, teeth bared. With an ominously amplified growl, the Colonel threw up a golden shield. Two hounds, unable to stop in time, hit the shield full force, and Ryon heard the crunching of bones. Another managed to leap over the shield, snapping onto the Colonel’s throat. The hound shook the Colonel’s body with his powerful jaws. Ryon reached for his dagger and leapt into the open. He rammed his shoulder against the hound to knock it on its side, and drove his dagger between the ribs. The Colonel whined, pulling himself away from his dying attacker.
Ryon cleaned his dagger with a shaking hand, returned it to its sheath, and moved to examine the Colonel.
“Very good, soldiers, very good.” The Colonel panted, ignoring the blood streaming from the wounds along the back of his neck. “Resume the attack on the bandits at the cellar.”
“They’re already in,” Nory said, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Close to fifty of them, Colonel.”
“Look, the governors,” Ryon said.
A volley of golden magic rained down from the castle wall walks onto the attacking bandits. High above the lawn, drainage holes near the top of the outer wall were filled with the heads of formidable terriers, barking and catapulting streaks of gold. A slew of red blasts from below pummeled the wall in retaliation. Meanwhile, the brunt of the bandit forces worked frantically with club and sword to pry open the outer gate.
“Colonel.” Buchanan was suddenly by Ryon’s side. “Our nets are emptied. We must do what we can with beak and talon. Where is that bear?”
“I be here, impatient one.” Osiris appeared, shuffling through the leaves. When Ryon saw him, he gasped aloud.
Osiris was armored from head to tail with leather and metal. Numerous cuffs big enough to fit a human thigh surrounded his limbs. A man-sized shield covered his back, and yet another decorated his chest. Around his shaggy neck, he wore a studded collar made of two spiked straps, and a three-headed mace jutted from between his teeth. Ryon couldn’t wait to see the looks on those bandits’ faces.
The bear removed the mace from his mouth. “I be sniffing out the ole Armory yer boys be hiding in yon tree. This be nothing like the old armor of Glademont, but I don’t be the complaining sort.”
“Boy-o-boy.” Profigliano shook out a few drops of golden magic left over from his skirmish. “This mountain bear is coming in handy.”
“Get yerself on me back, Master Ryon,” Osiris ordered, his large muzzle twisting into what might have been a grin. Ryon still shook from his first kill at close range, but he grasped Osiris’s studded collar and hoisted himself onto the bear’s shoulders.
A chorus of screeching and squawking echoed from the castle, where bandits slashed at diving birds. Many of the Hinge Foresters were dying, and the raptors continued to enter the castle through the windows. But the outer gate remained secure. The sheer volume of the battle overwhelmed Ryon, with the terriers on the wall, the hounds on the ground, the calling birds, and the yelling bandits. Too many of Glademont’s allies were dying in the open.
“Reggie, we must fight from the inside, see if we can’t push Atheos out again,” Ryon yelled over the din.
“A fine idea, soldier. Charge,” barked the Colonel, and they sprinted for the western corner of the castle, where one hundred more bandits stood between them and their friends inside.
Chapter 41
Tess regained consciousness on a pebbly bank, wiping dark, greasy hair from her forehead. The bite wound on her arm was sore, but not too swollen. A few sticks smoldered within reach, and Tess realized her head was resting on Linden’s folded leather vest. It was late morning.
Across the campfire sat Linden, his untucked shirt almost dry. One elbow rested on his bent knee.
“Where is Ember?” Tess said, and began to cough. Her stomach sloshed with what she could only assume was lake water.
“Gone.” Linden ran a hand over his matted head. “There were flashes and booms, but I couldn’t see what was happening from where we washed up. After the noise stopped, I built a fire and returned to the cave.”
“That was foolish. Pider’s curse could have been waiting for you.”
He shrugged. “I found nothing but a few inches of water and the Thane’s Hold, still there, just as it was.”
Tess sat up to look. The lake was not wide, more like the dammed end of a slow river. It formed a lazy horseshoe, with the cave and waterfall at the opposite tip from where they were. She could still hear the rush of the falls, and see the forest edge where Ruby Creek poured over the rocks. Around their little camp, there were no ancient trees or swaying ferns. Only sparse shrubs, low grasses, and scattered rock. They were on the edge of the southern hills. Facing east, Tess let the sun warm her eyelids.
Ember was gone.
Wyndeling swooped to meet them. “Thank the skies. She’s awake.” She landed on Tess’s knee.
“Where have you been?” Tess said.
“My lady,” Wyndeling said. “I returned to the cave just in time to watch you and His Highness throw yourselves into the falls. I reproach myself for leaving you too long, but I think you’ll be pleased with who I found.” Wyndeling puffed out her soft chest and pointed a wing at an approaching butterscotch figure.
“I don’t believe it.” Tess stumbled to her feet and rushed to embrace Jesse. His glossy body was wet with perspiration. Heavy breath blew through his muzzle.
Linden stood and bowed in greeting. “Broken your silence, I see, Jesse Canyon?”
“Highness”—Jesse bent a foreleg—“I come from the Friends of the Militia who gather at the castle. They go to battle against Atheonian mercenaries this very morning.”
