“What did the stories say?”
“Wizards are not magical in themselves,” Ossilius told him. “They only carry their magic for as long as they walk the world. When they die, the magic remains. If it does not pass to the next wizard in line, it finds another host.”
“Brutan!”
Ossilius nodded. “That is what Limmoni was warning Nynus about before she died. But he was too arrogant to listen. Too arrogant and too stupid.”
Brutan was taking uncertain, but gigantic, steps toward the crowd. His mouth was still open, except now there were words wrapped up in his howls.
“Where . . . are they?” he bellowed. “My wife! My son!” He took another faltering step. “Where is the one who murdered me?”
He continued to move toward the crowd of peasants. They tried to retreat, but ranks of men from the King’s Legion were in the way. A second wave of soldiers emerged from gates in the city wall; upon seeing Brutan, they immediately halted their advance.
Let them through! Gulph thought, all too aware of the panic growing in the trapped crowd.
With each step he took, Brutan seemed to grow stronger. He swung his arms like a bear, his bony fingers hooked like talons. His shoulders were hunched. In life, he’d been an imposing figure. In death—or undeath—he looked unstoppable.
“My killer!” he roared. “I will kill you!”
“Bring him down!” shrieked Nynus, almost simultaneously. His voice sounded thin and shrill against that of his father. Gulph wondered what expression he wore beneath that hideous gold mask. Behind the young king, the expression of Dowager Queen Magritt was unreadable: fury or terror or both.
Swords drawn, a trio of legionnaires pushed through the peasants and lunged at the lumbering corpse. One hacked at Brutan’s chest; his weapon sliced through the undead king’s shredded flesh and stuck fast between his ribs. Brutan turned away, tugging the sword from the man’s grip. His hand shot out and grabbed the legionnaire around the neck. The soldier screamed, but the sound was instantly cut off as Brutan began to squeeze.
The legionnaire’s companions dropped their swords and backed away, their faces filled with horror. Brutan’s bony fingers clamped tight and blood jetted from the man’s throat. His feet drummed briefly against the ground, then his entire body went limp.
Gulph held his breath, waiting for his undead father to drop his victim. But he didn’t.
Instead, Brutan maintained his grip on the man’s throat. Gray ash lifted from his arm. At first Gulph thought it was the wind, but then he saw the ash was moving of its own accord. It flowed down Brutan’s arm to his fleshless wrist, squirmed between the bones of his hand, and swarmed over the face of the legionnaire.
Wherever the ash touched the man’s body, decay instantly set in. The skin bubbled; bones snapped and jutted, piercing the flesh from within. The once proud uniform shriveled to rags.
“It spreads,” said Gulph, horrified.
“May the stars help us,” said Ossilius.
Flames ignited in the dead man’s empty eyes.
Brutan opened his hand. Moving with unnatural speed, the thing that had once been a soldier of the King’s Legion threw itself on its former companion and clamped its hands around the man’s throat.
One, two, three, counted Gulph, watching as thin gray mist writhed from the undead man to the living one. The fresh victim twitched and struggled, but there was no escaping the dark magic. Within moments, he was a moving corpse too, turning on his horrified comrades.
Meanwhile, Brutan was busying himself with another legionnaire. Just a few breaths later, three undead men stood swaying beside Brutan in the swirling ash, red fire burning in their gaping eye sockets.
They lunged out at the terrified crowd and went to work. Gulph’s guts contracted.
“We have to get out of here,” he said, bending to pull at the chains. The other prisoners in the gang—most of whom had been watching mesmerized, like him and Ossilius—were now trying to free themselves too.
“There’s no time,” Ossilius replied. He was rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on the chaos ahead.
“We’ve got to work together!” Gulph raised his voice. “Everyone—we have to break these chains!”
Nobody listened. Panic had infected the prisoners, just as it had infected the crowd of peasants. Glancing up, Gulph was faced with a wall of people rushing toward him as they tried to outrun the undead. Those who fell, or were too slow, were instantly pounced on and killed, only to rise again as the enemy. Few escape routes remained open: the rubble surrounding the mausoleum blocked the road to the west, and the chasm made it impossible to run south. Their only choice was to go straight through the gangs of prisoners who’d been drafted to destroy the Idilliam Bridge.
