“Another moment,” Tess said. “I don’t want to leave her like this.”
“Allow me to stay with the queen. You are needed in battle.”
“All this time, I believed I could save Aideen. She could guide me, she could . . .” Tess fought the despair. She needed a few minutes, time to recover her strength.
“The object draws hardship and betrayal,” Wyndeling said. “It has changed your life. But anyone can see it is meant to be yours—it has to be yours. The queen would never have taken it back, had she lived.” Wyndeling blinked at the sky. “She died trusting you to do what she could not. And if you don’t put any stake in what a human thinks, know that I agree with her. You can save your kind and mine.”
Tess gazed at the tattered bird in her arms. How long ago it seemed since Wyndeling confronted Tess in the woods, angry and fearful. But the shenìl knew what lay behind the red owl’s scrupulous eyes. Trust her were the first words Tess ever heard the object say. Trust Wyndeling, whose loyalty would grow so fierce, she would take on the most powerful magician on the continent to rescue Tess.
Again, a desperate roar drifted to their ears. Wyndeling pulled at Tess’s shirt with her beak. “Go. I’m all right.”
Tess kissed her queen’s hand. She lowered Wyndeling into Aideen’s cold lap and leaned on the bench to stand. Then, with utmost effort, Tess turned back to the castle.
“Your little gem is coming, my friend,” she said, stumbling over the cooled lava along the rosebush path.
Chapter 48
ryon sprinted behind Profigliano into the entrance hall, his sling loaded. An enormous hunk of wood burst from the castle doors, splintering against the barricades. The horrible bronze rhinoceros head of the Atheonian battering ram barely protruded through the castle doors, sending an electric wave of fear through Ryon’s limbs. The battering ram rolled back again, and a score of archers knelt along the edges of the tattered hole it created.
“Governors, the shields,” Nory called from behind a barricade. Together, the terriers formed enormous golden shields just in time to shatter a drove of whistling arrows. The archers retreated, and the ram resumed its slow rhythm against what remained of the castle doors.
“They’ll do it,” Rette said as Ryon joined him behind a barricade. “They’ll get through.”
“Governors, lower your shields,” Nory ordered, his bow and arrow poised. “Men, stay behind the barricades until I give the signal. Ready yourselves, Glademont!” The noblemen and servants adjusted their makeshift weapons with sweaty palms.
Nory signaled to Ryon, and they sprinted to one side of the castle doors, while Rette moved to the other. Arrow and stone rocketed through the ragged doors. Furious, the Atheonian archers returned, but only a few of their arrows escaped before the governors rallied from the barricades with golden flurries, blowing the archers backward.
“Protect the bondfellows, Ry,” Nory said as he eyed the battering ram. “They’re our best shot at winning this thing.”
Ryon’s throat tightened. He checked his shoulder for Fig’s familiar feathers.
A bloodcurdling war cry erupted from somewhere outside the doors. Ryon set his jaw and fingered his sling. The governors all broke out in a chorus of barking and howling, while Osiris rattled his mace in his paw and roared. The battering ram continued to pound its way through a foot of solid oak, and Atheos took up a chilling anthem.
Glory for the kingdom, vic’try for the king.
Our enemies’ fat carcasses will stiffen as we sing.
Glory for the kingdom, vic’try for the king.
The wretched cling to weaknesses, but soldiers mourn for no-thing!
Over and over, the rhinoceros rapped on the door. Each time the ram struck, the doors gave a little more.
“They’ll kill us all,” Ryon said while sticky sweat collected on his neck.
“No, sir,” Nory answered. “The stars favor Glademont.”
Ryon took a deep breath and repeated Rette’s words. “You can’t think about how things might go bad. You just have to remember why you’re fighting.”
“Most expertly said, distinguished fellow of the bond,” Profigliano put in. “Let’s give them a little bit of this, and spice it up with a little bit of that, and garnish it with something I like to call this—” Hopping to Ryon’s head, the towhee sent flashes of gold at the hole in the castle doors. Some went over his shoulder, others between his legs.
Suddenly, the pounding stopped. The door was still. The governors stopped their wailing, and the Glademontians held their breath.
“Eeeeee-aaaaaa-laaa-laaa!” the war cry came again.