“I see.” Linden stomped the fire out with vigor. “Then we shall join them.”
“It is to Redfoot that I will take you, Your Royal Highness,” Jesse said.
“Redfoot?” He strapped Tess’s former pillow to his chest. “No. My mother is dying.”
“Prince Currant sends for you from Redfoot. He has reclaimed the city, and asks that you help lead his forces against Atheonian soldiers advancing toward the castle.”
“Is Ryon all right?” Tess asked Jesse.
“In the bear’s care,” he answered. “Osiris told me where you were.”
“So . . .” Tess looked to Crescent Lake where dappled light fell on green water. “Ryon got his wish. He is a part of the militia after all.” Her shoulders drooped from the weight of worry for her brother.
“I don’t like it,” Linden murmured.
Tess remembered she had a mission of her own: to save Glademont. “It won’t matter if we heal Queen Aideen only to be slaughtered by the Atheonians from the valley,” she reasoned. “If they could take Redfoot so easily, think how they’ll topple the castle. But, if we come from behind, make them fight on both sides . . . Currant will need us, Your Highness. He will need your knowledge of battle, your familiarity with the terrain.” She couldn’t help but grasp the shenìl around her waist. He looked at her hands. Was he remembering how she failed
to defeat Pider’s curse?
Linden pondered another moment. “Glademont comes first,” he said with restraint. “And we are closer to Redfoot than the castle. I hope these forces of Currant’s can move quick.” He mounted Jesse and offered a hand to Tess. “And are up to the task of harboring Glademont’s secret weapon.”
He almost smiled at her, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. Tess bit her lip as she took his hand. She clasped her arms about his waist and touched her forehead between his shoulders.
They soon left Crescent Lake behind, tearing east across the fine dust and gray rock of the rippling southern hills. Even after covering half the Hinge Forest in a single morning, Jesse shot across the bare land like an arrow through fog. The severe winds made Tess’s hair cut into her mouth and eyes. She shielded her face in the folds of Linden’s coat. Wyndeling sailed alongside, surfing an invisible current.
They raced until midday, when before them rose the thrusting silhouette of the city of Redfoot. The city’s familiar market rotunda loomed to the left, and directly ahead glinted the white clock tower that marked the city’s center, sporting its black piping and copper statues. Tess had never seen the city from the west before. Then again, she had never seen it so marred by billowing black smoke, either.
As they neared, Jesse slowed to a trot, breathing heavily. His riders dismounted, and the company made their way into the city. It was like entering a vague dream, where chairs and tables lay upside down in the street, and buildings gaped like empty lanterns. Redfooties wandered the cobblestones, crying or foraging. Tess gripped the shenìl and held her breath. Eventually, Linden nudged her elbow and they followed Jesse through the massive, unhinged wrought iron doors that marked the entrance of the market square.
The burning smell overwhelmed Tess—wood, yes, but also metal and fish, fabric, paper, and oils. Common marketplace wares were strewn in charred heaps throughout the square. Rows of grimy stone columns stretched on either side of them, joining on the other end at the rotunda, which looked mercifully unscathed except for the three dozen deceased Atheonian soldiers marring its once elegant staircase.
At the center of the square, the obelisk in King Antony’s memory towered over them. Tess’s insides twisted as she remembered Linden in Den Five, swearing he would never die the way his father did. When she saw what awaited them at the foot of the obelisk, she hoped Linden felt reassured.
Over two hundred determined-looking creatures of Glademont shuffled into a loose formation at the center of the square. Breeders from Foggy Plains patted their ponies’ shaggy manes. They wore the traditional high-waisted trousers of horse breeders and carried an assortment of farm tools as makeshift weapons. Mountain goats and sheep from Wallaton stood loyally by their men. The shepherds carried knotted staffs, and their hardened muscles showed through thin garments. All these stood amid the destruction, looking to an eight-point buck for instruction.
“Well, well.” Currant bounced forward. “Friends of the Militia, I give you your commander, Prince Linden of Glademont.”
The ponies, goats, and their human bondfellows gave cheer in their own way, the fire of battle in their eyes.
Linden released Tess’s arm to pat the neck of his forest friend. “I was worried,” he said simply.
“I’m all right. Your dione on the other hand—” The elk noticed Tess. “Prince Currant of the Birch Herd, at your service.” Currant lowered his head.
“Lady Tessamine Canyon. How do you do?”
“Surely they were here with a larger force.” Linden pointed to the bloodied Atheonians at the foot of the rotunda. Currant wiggled his ears in discomfort.
“We were too late for the army. They left those fellows in charge, with most of the Redfooties locked in the rotunda.”
“No hounds?” Linden said.
“None,” Currant said, clearly grateful. “Took all the red magic with them. Along with a battering ram as big as a redwood. They’re headed straight for the castle, Your Highness.”
“Right.” Linden surveyed the scene. Both his and Tess’s eyes watered from the smell and smoke. “None from Green Reed have joined us?”
Currant shook his dark, smooth head. “I’m afraid not. So far, the enemy does not march that far east. I’m told the river folk won’t leave their skiffs and nets just yet. Waiting to see if the fight comes to them.”
