Crown of Three

by J. D. Rinehart

  The warrior lifted its head and gave an unearthly shriek. It started lumbering toward Gulph, its red eyes blazing. Gulph held still . . . then saw in horror that his hand was materializing before his eyes. The bones of his arm appeared, then his veins and surrounding muscle. Finally his skin and clothes came into view.

  Gulph shuddered. It was a hideous reminder that, underneath, he too was just a walking bag of flesh.

  And entirely visible once more.

  Disappear, disappear, he thought frantically, but nothing happened.

  The warrior opened its mouth to scream again, then paused. Its swollen tongue rolled and it spat out the stone Gulph had thrown. Gulph fought back the urge to be sick.

  Then, with a loud crack, Captain Ossilius’s sword sliced through the undead creature’s neck. The thing’s head lolled, then rolled to the ground. The rest of its body lumbered away, its arms waving blindly.

  My father!

  Gulph looked around with renewed fear. In saving Ossilius, had he left himself exposed?

  To his relief, he saw that Brutan had retreated, forced back by a column of legionnaires. For the moment at least, they were safe.

  “You!” Ossilius cried as he staggered toward Gulph. “The prophecy! At last I understand!”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Gulph uncertainly.

  “I do!”

  “Whatever you think you know, it isn’t true. I’m just—”

  “You are one of the three!” Grinning, Ossilius fell to his knees and clasped Gulph’s hands—both now back to normal. “Oh, how I have waited for this day!”

  “You have?”

  The grin became a look of sober respect and humility. “I am your servant, Gulph. I always have been. It’s just that neither of us knew it until now.”

  “How did you know?”

  Ossilius smiled. “It is not every young man who can make himself invisible.”

  Gulph looked at his hands. “Oh. That.”

  “There is little enough magic left in this world, Gulph. But you carry its legacy. Your mother was a witch, you know. When I think of your brother and sister . . . What powers might they have?” He shivered. “What powers might you have if the three of you are brought together?”

  More legionnaires rushed past them as a small band of the undead closed in.

  “Here,” said Ossilius, ushering Gulph behind the broken remains of a stone wall. “This will shelter us for a moment longer.”

  “I just can’t believe you’re really on my side,” said Gulph as they crouched behind the shattered stonework. “I mean, I’m just a traveling player. I was never meant to be king.”

  “But you were. You remember I mentioned my son, Fessan? He helped me keep my faith in the prophecy over the years. The day he left Idilliam to raise his rebel army was the day I renewed my vow to bring the triplets to the throne. Everything I have done since then—everything—has been toward that glorious end.”

  “I knew you were never really on Nynus’s side.”

  Ossilius stared at the ground. “Do not be so quick to praise me. I helped Magritt and Nynus bring down Brutan. I truly believed it was an opportunity to rid the kingdom of his evil, once and for all.”

  “You did what you thought was right.” To Gulph’s relief, when Ossilius looked up again, he was smiling.

  “And I believe now that it was right,” he said. “Magritt and Nynus’s plot was terrible, but it ended with you placing that poisoned crown on Brutan’s head. ‘They shall kill the cursed king . . .’ It set the prophecy in motion. I should have known from that moment who you truly were.”

  Gulph shuddered to remember the dreadful scene in the Great Hall, but he couldn’t deny the truth in Ossilius’s words. Limmoni had told him much the same thing. “All I know is that, if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be here. I’m glad to have you as my friend, Ossilius.”

  “Just as I will be glad to have you as my king.”

  The sound of battle was coming closer again. The legionnaires who’d marched past them moments before were retreating before a fresh wave of the undead. Standing tall among the fearsome, flame-eyed warriors was the unmistakable figure of King Brutan.

  “One enemy escapes, but there are more!” the undead king shrieked in his hideous, scratching voice. “Where is Nynus? The Vault of Heaven was too good for you! I should have killed you when I had the chance!”

  Brutan was making for a knot of legionnaires near the base of a nearby tower. As he approached, swinging a sword he’d wrestled from one of his undead cohorts, the soldiers fell back, revealing none other than Nynus himself cowering against the stonework.