All at once, vultures, hawks, eagles, and kestrels streamed through the shattered windows high above. At the same time, the piercing calls of the Nest Battalion echoed into the entrance hall, and out of the corridors swarmed hundreds of wild birds. Ryon ducked under a storm of beating wings and fleeting shadows. The highest spaces between the buttresses came alive as talon and beak mingled in midair.
Above Ryon’s barricade, the Stitchipeeps stayed together, pestering one enemy at a time from all angles. Above the bluebirds, the members of the Wise swooped in silent circles like flying wolves. Their enormous wings blocked the raptors from reaching the Glademontians below, and thwarted birds careened in all directions.
“You brainless, heartless cowards,” Ryon heard Thorestook yell. The drake tore a bill full of feathers from a passing vulture’s wing. “You dare betray us for these murderers.”
“You mindless excuse for a bird,” called his mate, Cheekathistle, her bill coming down hard on the head of an eagle. “You are responsible. You killed my ducklings.”
At the castle doors, Ryon heard Atheonians groan in one final heave, and the wood surrendered to the ram’s bronze head.
“Abandon the barricades,” Nory called as he and Rette drew swords. Soldiers flooded the entrance hall while Glademontian noblemen advanced, meeting their enemies with irons and silver-plated candlesticks. Many noblemen were easily felled, while other Glademontians watched in horror, too frightened to leave the barricades. Hounds came bounding through the doors and immediately set to work tearing the tables and chairs apart. Those who still cowered behind the barricades were forced to scatter out into the fray, brandishing their ladles and brooms.
In a matter of minutes, the barricades lay in shreds amid red smoke. Baying and snarling, the hounds turned their attention to the Nest Battalion. Glowing red ropes and bright bursts rocketed from the hounds’ mouths, enveloping the wild birds of the Hinge. One after the other, owls, falcons, and woodpeckers dropped to the floor.
“Governors, the hounds,” Rette shouted as he dueled with an Atheonian officer.
The Colonel, General Bud, and their comrades engaged in one-to-one combat, gold against scarlet spells. They succeeded in driving the hounds back, but left their Glademontian bondfellows unprotected.
Amid the chaos, Ryon could see the light of battle in Nory’s and Rette’s eyes. The militia men fought with vim, in brotherhood with every gallant Glademontian who defended his country in the old days.
“Footwork, Master Ryon,” Nory shouted as he whipped his longbow against the temple of an enemy soldier. “Don’t forget your footwork.”
“He’s doing fine without your help, Master Nory,” called Rette, pausing to admire Ryon’s courage as the boy slashed and lunged with his dagger.
Taking advantage of Rette’s distraction, an Atheonian brought his curved sword across the back of the young man’s knee. Rette fell gasping, but not before swiveling in time to pierce the soldier in the stomach. His blood splashed onto white marble.
“Back-to-back,” Nory called, helping Rette to his feet. And the three friends resumed combat in earnest.
Nearby, Osiris tore into the enemy like a barracuda. One Atheonian officer, who was nearly crushed by a ragged body Osiris had flung his w
ay, turned and shouted an order that caused Ryon’s heart to pound against his ribs.
“All Holts to me. Bring down the bear.” Spittle fell on the officer’s red beard.
A battalion of soldiers advanced toward Osiris. The bear laughed as he clenched his three-pronged mace between his teeth. Gripping their javelins, the soldiers jostled into a formation, while the red-bearded officer barked orders from behind. Osiris pulled back his powerful head and swept it in a deadly arc, ripping through Atheonians with his mace, tearing the flesh from their bodies. One soldier managed to duck and thrust his weapon under the shield that protected the bear’s ribs. With a roar that brought tears to Ryon’s eyes, Osiris dropped his mace and turned upon the terrified soldier. The bear clenched his teeth around the javelin, wrenched it from his own side, and plunged it into the hapless Atheonian, pinning his chest to the floor.
Atheos was gaining ground. Ryon trembled when he realized how many fellow citizens had fallen already. Nory, Rette, and Ryon seemed to be the only humans who could hold their own, and soldiers grew thick around them.
“Eeeeee-aaaaaa-hooo! Eee-hoo!”
