Horses run with polished shield,
Fight those bastards till they yield
Midnight mare and blood-red roan,
Fight to keep this land your own
Sound the horn and call the cry,
How Many of Them Can We Make Die!
“Weapons. We need more weapons,” Robb said, pounding his fist against the stone windowsill. Outside he watched as only Gerta’s glowing blue sword made a dent in the shimmering magical wall surrounding the snakes. Nothing penetrated that wall.
“We have weapons aplenty, but what have you done with the Spearhead?” Maria asked from behind him.
He whirled, unaware that she had joined him. Badger and Scurry stood warily on either side of her.
“We need enchanted weapons,” he replied, then added, “I don’t have a spearhead.”
“Can you work the enchantment?” Maria asked, concerned about the fate of her weapon but ready to help in any way she could. With a gesture she sent her two guards to raid the armory. Badger went. Scurry stayed.
“I . . . I don’t know. I have little strength left. No reserves . . .” But Skeller’s music sent tingles of new energy up and down his spine, made his feet and fingers itch for action. The lullaby had done more harm than good. But this tune . . . This one changed the tide of battle.
The bard might not claim to be a magician, but he was certainly wielding his music with the same effectiveness as a staff even without the aid of the harp that might be his equivalent of a staff.
He caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eyes and whirled to face this new threat.
A spear, vibrating with an eerie blue and red light with an inner layer of more natural green fire flashed from above. It pierced that shimmer in the air and dove deep into the back of the skull of the largest Krakatrice.
Instantly, the heavy weight of magic dampening fell from his body, as if he’d shed a wet blanket. Sounds and scents slammed into his awareness. His eyes found new details, firmer outlines, and brighter colors all around him.
And he felt . . . tingles against his skin. Dragon magic begging him to gather it close and store it in that special place behind his heart. He stood straighter, taller, strength flooding in to replace the pall of illness and deprivation. His heart beat strong and true for the first time in days.
He dragged in fresh air and almost gagged on the smell of rotten magic mingling with death.
“I found spears,” Badger said breathlessly as he returned with at least two dozen long shafts tipped with iron clutched in his arms.
“Not obsidian, but it will have to do.” With the help of the two guards he lined up all of the spears on the floor, the tips pointed south toward the closest magnetic pole.
Maria retreated to the throne and climbed awkwardly into the seat. She curled her legs beneath her and observed with a new confidence and authority. In the shifting and fracturing light from the windows, she looked almost . . . almost beautiful.
Robb returned his attention to the spears. His renewed vigor wouldn’t last long. Already a vacancy at the back of his neck began to nibble away at his clarity. He’d have to ration the magic he poured into the weapons.
First he knelt on the floor with the South Pole tugging at his back while he faced the iron speartips. No sense in expending extra energy staying upright. Besides, if he collapsed at the end he’d have a shorter distance to fall flat on his face.
Before he could think better of his plan he closed his eyes and spread his arms before him, palms down, fingers splayed. His hands trembled too much. He didn’t need to see it to know it.
“I need a lit candle, a basin of water and you two close enough to breathe on the spell,” he called to Scurry and Badger. He heard them bustle about.
“Will a pitcher of wine do for the water?” Badger asked.
“Close enough, maybe better since it holds the essence of the Kardia from the grapes as well. Set it down in front of me.”
“Found a torch in the passageway,” Scurry said.
“Better. Hold it parallel to the ground, over the speartips.” Robb drew on years of practice and gathered the essence of three of the four elements into his cupped hands. They shone in his mind’s eye, eager to do his bidding.
“Together the four of us must draw a deep breath and hold it. Don’t let it go until I do. Watch me closely.”
He drew air deeply into his lungs, letting it fill every crevice of his body. “Release!” he shouted to his companions as he opened his hands and spread the elements onto the speartips.
Natural green fire pulsed from the metal. “Take them quickly to the warriors. The spell won’t last long.”
“Sir, we vowed to protect Queen Maria and not leave her side,” Badger protested.
