The thousands of warriors took flight to follow him, their huge numbers blotting out the rising sun. As one, they turned north, to what would soon become the killing fields of Farplain.
CHAPTER
Fifty-one
As they soared through the sky, Shailiha clutched Morganna with one hand. Her other hand gripped one of the rough-hewn handles fastened to the inside of the litter. She had never traveled in this fashion before, and was already quite sure she never wished to do so again. She was terrified that either she would fall out, or the warriors would eventually drop them from sheer exhaustion. Neither, to her complete amazement, had yet happened.
Wigg, Shailiha, and Martha were in one litter. Faegan, the Tome, the Paragon, and Celeste were in another, while Geldon and the gnomes rode in the third. Faegan’s fliers of the fields flew alongside. Several empty litters were also being carried along.
Faegan, still in his chair on wheels, would occasionally pop his head out, shouting the necessary course corrections to the warriors as they sped along. Wigg, on the other hand, seemed very self-absorbed, his mind lost in wizardly contemplations.
To distract herself from her fear, Shailiha tried to remember what Wigg had told her of their destination, Shadowood, which was inhabited by gnomes and had served as Faegan’s home since his crippling by the Coven three hundred years ago. It had been created by the Directorate, using the craft, and had been intended as a refuge for those of endowed blood, should the Coven have won the war. Now it was about to serve the same purpose should the hatchlings burst through Tristan’s lines.
They were exceedingly fortunate to have the Minions and litters, Wigg had said, since the normal trip to Shadowood on foot was very difficult and time-consuming. The secret place was surrounded on all sides by a deep, invisible canyon that only the trained endowed could see. To others all that could be seen was an expansive field of grass lying before a great pine forest, and if they came too close, they would fall into the canyon and perish. If one succeeded in navigating the bridge across the canyon, a deadly forest and deadlier tunnel awaited.
There was only so much to ponder about the place, though, and curiosity finally overcame Shailiha’s fears. She handed her child to Martha so that she could brave the cold and look outside as their litter soared through the sky.
The experience was both wondrous and terrifying.
The white, snowy ground flashed below them. Although she was already too far away to make out the banks of the Sippora River or the capital city of Tammerland that now lay far behind them, she was just able to distinguish the outskirts of the city of Tanglewood as their litter passed by to the northeast. Soon the southern edge of the great, flat expanses of Farplain would come into view.
Reminded of Farplain, she thought about Tristan, and the battle that he might be fighting this very moment. She felt guilty that she had teased him to get him to ride his hatchling into the sky that first time, since she found herself frightened merely to sit here in her litter, speeding along to the relative safety of Shadowood.
If only Tristan can survive the conflict, she thought to herself. And then, in the distance, she saw it.
Tree Town.
The Minions descended, carrying their precious cargoes with them. They landed carefully and surrounded the litters protectively, dreggans drawn. Some of them remained circling in the sky, keeping a lookout.
Shailiha took Morganna from Martha and stepped out onto the snowy ground, her knees trembling slightly. Martha emerged and helped Wigg out. Shailiha turned to look down the sloping knoll before her, and her eyes came upon one of the most curious sights she had ever seen: hundreds of tree houses, each one seeming more ornate than the last, painted a dazzling array of colors. Some several stories high, they were connected by a series of wooden walkways. Shailiha smiled. It was like something from a dream.
By now Faegan, Celeste, Geldon, and the gnomes traveling with them were all by Shailiha’s side. The fliers of the fields swooped down, congregating into a riot of color directly over their mistress.
The snow fell softly upon them as they continued to look down at the sleepy village. Strangely, there was no one to be seen.
“They are without doubt quite frightened,” Faegan said wryly. “They have never seen the Minions before.”
“Do they know we are here?” Shailiha asked, trying to keep the snow off of Morganna.
“Oh, indeed,” Faegan answered. He pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. “Without question the alarm has already gone out.”
