"You cannot know all this," Owain said. "Pray do not make things look any grimmer than we know them to be. The ghoul-queen may panic when they meet resistance."
Braith only shook his head. "You did not see them."
"But you did," I said. "Flew over them, I take it? Then your true form is restored to you?"
"It is, with only some discomfort. Elsewise I might advise you to flee after all, for it could hardly be more hopeless than remaining here with a single able-bodied warrior to defend you. But a dragon can do a great deal to fight them off."
"A great deal, but not all," Tristan said. "Let us plan, then, how best to defend our fortress, such as it is, while we kill off a swarm of ghouls."
Chapter 11
Our weapons, aside from the dragon at our disposal, were limited. Each of the princes had a sword, as did I, though with little knowledge of its use. We had kitchen knives and farming implements. And we had the sea, which we gathered into every bucket, bowl, cup and goblet we could scavenge, placing a few in every room and at strategic points about the outside of the tower. Being able to throw liquid fire into an opponent's eyes at any moment could only be an advantage.
It was the work of hours, and throughout Tristan and I debated endless questions of tactics and strategy. He was a trained warrior, as he pointed out numerous times, and I was not, but I would not entertain the notion of being packed away into the water with the truly helpless—which was to say, the animals and Genevieve, who did not appear to have wielded a weapon in her life and could be more use keeping the livestock back from the shore.
"I can fight, Tristan," I shouted down the stairs, hauling up a pail of seawater. "Not well, perhaps, but at least I have no broken bones. Between my able body and your trained mind, we might make a decent knight between us."
"Ariana, I cannot bear to think of you in such danger!"
"The danger comes, whether you will think of it or not, and you know the water is no guarantee of safety when it does." I came back down the stairs, carefully dodging a cup of water left on a step. "I might well make the difference between victory and death for us all—all, Tristan, for they will hardly leave the rest of us be once you are dead!"
He acknowledged this with a grimace—no, more of a snarl. "Very well, then. Take up your sword and come outside. I would have you learn whatever rudiments may be quickly taught, if so much is to depend upon you."
When I stood in the dooryard, starlight silvering Tristan's face and shoulders as he leaned on his crutch before me, I found the sword heavy and cold in my hands. It was hard to imagine hewing down a living creature with it. Even with the stench of death heavy in the air, and an unwholesome sullen light creeping up the sky from the south, it was hard to understand that within a few hours, we would be fighting for our lives.
"You must not let the sword droop so," Tristan said. "It does you no good pointed at the earth. Arms up, wrists firm... We should put you on a horse. It makes a deal of difference in how you handle the sword, and you will be mounted for the battle. I'll not have you on the ground with those creatures."
"Your own horse, and Owain's, are trained for battle," I said. "They will be excellent help to you. But I have none such."
"Yet every one of these horses belonged once to a knight."
"True, but many were pack animals, and even the best-trained have had their skills unused for months or years. And I have no idea of how to direct them."
"Pick out the best you have. The quickest, calmest, most intelligent."
"Winifred," I said at once. Winnie had belonged to squire Gareth rather than his knight, and I did not know how well she was trained in the art of combat—yet I would trust her competence before any of the others.
We pulled Winifred and Star from the paddock, where all the horses paced and snorted uneasily, none sleeping. They, too, smelled the coming swarm.
"Do not fear," I whispered to them as we led our mounts away to be saddled. "We will keep you safe."
I wondered how many horses we would have this time tomorrow night.
For hours Tristan and I rode about each other, swords swinging, while the others made other preparations—sharpening farm tools, gathering food—for who knew how long we might need to keep our strength up, and what might be left to us when the ghouls were gone? Braith, in particular, ate voraciously, and even departed for an hour to hunt again, at my urging.
"It is long still 'til dawn," I told him, though it was not so very long. "Go, unless you truly believe you have not the time. We would all have you at your greatest strength for this!"
My own strength now was failing, the muscles of my arms and torso protesting each swing of the sword.
"I can do no more, Tristan," I said. "To practice further will only damage me and tire the horses."
"You are right," he said. "Sleep awhile, if you can. I will see what else must be done, and then catch what rest I may."
It seemed to me that the princess ought to supervise, but I was truly so tired, I worried if I would be able to fight at all if I did not sleep. Gingerly I eased my aching body down from the horse and went inside.