It was like a human tidal wave. Gulph tried to fend off the screaming people as they stumbled past. A fat peasant woman with a long scratch on her face cannoned into him, knocking him sideways. As he threw out his hands for balance, a pale-faced courtier trod on his fingers.
“Here!” Ossilius, come to his senses again, pulled Gulph upright and thrust a hammer into his bleeding hands. “Strike as if your life depends on it.” Shouldering aside a charging tradesman, he added, “Which it does!”
Gulph started to hammer at the chains still holding him down. Ossilius did likewise. The other prisoners looked on in bewilderment. Gulph grabbed a fallen pickax and tossed it to the nearest man.
“Come on!” he shouted. “Strike together! It’s our only chance!”
The ringing of metal on metal added new music to the tumult. Gradually the flood of people eased, making it easier to work.
It also means the enemy is one step closer, Gulph thought grimly.
Sure enough, one by one, Brutan’s growing undead army emerged from the dust clouds, their red eyes burning like angry coals.
A ragged cheer signaled the splitting of the chain a little way down the line. The freed men immediately dropped their tools and ran. Gulph redoubled his efforts, pounding at the links that trapped him and Ossilius.
Just when he thought it was hopeless, with a chink, the metal gave way, freeing them both. Gulph kicked it aside. The manacles themselves remained tight and heavy around his swollen ankles, but at least he was free!
As he ran with Ossilius in the direction of the city wall, Gulph scanned the crowd for faces he recognized. Where were his friends? Where was Pip? Perhaps the players had escaped over the Idilliam Bridge before it had been breached.
Please let it be true. . . . Let them be safe!
“We need to hide,” shouted Ossilius, steering Gulph toward an isolated tower. “We are still wanted men. Nynus won’t forget that.”
A woman screamed close by. Very close. Gulph swerved to avoid a squad of legionnaires hurrying through the dust. Were they charging into battle or retreating? He couldn’t tell. He stumbled, recovered, and found himself face-to-face with Dowager Queen Magritt.
She was standing stock-still, her pure white dress seemingly unmarked by the flying dirt and debris. Her hands were pressed against the sides of her head. Her mouth was wide open. She was the one who was screaming.
And she was staring straight at Gulph.
Except no. She was looking past him. Gulph spun on his heels.
Brutan was there, lunging out of the murk. His eyes blazed like miniature red suns. His grisly hands groped. His black tongue lolled against his rotting lips.
“My killer!” he roared. “I will kill you!”
“Not me!” Magritt screamed. “Not me!”
She backed away, her long dress obscuring her feet so that she seemed to float through the dust.
“Kill you!”
“Not me!” Magritt pointed both hands at Gulph. “Him! He killed you! He is the one who placed the poisoned crown on your head! Kill him! Kill him!”
Without slowing, Brutan made straight for Gulph. Gulph tried to move his feet, but the manacles were heavy and the pain in his ankles had deepened to a burning agony. He
tried to take in a breath, but his lungs were clogged with stone powder. He could barely even stand.
A soldier thrust at Brutan with his sword. The undead king swatted him aside like a fly. The man’s sword slid across the ground to land at Gulph’s feet. He stared at it. He’d never used a sword in his life. He didn’t think he had the strength even to pick it up.
Ossilius seized the weapon. Pivoting on his heels, he swung it around in a tremendous arc, its blade aimed squarely at Brutan’s exposed neck.
Brutan tilted his head, twisting his neck to such an alarming degree that Gulph was sure it would roll from his shoulders and onto the ground. Ossilius’s blade grazed Brutan’s skull, sending bone chips and a cloud of wriggling maggots flying in a wide spray.
As Ossilius recovered from his swing, Brutan grabbed the blade of the sword. The sharp metal edge sliced through what little flesh remained on his fingers, but the bones were strong. The undead king tossed the weapon aside and closed his free hand around Ossilius’s throat.