“Faegan, I need to get the baby inside,” Shailiha said worriedly.
“Of course,” he answered. “Let’s go. But let me take the lead, so that they can see me. Otherwise there might be trouble, and I certainly don’t want any of them harmed.” He looked behind, regarding the rest of the very strange group. A smile came to his face. “We shall be quite a sight to them, I can assure you.”
With that, he levitated his chair above the snow-covered ground and started down the knoll. Martha took Wigg’s hand. The giant butterflies soared overhead, and the huge number of Minion warriors followed warily behind.
They had only taken a few paces when a crowd of male gnomes came running around the corners of the houses, brandishing knives, axes, and bows. Shailiha recoiled, fearing for Morganna.
But the gnomes ran to Faegan. He landed to embrace them, and then they joyously hoisted him into the air, chair and all, amid great cheering and laughter.
Faegan finally became more serious, and called for Shannon the Small and Michael the Meager.
“Escort Celeste, Martha, the baby Morganna, and your wives to my mansion,” he told them. “Find for Martha anything she might need for the welfare of the child. As for the rest of us, including the Minions, there is much work to do.” He then gave the compressed, repaginated Tome to a warrior and told him to go with Shannon and Michael. The Paragon remained hanging around Faegan’s neck.
“And now,” the old wizard said sadly, “I suggest everyone say their good-byes.”
Tearfully, Shailiha kissed her baby and handed her to Martha, bidding the kindly matron farewell. Celeste walked to Wigg, holding him close. “Good-bye, Father,” she whispered. “No matter what happens, I shall never forget you.”
“I know, my child,” Wigg answered, his voice cracking. “But you must go quickly, for time is now the only remaining ally we possess.” For what seemed an eternity, he held his daughter close. Then finally, reluctantly, he let her go.
With that, her splinter of the group walked down the knoll toward the houses of Tree Town.
Faegan turned to Shailiha. “It is time,” he said solemnly.
Shailiha nodded. Closing her eyes, she raised her right arm. Caprice flew down to land upon it.
Go and do as I have ordered you to, Shailiha thought. And may you all return to me safely.
Caprice fluttered up from the princess’ arm and flew back to join the squadron of twelve fliers especially chosen for this most important of tasks.
And then, Caprice in the lead, they soared away.
Those remaining—human, gnome, Minion, and flier alike—waited there for a moment, watching the butterflies disappear into the sky. Then, at a gesture from Faegan, those who were to be carried reentered their litters, the gnomes clambering into the many extras that had been brought. Snapping open their leathery wings, the Minion bearers gently lifted the litters.
Their numbers darkening the sky, both the warriors and the cargoes they carried disappeared against the horizon.
CHAPTER
Fifty-two
We are outnumbered, my lord,” Traax said calmly. “But we will do all we can to prevail. You have my word on it as a Minion.”
Tristan’s hatchling hovered high in the sky, just below the clouds. Traax and Ox, their breath coming out in little columns of frosted vapor, hovered next to him. Thousands upon thousands of other warriors fanned out around them. The blue-and-gold banners of Tristan’s heraldry, which had been carried
aloft, snapped back and forth with the cold gusts.
Here, on this bizarre battlefield several thousand feet above the ground, the wind sliced into the exposed skin of Tristan’s face like invisible icicles. The blustery, raw day had developed into one of very dense, gray cloud cover—just what he had been hoping for. But as he looked down to the overpowering numbers of Nicholas’s hatchlings swirling below, his heart sank.
There were so many of the enemy that they literally blotted out the earth beneath them.
Tristan took a deep, cold breath, thinking. Farplain lived up to its name in every respect. It was a vast, flat, barren expanse. Even at the height of the Season of the Sun it contained little more than dry, low-lying grasses, with nowhere to hide. Tristan planned to keep the battle in the sky, where his troops could make use of all three dimensions of movement.