The sound was so frightening, Ryon faltered as he parried an Atheonian’s attack. The cold steel of a curved sword sliced a shallow wound across his forehead, and he fell to the floor. As Ryon tried desperately to regain his footing, he found the Atheonians surrounding him were dispersing. Through the blood trickling into his eyes, Ryon saw the giant snarling head of the battering ram entering the hall. He scrambled to one side just as an enormous wheel threatened to crush him. Atop the battering ram, looking out between the rhinoceros’s ears like a lion before the kill, appeared a broad barbaric man wearing little more than a black chain mail shirt. He lifted a massive battle-axe over his head.
“I am King Nabal, ruler of Atheos and conqueror of Glademont,” the barbarian king bellowed, swinging his axe. “Your queen dared send conspirers into my kingdom. I have come to repay the debt.” Nabal leapt from the battering ram. “Atheos, find the queen.”
Behind Nabal, the rest of the Atheonian army poured into the castle, no longer blocked by the battering ram. They were too many for the remaining Glademontian men gathering with Nory and Rette. Sir Brock stumbled to Ryon, unscathed but breathless. His right hand clutched an ornate cane, while the left awkwardly brandished a platter as a shield. He said something to Ryon, but the boy did not hear; he was searching the throng for Osiris. Soon he spotted the beast, backing into a corner of the entrance hall and the raging king of Atheos barreling toward the same corner. Ryon bolted toward his friend.
Several hounds pinned the bear in with a barrage of red spells as Nabal tore through the fray, waving his axe. Ryon watched in terror, dashing between men to reach Osiris. Nabal was working quickly toward the same goal until a single man appeared in his path—a man with no weapon but a cane.
“Papa,” cried Ryon as Nabal brought down his blade. The axe missed Sir Brock’s chest by inches and sliced open his arm. He went sprawling as blood gushed onto the floor.
“Glademont evermore,” Ryon heard his father shout, touching his heart with a closed fist.
Enraged, Ryon changed his course, leaping onto the remnants of a barricade. He loaded his sling. With all his strength, he flung his stone. It struck Nabal at the base of his neck. Nabal turned, his cold eyes landing on the boy atop the barricade.
“Kill that boy.”
Ryon sprinted for his father, crumpled at Nabal’s feet. He drew his dagger and shielded Sir Brock, challenging the king himself. Osiris had heard the order, too, and suddenly he was charging through the hounds like a bull. Golden magic sprayed from his snout. It traveled across the hall, over the heads of fighting Atheonians. Then it converged on its mark: Nabal’s face. The king staggered backward just as he raised his axe for Ryon’s head. The magic stuck to Nabal’s skin like honey and obscured his vision, shooting relentlessly from Osiris’s jaws and spraying across the floor. Osiris finally reached Ryon and his father and stood between them and his victim.
Spitting, Nabal lunged for the bear, and the magic momentarily ceased as Nabal grasped Osiris’s ear. Nabal wiped his face, the beads in his beard shuddering with his rage. He was a man possessed, bent on the destruction of all that Glademont cherished. Osiris opened his mouth to cast another spell, but before the magic could strike true, Nabal brought down the flat side of his axe against Osiris’s snout. Stunned, Osiris dropped to the floor. Nabal pinned the bear’s head down with the edge of his axe.
“You have to use your witchcraft to take me down, eh, bear?” He laughed as his sweat dripped into Osiris’s eyes. “Even the beasts of the forest cannot defeat me, muscle for muscle. I am Nabal, the new king of Glademont.” Keeping his axe on Osiris’s temple, Nabal pressed a heel against the bear’s throat. “Cast a little spell now, beast,” he taunted, then commanded his soldiers: “Crush him under the ram.”
Men scrambled to do Nabal’s bidding, and Ryon, small as he was, found himself forgotten underfoot. He struggled to stay beside his father, but someone kicked him, and he was flung against an overturned table.
In the confusion, Osiris swiped Nabal’s feet with a mighty paw, and the barbarian king tumbled to the ground. Osiris searched the throng. There was no air left in Ryon’s lungs to call to his friend. He struggled on his hands and knees, and the next moment, he heard a familiar baritone voice.
“Master Ryon!” Profigliano landed by Ryon’s side. “I’m not one to get peevish but that was one dirty trick, scooting away from me. I tell ya, it’s hard to find a chum in all this—Hey, you don’t look so good.”
“Papa,” Ryon’s thin voice squeaked. “Osiris.”