“I see,” replied Linden. “If we live through this, I shall have something to say about that.” He turned his attention again to the conquered Atheonians. “How many now approach Glademont Castle?”
A ginger pony trotted forward. “We’ll need a closer look to know for sure, sire.” He lowered his head to Tess and Linden. “I am Abe. Glademont evermore.”
Then a mighty mountain goat cantered forward, eyeing the humans with horizontal pupils. “Are we going to stand around here all afternoon?” he bleated.
Currant laughed, but his round brown eyes remained serious. “This is Tartan the Terrible. I suppose he’s right, Linden. We haven’t got a lot of time.”
“Right.” Linden blew through his nose and gripped his bow. He addressed the creatures before him. “Creatures of Glademont, your valley and cliffs, your families and friends, stand in danger of this same decimation. The time has come for you to prove your love of home, of peace. Will your children and offspring know the dione that welcomed you into the world? Or will they grow under the fist of foreign rule, their lands occupied by a murderous king? And what will you tell them if you do not fight today? The fate of our great dione rests with you.”
The members of the FOM tossed their heads and pawed at the ground with anticipation while their humans raised staff and pitchfork, calling out, “Home of the Heart!”
In the midst of this, an old goatherd stepped forward. He sported a short, wiry chinstrap beard. “You royals couldn’t lace up your own boots if yeh tried, Highness.” He might have winked, but Tess didn’t catch it.
A snow-white mountain sheep with curling horns sidled alongside the old man. “May I introduce my shepherd, Asher Candlestock. I am Pipe.”
“Pleased to know you both,” Linden said.
The old man grunted as he gave Linden a hard, inscrutable look. He regarded them both with an upturned palm. “We Wallaton folk don’t get along much with none but the herd. Never thought I’d leave the cliffs in my lifetime. Partic’larly not for some squirmer from the castle.”
“I can assure you,” Linden said, “those of us who live on Zere Mountain desperately need you at this moment.”
“Pipe and me, we’re not here for you, Highness,” Asher answered with a wry smile. “We’re here to see Wallaton don’t end up like this city.” Asher grimaced, deepening the lines along his thick brown cheekbones. “Ain’t got no excuse to sit around, jawing on the grass. We’re with yeh, young man. Wallaton and Foggy Plains’ve suffered enough.”
Mournful as she was for the ruined city, Tess was glad to be leaving Redfoot. The Friends of the Militia and its human allies picked their way to the northern gates of the city, where the main road began.
Linden led the force, walking beside the prince of the Birch Herd. Tess rode Jesse while Wyndeling circled overhead. Mountain goats marched behind the leaders, followed by ewes and rams. Wallatonian men flanked the herds, and behind these, the men of Foggy Plains rode on their ponies, farm tools in hand.
As marigold sunshine warmed Tess’s cheek, she gazed over Glademont Valley. Purple heather, mounds of ruffling grass, and the soft black rock in between all called to Tess, reminding her of her years at the academy. How many times had she ridden through these fields, relishing their humble beauty? Grouses flapped into the air from the underbrush. Dragonflies perched on blades of grass. To her right, somewhere beyond the plains, Miri River flowed from the cliffs down into the valley. Before her, mountains rose into shifting clouds. There was nothing Glademont lacked, nothing her lands could not
grow, nowhere her people could not thrive. This land was a paradise, given to Glademont’s people by the stars themselves. They had a right to defend it. What was it Osiris had said? To be civilized is to protect the home as a sacred thing.
At the far end of the plains loomed Innkeeper Cliffs, the only place where Nabal’s army might be stopped by so small a force. Beyond that waited the last stand of the Dione of Glademont: a dying queen and her trapped nobles, praying to the skies for a miracle. Tess was praying, too. Praying Irgo the mother star would strengthen her, so she could be that miracle.
Chapter 42
It was already afternoon when Currant’s forces set a hard pace northward on the main road, along the western outskirts of the plains. By the time the sun disappeared beneath the Hinge treetops, they had covered a lot of ground—more than the Atheonians could, lugging their cargo. Within an hour from the northern edge of the valley, Tess could just make out the flames that dotted the road that wound along the face of Innkeeper Cliffs.
“Campfires,” Linden said. “They’ve stopped for the night. Must not have seen us yet. Or else, they don’t think we’re a threat.”
“We need rest, sire,” Asher grunted. “Traveled hard over this ways not one day ago, and fought into the morning. Wallaton’s as good a spot as any.”
“We can make camp at Wallaton”—Linden frowned at the fires above them—“but sleep may be out of the question.”
Asher dismissed him with his staff. “Already taken care of, sire. Our people are hiding in them cliffs, and we’ve got methods for slowing down enemies.”
Linden and Tess exchanged looks.
“If we can take them on the cliffs,” Currant said, “they’ll still be twice our number, plus stars know how many hounds.”
“We have our bondfellows,” Tess said.
“But do these animals know they can use golden magic?” Pipe asked as he kept pace with Currant. “I’m not sure most of them even believe in it.” The snow-white ram glanced about and lowered his voice. “Truthfully, I am nervous myself as to whether I’ll be able to use it, when the time comes.”
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