And then, as he watched, the hatchlings below them slowly began to form airborne columns, their lines stretching almost as far as the eye could see. Then, led by a single bird and rider, as a great, disciplined army they began to soar to higher altitudes. Their formation was so perfect it seemed they were somehow bonded together. Finally they stopped, and the entire hatchling force, armed with swords, axes, and in some cases shields, faced the Minions in the sky about one hundred meters away. The tens of thousands of red, glowing eyes were unnerving, seeming to light up the sky around them. Holding a white flag, the base of its pole lodged into one stirrup, the rider on the lone bird spurred his mount toward Tristan.
The prince’s hands tightened on his reins to the point that his knuckles became the same color as the snow. He reached back as best he could, tugging on the hilt of his dreggan, and then the first of his throwing knives.
The flag-carrying rider was Scrounge.
Pulling his bird to a stop about five meters from the prince, the assassin smiled. He looked quite out of place, holding his white flag of peace as it fluttered there in the unforgiving wind.
Tristan took in the sallow face, lean torso, and sunken eyes. The assassin was still wearing the miniature crossbow on his forearm, and had a broadsword at his hip. The arrows and sword tip were both stained with yellow.
“And so the day has finally come, Chosen One,” Scrounge sneered. He leaned his forearm on the pommel of his saddle as his feline eyes scanned the columns of Minion warriors.
“Your fighters are most formidable,” he continued. “Although there aren’t as many of them as I thought there would be. Such a pity. That fact just seems to make this all too easy. I also find it highly interesting that you somehow ride upon one of my master’s hatchlings. But it is of no matter, for you shall die this day anyway. And I see you go to that certain death under the heraldry of your ruined kingdom—the same colors that fared so poorly in their last battle. Such an ironic turn of events, wouldn’t you agree?
“But surely even you can see that you are hopelessly outnumbered,” he continued. “Therefore, I shall grant you a compromise. Surrender now, and I will promise each of you a quick and painless death. Resist, and each of you will die horribly. Also, know that this offer does not come from me, Chosen One. For I would rather see you all perish by my hand personally, if I could. Rather, this offer comes from my lord himself, he who is your only son. The choice is yours.”
“Minion warriors never surrender,” Tristan answered calmly. “A fact with which you are about to become painfully familiar.”
One corner of Scrounge’s mouth came up as he shook his head. “My lord, your son, was quite sure that was what you would say. And so, he has another message for you.”
Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “And that is?” he asked.
Scrounge spurred his bird closer. So close that Tristan could almost reach out and touch him. “The Gates of Dawn are finished, Chosen One,” he said quietly, almost reverently. “Tomorrow at the break of day your son shall activate them, and the Heretics will return. Your wizards are useless. And your fabled stone, the so-called Paragon, is all but without life. Even the consuls of the Redoubt have turned against you. The world as we know it will soon be forever changed. For the final time, my lord asks that you, the only other being on earth with azure blood, come and take your rightful place at his side, and at the side of those who shall soon descend from the heavens. To do so, my master tells me, is to live forever within the perfect ecstasy of the Vagaries. But refuse him, and you shall die either this day by the sword, or very soon due to the poison that runs through your body.” The assassin paused, looking at the veins that lay darkly on the back of Tristan’s right hand. “Tell me, Chosen One,” he asked, the wicked smile returning. “How is your sword arm? Can you even lift it?”
“Well enough to see you die by it,” Tristan whispered. It was all he could do to keep himself from unleashing a throwing knife right then and there. But he held himself back, knowing he must stick to the strategy he and Traax had so carefully formulated. And then there was the unsettling memory of how fast the assassin had been that day in the Caves. How his crossbow had deflected Tristan’s throwing knife as if it had been mere child’s play. Tristan knew himself to be an amazingly fast warrior, but Scrounge was clearly his equal.