“I gotcha, don’t you say another word.” And with that, Profigliano was in the air again, circling about his bondfellow and whistling shrilly. “Over here! We got a situation, mountain bear.”
Spotting them, Osiris barreled headlong toward Ryon. Atheonians scattered out of his way. He slid to a halt on the marble.
“Don’t ye be moving, young one.” Osiris panted over the dazed boy. Hot blood from his javelin wound dripped onto Ryon’s leg. “I needs to be finishing with yon filthy warrior.”
The bear faced Nabal, who stood in the path Osiris had opened between his soldiers. The king arched his back, threw his arms over his head, and coiled forward again, hurtling his axe with all his strength. It whistled over the marble, striking Osiris between his shoulder and neck—and it struck deep.
Ryon cried out as his friend crashed to the floor. Several hounds leapt upon the bear, baying with delight. Nabal strode forward, placed a muddied foot on Osiris’s gray fur, and withdrew his axe. Ryon could barely make out Osiris’s shallow, ragged breaths as Nabal waved his dripping axe before the Atheonian men, who cheered uproariously.
“Glory for the kingdom, vic’try for the king.
The wretched cling to weaknesses, but soldiers mourn for no-thing!”
“I pledge . . .” Ryon pressed his ear to the floor to hear Osiris’s gruff words. “I pledge to assist my person, in whatever goodly quest, until death.”
Ryon lifted his head with tears in his eyes.
Don’t go. We still need you, he yearned to tell him. Profigliano trembled against Ryon’s hand.
Osiris, too, was crying. From beneath those unruly eyebrows, tears fell and formed a puddle between his paws, mingling with his blood. The puddle quietly flashed bright gold—like a polished ring in the sun. It expanded, glinting and gliding across the floor toward Ryon’s beaten body.
Oblivious, the barbarian king spun his axe triumphantly, drinking his fill of the lauding mob. He tore off his chain mail and displayed a bare chest, streaked with sweat and bear’s blood.
“Glademont’s king died as I rose. He withered before my reign. His son, too, is gone, and his greatest warrior lies bleeding under my feet.” Nabal ripped the shield from Osiris’s back. The rich green seal of Glademont glint
ed on its surface. “This dione yields to me, belongs to our people.”
The men bellowed their acclaim.
“It be up to thee now.” Osiris’s soft words reached Ryon’s ear through the floor.
Ryon refused to understand. Every nerve shrieked with pain and despair. Profigliano was calling for him to lay still, saying he would protect them. But what good would it do, now that Osiris had been defeated? Ryon yearned for the swift blow of Nabal’s axe, for an end to his vain efforts. He had failed as a warrior for Glademont.
Then, a memory sprang into his vision, crowding out the sweat and noise of battle. Jesse the Rushing stood in the calm comfort of the Birch Grove, looking out over Glademont Valley. Peace must be protected, he said, smelling the breeze with his soft muzzle.
A cool, tangy liquid touched Ryon’s lips and woke him from his reverie. He lay against the floor, bewildered. Could it be blood? The liquid flowed against his mouth again, as though reading Ryon’s thoughts. Not just blood, but bear’s blood, mingled with tears and enchanted by the gift of an oath.
Ryon pulled his cracked lips together and tasted the thick, smooth enchantment against the back of his tongue. It shot like a tidal wave through his veins, igniting every muscle.
Peace must be protected.
With a guttural cry, Ryon rose to his feet and drew his slender dagger. He bounded toward King Nabal, who stood lording over his subjects, his arms spread wide.
“Glademont evermore!” Ryon leapt, lifted high into the air by Osiris’s last enchantment. Clearing over the heads of man and beast, Ryon then crashed against Nabal, and plunged his blade into the king’s heart. His knuckles felt the wet of blood on Nabal’s skin. He let go the dagger and fell at Nabal’s feet. The barbarian king swayed, his throat and mouth working to draw air. A shocked gasp radiated from the Atheonian forces. Then king, shield, and axe clattered to the floor.
A moment of brilliant adrenaline, and Ryon stood over Nabal, gazing at the leather-bound handle of his dagger lodged in the king’s bare chest. Then he felt a queasy pulling in his stomach. Dozens of Atheonian faces swirled in his vision. The slow, distant clapping of hooves vibrated in his ears. Then, all was dark.
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