“No!” Gulph yelled, surging forward. He would not see his friend and protector become one of the undead. While there was breath in his body, he would not!
But Brutan released his grip almost immediately, tossing Ossilius aside like a doll. The captain landed on top of the fallen soldier and lay there groaning and clutching at his throat.
As Brutan came on, Gulph backtracked. The manacles scraped together and he fell. Magritt was nowhere to be seen. Only he and Brutan remained. The thing looming over him looked nothing like the father he’d dreamed of when he was a little boy. He scarcely looked like a man. Yet here they were, father and son, reunited at last.
Brutan lunged. A dark shadow fell over Gulph. Dust rose, a sudden whirlwind.
He fell back and waited for the end to come.
CHAPTER 28
The closer he flew to the city of Idilliam, the more astonished Tarlan became. He’d grown up in a land of icy mountains and frozen valleys, where the biggest settlements were no larger than the village he’d helped save with Lady Darrand. Castle Vicerin had been big enough to take his breath away.
Castle Tor was something else entirely.
It was a mountain all its own. Towers built upon walls built upon ramparts . . . The rambling stonework rose like a termite mound from the surrounding maze of streets and buildings. How many people lived here? Thousands? More? Tarlan had no words to describe such numbers.
He just knew that Idilliam was vast beyond his comprehension.
“Never mind the buildings,” he muttered. “Concentrate on the people.”
“Dead,” wailed Theeta as they swooped down toward the crowds. “Not dead.”
Tarlan strained his eyes as they flew lower. What did she mean?
Theeta repeated her words over and over again, confusion clearly locking her thoughts into a never-ending spiral.
“It’s all right, Theeta.” Tarlan stroked her head; the soothing movements seemed to steady her nerves.
Scant breaths later, his own nerves were jangling.
Dead! he thought as he watched lumbering creatures stagger through mounds of rubble. Not dead!
It was a battle, but a battle like none he’d seen before. Backed against the main city wall, a dwindling cluster of soldiers wearing bright bronze armor and carrying crimson shields were trying to hold their ground against an onrushing wave of . . . What exactly were they?
Living corpses!
Tarlan could think of no other way of describing them: these stumbling things draped in ragged cloth and trailing strips of torn flesh behind them.
“How can this be?” he said, simultaneously fascinated and horrified.
“Theeta not know,” said the thorrod miserably.
“Dead,” called Nasheen, swooping in from the left.
“Undead,” cried Kitheen, soaring on the right.
“I thought the Icy Wastes were bad,” said Tarlan. “But this . . .”
He steered the thorrod flock in a wide circle over the melee, keeping high enough to avoid any arrows or missiles that might be hurled their way. But both armies seemed unaware of their presence.
Cries rose from below.
“Brutan! Brutan has returned!”
“The undead king!”
“Brutan!”
Father! Tarlan’s thoughts reeled. The sight of the undead warriors was shocking enough. Hearing his father’s name left him breathless, as if he’d been punched in the belly.
You’re supposed to be dead! He remembered the grave delight Lord Vicerin had taken in explaining how his father—the evil king of Toronia—had been murdered.
“Lower!” he barked.
“Danger!” said Theeta.
“Fly lower, Theeta!”
Cawing anxiously, the giant bird banked toward the crowd, pumping her golden wings against the clouds of dust rising up from the ground. It was like descending over boiling mountain rapids; in the gloom, the battling figures teemed like angry fish.
Ahead was a patch of clearer air. Strange. Tarlan directed Theeta to head toward it. A man stood there, the still center of a circle of chaos. As they drew near, Tarlan saw it was not a man but the remains of one: another of the undead army, but taller and broader than the rest. Where his eyes should have been, red flames licked.
And he knew who it was.
He knew not because of the scraps of fine embroidery that still clung to the corpse’s royal robes. Not because of the tarnished gold chain around his neck. But because, despite everything, this shell of a man still carried himself like a king.