  “Stay back!” Nynus screamed through his gold mask. “Help me! Somebody, help me!”

  But nobody came. Gulph watched sadly as Nynus’s own men fanned away from him. Their loyalty had been driven into them by cruelty and force. Now, in the face of death, they placed far more value on their own lives than on that of their king.

  Gulph couldn’t take his eyes off the mask and the gold crown perched above it. What had happened to the skinny, book-loving boy he’d befriended in the Black Cell?

  All that remained was a monster.

  “Defend him!” The voice was that of Dowager Queen Magritt. “Defend my son! Defend your king!”

  Gulph saw her—or thought he saw her—floating ghostlike in her white dress at the periphery of the battle. Her voice came and went on the wind. Unlike her soldiers, she wanted her son to live.

  But not enough to risk her own life.

  “I have to help him,” said Gulph.

  “No!” said Ossilius at once. “He brought this upon himself!”

  “I don’t care. I can’t see him die like this.”

  “You can’t help!”

  “I’ll make myself invisible. They won’t see me.”

  Shaking off Ossilius’s restraining hand, Gulph raced across the battlefield. The leg irons dragged along the ground, slowing his progress and chafing his bleeding ankles, but some things were more important than pain.

  As he ran, he tried to summon those strange feelings of hotness and dryness. Nothing happened. He tried again.

  Make me invisible! he thought, desperately trying to invoke whatever powers had granted him the extraordinary ability. What good is magic if I can’t use it?

  The trick continued to elude him. No matter how much he tried, his body remained resolutely visible.

  A pair of undead warriors leaped out from behind a low wall. It was too late to stop, so Gulph threw himself into the air. Somersaulting above their heads, he flipped his legs over in time to land safely on the ground.

  Glad my circus skills are still useful.

  Ahead, a line of legionnaires had blocked his view of Nynus. Squeezing through their ranks, he burst into the arena that had formed at the foot of the tower. On one side stood the men of Idilliam; on the other, somehow understanding that their king required them to hold back, stood the undead.

  Nynus was pressed against the tower wall, his pale hands splayed wide against the gray stones. His gold mask, with its curious blend of beauty and horror, stared with inhuman grace at the nightmare striding toward him.

  From a balcony high above, at the top of a flight of stone steps winding its way up the tower’s exterior, Dowager Queen Magritt looked down, her face a mask of its own.

  A mask of anguish.

  Step by step, King Brutan bore down on his whimpering son. His ravaged boots raised dust in his wake. A broadsword swung from his fleshless hand. His burning eyes projected red fire across the wall of the tower.

  When he reached Nynus, Brutan stopped. He placed his free hand on top of the mask. Naked bone rattled against gleaming gold.

  “Die,” he said simply, and thrust the sword into Nynus’s chest.

  Up on the balcony, Magritt screamed.

  Withdrawing his sword, Brutan turned and marched back into the ranks of the undead.

  Nynus slithered down the wall, leaving a trail of red blo
od on the stones.

  Gulph rushed over and clamped his hand against the wound in Nynus’s chest. With the other he pried the mask off the boy’s face. Sunlight bathed Nynus’s pale skin, but for once he didn’t flinch. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. His eyes, wide with fear, flicked from side to side.

  “It’s all right,” said Gulph, knowing it wasn’t. “You’re going to be all right.”

  Nynus coughed, and a fresh gout of blood poured from between his lips.

  “Too late . . . for me . . .” he gasped.

  “Don’t say that,” said Gulph.

  He heard the clash of swords nearby, and turned to see Captain Ossilius, alone in the arena, fighting back a straggling contingent of the undead. None of the other soldiers came to his aid.

  “Help him!” Gulph yelled. “Why don’t you help him?”

  His cries had no effect. The rotting warriors pressed forward, forcing Ossilius against the tower wall. Gulph was about to shout again when a loud bellow brought the enemy to a sudden halt.

  “To me! To me! To arms!”