“The only way to protect her is to get those spears to her warriors.” Robb sagged, bracing himself with hands flat on the floor. His lungs felt ripped apart and his heart beat too rapidly again—as it had during the worst of his fever. He closed his eyes to stop the black splotches from enveloping him. Bright splotches replaced them behind his closed eyelids.
He couldn’t fight it any longer. He had to give in to the pain, the fatigue, the loneliness. He’d done what he had to do.
He prayed it was enough as he slid to the floor. “Maigret, I love you,” he whispered as blackness engulfed him.
CHAPTER 43
“THE DRAGONS ARE back,” Chess crowed. To prove it, he raised his arm high and hurled a small, elongated ball of fire into the battle. He pinched a tiny bit of the writhing flames between thumb and forefinger, forcing the ball to stretch and stretch into an arrow.
“Verdii?” Lukan looked upward as tingles raced from his upturned head down through his body, directly to his wounded leg. Blood pounded against the loose bandage. He looked to make sure it didn’t soak through the layers of linen and ooze down his leg. Clean. His leg remained clean despite the twisting of flesh that felt like—maybe, hopefully—his flesh knitting together and rebuilding some of the lost tissue.
(Some, not all. Even your best healers with our aid cannot repair all the damage,) Verdii said. (A limp will always mark you. Take it as a badge of honor.)
A little bit of the heaviness in his heart lifted. Not all. Rather than fully face his permanent handicap he turned his attention back to the battle below.
Rejiia still commanded the center of the forecourt. She flung up an arm and blocked Chess’ fiery arrow. It shattered against her protection.
But the sparks flew outward in a perfect circle landing, on the remaining snakes.
The smell of burning poisonous flesh seared Lukan’s nose.
The wall beneath his hand shook. Rejiia turned a full circle, widdershins. Two stones, each a yard long and half that wide and thick, flew from the pile of rubble in the corners of the far wall.
Thud, thud. They struck the tower barely a yard below Lukan’s hands.
The next one will not miss, Rejiia assured him. An ugly smile cracked her face.
“I need my staff!” As he said the words, the shaft of wood still buried in the neck of the largest snake quivered. Lukan braced himself at this sign of life from the monster.
But the Krakatrice was dead. The ripple of muscle spread outward from the obsidian blade. The staff, his staff, had responded to his need.
“Return,” he said on a long exhale. “Return to my hand as you left it.”
The wood wiggled and twisted free of the tough hide. “Come,” Lukan pleaded. He didn’t think he should order his staff. It was as much a part of his magic as his mind. It channeled his power, and the braided signature in the grain defined him. “Return to me, where you belong,” he continued his litany.
The moment he saw the staff lift free of the snake he felt it slap against his open hand. His fist closed around it without a thought.
Chess loosed another bolt of magical lightning. Again it shattered and sprayed against Rejiia’s wall, but this time a few of the sparks landed upon her tattered a
nd filthy gown.
She screeched in outrage. Two more stones flew wildly from the pile. Without her firm control they landed harmlessly on the already dead Krakatrice, breaking its spine. She whirled her circle again and again. She stopped, facing Lukan, her skirts continuing to float outward for several heartbeats more.
If she saw two soldiers distributing spears with elemental fire swelling the iron tips, she paid them no attention. Gerta directed her Amazons to throw them into the mouths of the three remaining monsters. The blue glow on her sword had dimmed but it still contained a little lethal magic.
Rejiia conjured a ball of unnatural red fire, as large as any Chess had brought to bear. Her lips moved, commanding the alien flames to seek and destroy.
Lukan and Chess ducked behind the parapet.
“Robb’s alive and throwing magic! Only he could enchant those spears and Gerta’s blade,” they said together.
“But so is Rejiia,” Chess reminded Lukan.
“With dragon magic filling the air, we’re stronger together than apart. We have to join him,” Lukan gasped, crawling toward the trapdoor.