The thing that had once been Brutan was bearing down on a boy lying sprawled on the ground. Nearby lay two men. But it was the boy who held his attention. Tarlan’s shock at the dead king was driven from his mind as he stared unbelieving at Brutan’s next victim.
The boy was about his age.
He was oddly proportioned, as if his body had been made from parts that didn’t quite fit together.
His eyes were black, like Tarlan’s and Elodie’s.
His hair was a striking blend of red and gold.
Like Tarlan’s.
Gulph! It must be!
“He’s going to kill my brother!” he shouted.
Kicking his heels into Theeta’s back, he drove the thorrod into a steep dive.
“Dive!” he yelled at Nasheen and Kitheen. “Dive now!”
Wings pumping in perfect unison, the three mighty birds powered down toward the undead king. Tarlan felt the sun burning the back of his neck, saw the great shadow his flock cast over the ground, a shadow that seemed to solidify into a thick, menacing darkness as they bore down on their target. As they neared ground level, the thorrods’ wings raised whirlwinds from the dust.
Sensing their approach, Brutan spun around with blinding speed. He leaped, his gore-spattered arms thrashing at the air. Instinctively, Theeta dodged aside. At the same time, she lashed out with her talons. One claw made contact with Brutan’s shoulder, slicing off something that looked like raw steak. The undead king spun backward, mangled arms flailing.
Nasheen and Kitheen, having peeled off to each side, were hovering over the hordes of undead warriors closing in to support their leader.
“Go around!” shouted Tarlan desperately. “Go around!”
As Theeta wheeled in a tight circle, he saw the boy staring up at them, his mouth a round O. His torn and filthy shirt had fallen open to reveal a green jewel on a gold chain.
Tarlan felt a surge of satisfaction. He was right! He’d found his brother at last!
Our brother, he corrected, as his thoughts flew instantly to Elodie, on the opposite side of the chasm.
“We’re coming for you!” he shouted, not knowing if the boy could hear. It didn’t matter.
I’m coming!
To Tarlan’s relief, Nasheen and Kitheen’s combined attack with claw and wing had succeeded in driving back the undead army, although he suspected the respite was only temporary. They should make the most of the lull—and act
before Brutan could recover.
“We have to pick him up,” he said to Theeta, lining her up for another pass. “Can you do it?”
“Pick him,” she agreed.
As they swooped in for a second time, a fresh line of soldiers burst through the dust clouds. But these men were alive: soldiers of Idilliam, pushing home the advantage the thorrods had given them. Leading them was a curious figure: a thin young man wearing a strange gold mask.
On his head was a golden crown.
“Nynus!” hissed Tarlan.
All the stories Tarlan had heard—everything he’d been told—crashed together in that single moment. Here was his father, dead and yet not dead. His brother, the third of the triplets. And his half brother, the young madman who’d committed murder to seize the crown.
In a moment of clear and perfect serenity, a single thought blossomed in Tarlan’s mind:
I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
“To the Idilliam Bridge!” Nynus screamed. The gold mask muffled his voice only slightly, and Tarlan could hear every shrill word. “A new enemy is upon us. Beat them back! They must not cross!”
For a moment, Tarlan was confused. What was Nynus talking about? His enemies were already upon him. Then he understood. The young king wasn’t talking about Brutan and his undead army. He was talking about an attack from beyond the borders of the city. An attack coming from over the bridge.
He was talking about Trident.
“They don’t know!” he said. “They don’t know about the undead. They’re not marching on one army. They’re marching on two!”
“Warn them,” said Theeta.
“Yes! We have to warn them. But first we’re going to save my brother!”
Theeta’s wings were a blur as she carried Tarlan down to the spot where his brother lay. The scene rushed at him: Brutan bearing down on the boy once more; the boy himself, cowering beneath his father’s outstretched hands.
“Now!” yelled Tarlan. “Now, Theeta! Now!”
But they were too far away, and Brutan was too fast. Aghast, Tarlan watched as the undead king’s skeleton arms reached down toward his brother.
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