Scrounge glanced curiously to the handkerchief tied around Tristan’s left arm, and again he smiled. He took a deep breath of the cold, crisp air. “I see you carry into battle a token given you by a woman,” he said. “How quaintly gallant. And the familiar scent of myrrh reveals the identity of the one who gave it to you. Don’t tell me, Chosen One, that you actually have designs on Celeste?” He shook his head again, as if tutoring a particularly ignorant schoolboy. “After all of this is over and you are quite dead, Ragnar will be very pleased to have her back. And I imagine the things he will do to her in punishment for abandoning him will pale in comparison to what she has already suffered. Perhaps even I will finally be allowed some private time with her.” His tongue emerged to touch his upper lip. “After all, she is quite beautiful,” he added wickedly.
Tristan had endured all that he could. He urged his bird closer, bringing his hatchling little more than inches away from Scrounge’s. “I grow tired of all your talk,” he whispered. “It is now time for us to do this thing. And when it is over, your guts will be splashed red upon the earth below me.” He drew his dreggan. The ring the curved blade made lasted a long time in the dry, cool air before finally fading away.
“Very well,” Scrounge answered. He reached down to his hip, and slowly drew his own sword. Tristan could easily identify it as a broadsword of the Eutracian Royal Guard.
“But before you die, there is something else I must tell you, Chosen One,” the assassin added. “It is about the children.”
Tristan froze. Please, not the children, too. They, more than anyone, are the innocents in all of this madness.
“That’s right,” Scrounge said. “The children of the consuls. Their blood is the mortar that built the Gates of Dawn. And they will be needed further—perhaps even forever.”
With a final, cold look of superiority, Scrounge wheeled his bird around and flew back to his troops.
Tristan turned to look at Ox. The giant warrior smiled grimly back.
“Remember your orders,” Tristan said to him. “Go now.”
A combination of disappointment and worry crowded onto Ox’s face as he remembered the orders Tristan had given him back at the palace.
“But my lord, Ox want—”
“No buts!” Tristan ordered sternly. “We have been all through this. I can take care of myself.” His face softened a bit. “So much of what happens here today depends on you, my friend. We need you.”
His chest puffing out with pride, Ox finally smiled. From a string around his neck a silver bugle hung down the center of his back between his wings, out of sight of the enemy. Upon its bell were the markings of Tristan’s heraldry, indicating that it had once been a tool of the Eutracian Royal Guard. Ox slowly, stealthily hovered backward into the towering clouds that lay directly behind and above them, until only the o
utline of his face could still be seen.
Tristan turned to Traax. “Scrounge is mine, and mine alone,” he said menacingly. “But should I die before that bastard has met his fate, you must kill him. If I go to my grave this day, I want to do so knowing that he will not survive.”
Traax looked into the dark blue eyes of his leader. “It will be my honor.” He grinned. “Consider it done.”
“Thank you,” Tristan answered. “And remember, if our plan fails, I intend to save whatever troops we have left and regroup, rather than sacrifice them all here, in this one place. Despite what the Minions may have believed up until now, there is little honor in suicide.” He turned his eyes back to the overwhelming force behind them. “Wars are not won by those who die for their cause, Traax. They are won by making the enemy die for his.”
Traax bowed his head. “I live to serve,” he replied solemnly.
Looking up and thinking for a moment, the prince took a deep breath. For the first time in his life he truly did not fear dying, for he knew in his heart he was already dead. It was such an amazingly clear awareness that he actually smiled as he took in the beautiful sky and clouds around him. It was almost as if he were looking at them for the very first time. He could fight today with absolute abandon, caring nothing for his personal welfare, for he had already said his good-byes to the ones he loved.
Raising his left arm to his face, he took in the light scent of myrrh. Then he looked down at the gold medallion around his neck, thinking of his twin sister, and the identical one she wore.
His thoughts were interrupted by a piercing, insane noise—the shrieking calls of the hatchlings readying themselves for battle.
And then, their thousands of swords waving back and forth like wheat stalks in a summer field, the legions of hatchlings flew toward the Minions.
The Gates of Dawn Page 55