  In the distance, Gulph could see Brutan standing on a mound of corpses, waving his gruesome arms, summoning his troops to some new conflict near the Idilliam Bridge. At the sound of his voice, the undead warriors turned their backs and left the arena. Exhausted, Ossilius collapsed against the wall.

  The ensuing silence was sudden and immense.

  “Why?” said Nynus. His voice was less than a whisper, less than a breath. Gulph bent close, struggling to hear.

  “Why what?” he said.

  “Why . . . help . . . me?”

  Gulph closed his eyes. He opened them.

  “I can’t help you, Nynus,” he said. “You’re dying.”

  Pale fingers closed on his.

  “You’re . . . here . . .” Nynus croaked. “That’s . . . enough . . .”

  “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” Gulph had to force the words out, so tight did his throat feel. Tears broke from his eyes.

  Nynus’s grip tightened. “But . . . why . . . ?”

  Gulph’s tears were flowing freely now. Something was building inside him: a sob, or perhaps a scream.

  Nynus deserved to know the truth.

  “I’ve no choice but to help you,” he said. “And I’m glad to. I’m your brother.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Twenty more paces and Elodie would be at the end of the floating platform of ghosts. Ahead lay the other end of the fractured bridge. Twenty more paces and she would pass smoothly onto Idilliam soil. Into the city of her birth.

  The spirit shield on which she was balanced shifted beneath her feet. Fessan, walking close beside her, caught her before she fell.

  “You should be farther back in the ranks,” he said. “I would not have you on the front line.”

  “I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” said Elodie. She wished she felt as brave as she sounded.

  At her feet, the deck of shields parted and Sir Jaken poked his head through. Beside him, looking anxious, was Samial.

  “You must hurry,” said Sir Jaken. The sun shone both on his cloven helmet and through it. His ghostly skin shimmered. “As long as we are holding you up, we cannot fight for you.”

  “I understand,” Elodie replied.

  “What?” said Fessan. “What do you understand?”

  “That we’re running out of time.”

  The shields closed again. Elodie forced aside the fear she felt of what they might find at the other end, and stepped forward with new vigor.

  Twenty paces became ten. There was an eerie movement in the swirling dust that covered the end of the bridge. A cloud within a cloud.

  “Archers at the ready!” Fessan called over his shoulder.

  He dropped to his knees, pulling Elodie down with him. Around and behind them, twelve rows of Trident foot soldiers followed suit, allowing the men farther back in the column to aim their bows over their heads.

  An army emerged from the dust cloud. Elodie clamped her mouth shut against a cry of horror. Hearing Tarlan’s report of undead warriors and a resurrected king was one thing. Seeing this mass of rotting, shambling corpses filling the broken bridge from one side to the other was quite another.

  “Loose!” yelled Fessan.

  A volley of arrows flew over the front line. Elodie ducked instinctively as they arced over her head. She held her breath as the arrows struck home, impaling the walking dead.

  But the dead came on.

  “Second wave! Loose!”

  The second volley had no more effect on the oncoming corpses than the first. Bristling with ineffectual arrows, the hideous figures continued to lurch toward them, ragged lips peeled back from skeleton teeth, eye sockets burning with red fire.

  “Stand!” Fessan shouted. “Let them come!”

  Elodie’s legs were shaking as she rose. She gripped her sword—Palenie’s sword. It was impossibly heavy. Her mind was empty but for the thudding of her heart. She’d forgotten even the little she’d learned at the camp and on the road.

  The ghost bridge trembled as two loping forms barreled through the Trident ranks: Graythorn and Filos, racing to take up positions on either side of Elodie. As their warm bodies pressed against her legs, she felt a surge of hope.

  The air sang as the thorrods flew over her head.

  “Stay close to her!” shouted Tarlan from on high.

  The wolf and the tigron bared their teeth and growled in unison. So he talks to them as well as the thorrods, she thought. Like I can talk to the dead.

  She laid a hand on the tigron’s head. Tarlan had said they were her pack too, and she felt the strength of their loyalty.