Yet when I reached my bedchamber, I found myself not falling on the bed, but rather searching the little table beside it, and the floor beneath it, and every other place around—seeking my amethyst ring. If I were going to die tomorrow, I wanted my grandmother's ring with me. I wanted to be buried with it, if anyone remained to bury me.
But there was no sign of it, and this succeeded in bringing me to tears where all else had failed. I crawled into bed and wept against my pillow.
Even the indoors air, now, carried some whiff of the ghoul-stench, and only hours' exposure kept me from gagging at every breath. Before me I saw at every moment the ghoul from that long-ago funeral, its jagged, dark-stained teeth, the hunger in its blood-colored eyes... the pitiful, nightmarish way it squealed and thrashed when my father's men killed it.
It is dirty work, child, Papa had said afterward. But would you have these villagers watch a ghoul rip their dead loved ones out of the earth and devour them? A king—or a queen—must do difficult things for the sake of her people. I daresay you will find that ghoul-killing is among the least of them.
I hoped not. I hoped I would never have to face a worse dawn than this one, coming so quickly upon us.
I slept for a fitful couple of hours, and woke to find the tower quiet, the fire burned low, Gareth curled before it with Elaysius sleep-dim on a cushion beside him. What sky I could see through the open door was dark still, but fragilely so, an empty bowl of darkness rather than the rich velvet of true night. We were not far from dawn.
Feeling fragile and empty myself, I rose and ate the bit of bread and cheese that came most easily to hand, hoping it would settle my fluttering insides. It did not. I wandered ghost-like through the rooms of the tower, finding Owain asleep on Gareth's bed, but no sign of Genevieve, Tristan or Braith. Should I wake anyone? Surely it was better to let them sleep while they could.
I put my bedraggled hair into a more secure braid and returned to Gareth's room to borrow a pair of his trousers and buckle the sword to them. Strange and uncomfortable they might be, but they would not tangle my legs as a skirt might. I could return to royal dignity on the morrow.
Out of doors, the air was cold, and heavy with the rotten stench of ghoul. I breathed carefully, commanding my bread and cheese to remain inside me. The red light from the south was much larger now, closer yet little brighter, as if illumination were the least of its goals. I saw movement from the stable—a flutter of Genevieve's skirt in the breeze, and yes, there was Tristan beside her. Of course, readying the horses for their ocean adventure. I knew I should assist them, but my eyes were drawn in the opposite direction, up the hillside, to the half-acre grave that drew this disaster down upon us.
How it must pain you, if you know anything of it, where you are, I thought. You must have thought your death would help me. I suppose, if all goes ill this day, I might at least see you
again. If humans and dragons may see each other, in the world to come.
My legs took me up the hill without my conscious direction, and deposited me before the stone with its claw-carven symbols. The three holy symbols of the dragons—sun, flame, egg. Another symbol below them, perhaps Rindargeth's name. I thought of ghouls tearing that stone aside, ripping up the earth to drag forth the flesh beneath.
"I am glad we cannot flee," I whispered fiercely. "I should not be. My concern should be with the safety of my living companions—and it is—only I could not bear to abandon you to ghouls! I am glad we have no choice but to defend you."
Yet we might well fail, and become merely supplements to the ghouls' dinner of dead dragon. Braith worried so for the fate of his father's soul, with no proper pyre—how much worse was this fate?
And who could burn a pyre for Braith?
Well, I could do nothing for that, so it did not bear thinking of. Rindargeth, however, I could perhaps still aid. I pulled my sword from its scabbard and, after some consideration of what place was best, drew its edge across the fleshier part of my forearm. Blood pattered to the earth wherein my dragon-father lay.
"There is a chant that should accompany that."
I turned. "Braith! I hope I am not—I meant no disrespect, I am a human and perhaps should not—"
He waved away my words like cobwebs. "He would not disdain your sacrifice." He stepped forward and slid hands along my bleeding arm, holding it straightly out, and began a rumble of dragon-words that I could as much feel as hear, his chest against my back. He radiated heat, of course, through the chilly air, and so his presence brought comfort. I told myself that was the only reason.
Blood continued to well up from the shallow cut for a minute or so, and only when it grew sluggish did he fall silent, and release my arm. I bound the cut with a bit of rag from the pocket of my borrowed trousers, and watched silently as Braith cut his own skin with his teeth, chanting again as more blood, steaming in the cold air, rained onto the grave.