Red fire flew over the top of them and struck the slate roof at the center of the tower. The sparks lingered a few heartbeats, trying to feed on the stone. They died of starvation.
Lukan froze with his left hand clasping the metal ring embedded in the wooden planks. Three live Krakatrice. One dead.
Where was the fifth?
He looked over his shoulder to Chess. “Count,” he mouthed.
Chess’ fingers flicked open from his fist. Four.
“Where?” he whispered.
Something strange and cold passed from the iron ring into Lukan’s hand. He heard and felt a vibration that was different from flying stones hitting the structure. Different. Worse.
His staff quivered in his hand. The obsidian tip was still bound to it, still available as a weapon.
Silently he rose to his knees and directed Chess to grasp the latch from the side.
Praying fervently to the Stargods, to the dragons, to the ghosts of his parents, he raised the staff over his head, speartip aimed at the portal.
Chess mouthed his count. One. Two. Three.
He heaved the door open.
Lukan plunged the spear down, directly into the gaping maw of the fifth Krakatrice.
Obsidian easily pierced the soft palate, met resistance against bone. Volcanic glass, honed to the sharpest edge imaginable, sliced and penetrated deeper. Lukan pressed harder against the shaft, taking good care to stay away from those venomous fangs.
The staff broke through the bone and tore into the brain.
He yanked his staff clear. A gush of blood and brain matter followed. He rolled quickly to the side to avoid the splatter. “Not again. I’m not coming in contact with that poison again,” he muttered as he dragged himself to his feet.
“How are we going to get around that thing?” Chess asked.
“Ah, it’s just a little one. No longer than I am tall. Barely as big around as my upper arm,” Lukan brandished his staff in a show of bravado he didn’t really feel. He must be giddy with dragon magic flooding his system after so long an absence.
Or maybe he was just tired and in pain. He could use a good meal. The tray Gerta had left with them was empty. Not even crumbs remained. They’d only find more food below.
But first they had to get past the Krakatrice. The last one. He hoped.
The tower shook again. Rejiia still up to her old tricks.
Maria dropped off the throne. Pain jolted up her leg and lodged in her twisted hip. She didn’t care. She had to help Robb.
A dozen shuffling steps later she knelt beside the man who had helped turn the tide of battle against Lokeen and his pets. A niggling reminder that no one had seen the king since his escape. Hours ago? No, she thought only a few minutes, perhaps half an hour, had passed since the first tremor. From the reports and shouts outside, she thought that Rejiia had dislodged some keystones in the dungeon that had shaken the entire castle, but damaged only the barracks and dungeon wing.
“Robb?” she asked, placing her fingertips against his neck pulse. A faint flutter like a butterfly on the wing. His chest didn’t move. She pressed her ear against his mouth. No air. “Breathe, Master Robb. Great Mother, you must breathe. You must live.” She pounded her fist against his chest, aware just how tiny her hand was and how feeble her blow.
She pounded harder with all her might. “Breathe, S’murghit. Breathe!” Another blow that ached all the way to her shoulder.
He groaned. His chest rose and fell. Rose and fell. But still his eyes remained closed, his face slack and unresponsive.
“Don’t die on me, Robb,” she pleaded. “I couldn’t bear it if you died trying to help save my land from Lokeen and his monsters.” A tear trembled on her eyelid, tipped over and trickled down her cheek. She didn’t care.
“I’ll live,” he said on a harsh wheeze. Then he lapsed back into unconsciousness.
But he breathed. And his heart beat more steadily.
She sank back onto her bottom and worked her legs around to a more comfortable position, likely stuck there until Badger and Scurry returned to help her up. Gently she gathered Robb’s long-fingered hand into both of her own and cradled it in her lap.
“Traitors, both of you!” Lokeen screamed. He thrust aside the tapestry on the interior wall that Maria knew led to an escape tunnel.
Maria dropped Robb’s hand. He groaned again and shifted his body uncomfortably.