  A massive figure charged through the ranks of the undead. Taller and broader than the rest, this walking corpse was dressed in the remnants of a king’s robes. His hands were naked bone; the flesh of his face had shifted hideously to one side, exposing the pale shelves of his skull. His eyes blazed.

  Elodie couldn’t breathe.

  For the first time in her life, she was face-to-face with her father.

  Brutan’s jaw gaped. An unearthly shriek came out.

  The undead charged.

  “For Toronia!” roared Fessan, raising his sword to the sun. “For Toronia!”

  The battle cry rose up from the rest of Trident. Elodie held up her sword, trying to ignore the way her hands were shaking.

  Brutan’s undead army rushed onto the bridge of ghosts. At the last moment, those Trident soldiers still kneeling lifted the spears they’d been concealing. The first wave of corpses ran straight onto their sharp points, impaling themselves. To Elodie’s horror, however, they didn’t die, simply hung there with their ribs split and their arms thrashing.

  At her side, Fessan swung his sword in a wide arc. Its blade cut clean through the neck of an oncoming undead warrior. The creature’s head flew over the side of the ghost bridge and into the chasm. But its body came on. More men fell on it, their blades steadily taking the thing apart until it was just chunks of flesh and bone spread twitching across the deck of upturned shields.

  Elodie’s stomach churned with revulsion, but the ghastly sight was encouraging.

  These things can be killed after all!

  Summoning all her will, she brought her body under control. None of that mattered. She was here with a sword in her hand and a task before her.

  If killing you means taking you apart, she thought grimly, then so be it. . . .

  As Fessan warded off the blows from another warrior, Elodie thrust her blade at the nearest corpse. Her first strike cut off the creature’s arm; her second removed its head.

  A scream left her throat, whether of terror or exultation, she didn’t know. As the decapitated body of the first undead warrior staggered away, a second loomed over her. She brought her blade around, instinct telling her to use the momentum of her previous thrust to guide it. At the same time, her feet danced, adjusting her balance.

  “There is a thing,” Palenie had told her o
n the march. “We call it ‘battle rage.’”

  “So you feel angry when you fight?” Elodie had asked.

  “It is beyond anger,” Palenie had replied. “Anger is red.”

  “Red? Then what color is this ‘battle rage’?”

  “It is white.”

  At last Elodie understood what her friend had meant. As her blade connected with her latest foe, a pure, clean fury coursed through her veins. As her enemy’s head tumbled, it filled her with something brighter than the sun, and far beyond any ordinary rage.

  It filled her with white.

  By now the front ranks of both armies were locked together in close combat. Elodie’s ears filled with the overwhelming percussion of metal clashing on metal, with the screams of injured men, the hollow shrieks of the undead. Brutan was clearly visible over the sea of heads: a mighty bellowing monster using his broadsword like a scythe, cutting through everyone who stood before him.

  Let him come!

  “Look out!” The foot soldier beside Elodie grabbed her shoulder and pressed her down, just as a bloodied blade sliced the air above her head. The soldier jabbed his sword into the belly of her attacker, but not before the undead warrior’s flayed fingers had closed around his throat. With inhuman strength, the awful creature lifted the man bodily off the ground and hurled him into the abyss.

  The corpse bore down on Elodie, its teeth chattering. She tried to bring her sword to bear on it, but the very shove that had saved her made her lose her grip on its hilt.

  Weaponless, she screamed.

  With a flash of blue-and-white fur, Filos leaped past Elodie and buried her teeth in the corpse’s throat. Biting down, the tigron worried at the creature’s neck until its head hung loose like a rotten melon. At the same time, Graythorn bit deep into its ankles. As Filos released her hold, the undead warrior went down like a felled tree.

  From a gap between the ghostly shields, a sword like molten silver finished what the tigron had begun, removing the thing’s head with a single, clean swipe.

  “Thank you!” Elodie picked up her sword, not caring if the animals had understood her.

  But even as she started beating her way forward again, she saw more of the Trident soldiers thrown into the chasm, just like the man who’d saved her life. Slashing an undead warrior aside, she saw once more the junction where the ghost bridge met the real one.