“You are the traitor, Lokeen. Traitor to our most sacred traditions, traitor to the land, traitor to my sister’s memory,” she said flatly as she scooted around to put as much of her body between the deposed king and the magician as she could.
“I decree that you both die. This instant.” He raised his right hand, brandishing a dagger as long as his forearm. Blood dripped from the blade onto the crossguard.
Death and destruction all around me. I drink in the fragrance of power. But nothing fills me. The Krakatrice are all dead. Even the one I sent to dispatch the magician. They took their power with them when they passed from this life, sharing none of the glory with me.
I have only my own anger to fuel me now. Of that I have plenty. I may die this day, but others will die with me. Lokeen among them. Geon, Bette, and Stavro, who all deserted me. But first I will kill the magicians. All of them. Including the dastardly bard who still sings his cursed battle music.
They are inside the castle. They have no escape and they cannot hide from me.
Once they’d sidled past the Krakatrice corpse, Lukan opted to sit on the winding staircase and scoot downward. Awkward and slow. But it took pressure off his wound and gave him the opportunity to listen to the castle and find pockets of people hiding, or battling, or conspiring. Narrow tubes containing staircases between the walls funneled sounds nicely.
They reached a landing with an arrow-slit window overlooking the courtyard. He paused to peek out. They’d come down nearly three full stories. Only two more to go.
“We have to hurry. Rejiia is coming!” he hissed to Chess who followed him.
The younger magician leaned over to survey the courtyard. “She’s batting aside armed warriors as if they were flies. She swats the air and they bowl over backward, landing flat. Can’t tell if they’re dead or just had the wind knocked out of them.”
“Her eyes are still black. Really black. We can’t let her loose in the castle.” Lukan pushed himself down and around as fast as his arms would let him. Stargods he needed food. And sleep. “I don’t know if I’m up to this,” he confessed to himself.
(Verdii here. You have to be.)
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Glenndon could handle this with his eyes closed and his mind on placating a difficult diplomat. But I’m not Glenndon. I never will be. And truth be told, I don’t think I want to be.”
(Good. Now do your duty. We will help as we can.)
Energizing tingles ran up and down Lukan’s
spine. He drank in the dragons’ gift of magic and power, storing as much as he could, letting it replenish his expended reserves. Almost instantly he felt bigger, stronger. Capable.
“Thank you,” he called up into the air, at the last second remembering to keep his voice soft so it would not carry to other parts of the castle.
The staircase branched at this landing. One led left, to the king’s study, the way they’d come up. The other led to another room where heated voices originated. He headed that way.
At the last step he braced himself with the staff, careful to keep the obsidian Spearhead upward and damage free, and against the wall. Once on his feet, he gingerly balanced himself on his right leg, touching only the ball of his left foot to the stones. Almost painlessly, he opened the tapestry that concealed the staircase two finger-widths from the wall.
“Robb’s down. Maria stands over him like a mother saber cat protecting a cub. Lokeen approaches with a bloody dagger. Skeller just slid to a halt at the doorway. Sounds like Gerta and her crew are pounding up the primary entrance from the courtyard.”
“Where’s Rejiia? She’s the most dangerous at this point,” Chess reminded him.
“I can’t . . . wait a minute. She’s . . . she’s in the left-hand corner, on the wrong angle for clear sight. She’s focused on Lokeen.”
“Fancy this, finding all my enemies in one room,” Rejiia cooed. She raised her arms. Energy, black and raw and angry, crackled down her arms to her fingertips. “But where are my servants? I thought for certain you’d need their help, Lokeen.”
“I killed them!” Lokeen brandished his gory dagger. The blood had congealed and started to turn dark. “All three of them. I slit their throats and enjoyed it,” he sneered. “You should have been there, my love.”
“You killed them! My followers, my coven. How dare you. Their lives belonged to me. Only I have the right to kill them!” With her last word she released her anger in a steady flow of magic.
The Wandering Dragon (Children of the Dragon Nimbus) Page 33