He looked tired, I thought, and drawn, his eyes shadowed, mouth grim. A swarm of ghouls were coming for his father's body, and on him rested the majority of our defense. I could hardly tell him not to fret, that all would be well. Was there no comfort I could give him?
"Your hair should be better braided," I said. He had apparently made an attempt at it himself, but with only marginal success.
"It will not matter when I change form," he said, letting his own arm fall with no attempt at a bandage.
There was silence some moments.
"Ariana, I lied to you. About your name."
"What?"
"I lied. Aari does mean tiny, but not worthless. That is aarka. Aari is a word for something that is tiny, but with worth far beyond its size. A gem, perhaps, or the fine edge of a weapon—things that may be all the more precious, the smaller they are. It is not an uncommon nickname for a runt hatchling." He drew a breath. "My father loved you. Ari."
I felt tears gather thick in the corners of my eyes.
"In his honor, then, I would... if you will permit it, I would give you a blessing. This particular one is well-suited for the human form, being often given to wounded soldiers before they return to the field. The idea is to grant special strength and protection for one at a particular disadvantage. Which, to a dragon's eyes, humans ever are."
"Oh, I… that is quite… I do thank you, but I… I assure you, I am not afraid."
"Then you are a fool," he said matter-of-factly, and waited.
"Very well, then, I am terrified," I whispered at last, my knees gone weak as water beneath me. Braith put out a hand to steady me, but somehow the result involved his arms around me and my face buried in his shoulder. It seemed a most solid place to be, reassuring—in fact, the sensation of firm safety brought me nearer to tears than my fears ever could have. But I did not weep—quite—only gasped and trembled. In surprise I realized that Braith, too, was shaking, a slight tremor that ran deep, unnoticeable to any who were not virtually skin-to-skin with him. I worked my arms around his back, returning the embrace for whatever comfort that might bring him.
"Will you accept the blessing?" he murmured at length, and I nodded.
He released me, and I nearly wept for the loss of my safe cocoon, which was childish. He pulled a lock of hair free from the remnant of his braid—not a difficult prospect—and cut it with his teeth, then breathed a spark onto the handful of fine, pale hair. He had struggled mightily for a spark for the lamp in the stable, yet now it came easily. Perhaps because his emotions were nearer the surface? Silently he watched the bit of hair burn to ash in his hand, with not the slightest flinch, despite the burns and blisters already rising on his skin.
He closed his eyes, chanting again, his voice deep and indistinct as distant thunder, and stirred the ashes with the tip of his middle finger. Then with ash he drew upon my forehead a circle, with four straight spokes—the sun. On my throat, a Y with curled ends—a flame. And, directly over my heart—and pulling my tunic away to reach it—the occupied oval of an egg. Then both hands cupped my face, tilting it down, and the chant stopped as he pressed his lips to the circle on my forehead.
Then he tilted my face upward and kissed my lips.
Was this part of the ritual? It was gentle enough, yet the pressure of his lips grew rather than lessened, shifted ever so slightly… I had recoiled from Tristan's kiss for reasons I could not articulate, but this felt entirely different, this felt—like a lost treasure returned to me, so that my hands rose of their own will to pull it closer, lest it be lost once more. But surely it was merely part of the ritual.
I had no opportunity to ask. Braith stepped back from me with a gasp, and I realized that sunlight was streaking over the trees of the forest line, and over the ghouls flooding down the hillside.
PART FOUR
Chapter 12
Braith was swirling with smoke and sparks before he had gone three steps, and my first shouts for Tristan and Owain were swallowed by the earth-shaking sound of his peculiar screaming roar. Before I entirely turned my attention to running, I caught a glimpse of him, snow-bright against the sky, already raining fire onto the dark tide of ghouls.
Down the hillside, I could see activity between the stable paddock and the waterline. Owain, he and his horse gleaming with armor, galloped toward me, pulling Winifred by the bridle. Tristan was rushing Bessie the cow into the water, reaching up to grip Genevieve's hand as she rode past, leading the horses on a line behind her. Gareth clung to a sharpened pitchfork, riding close to Gen. Tristan and I had argued on the subject of Gareth, with me trying to make him understand that Gareth had only the outside seeming of a man, and could not be put into battle any more than a child half his age. Apparently I had convinced him.
Owain was shouting curses as he reached me. "We expected them from the south!"
I saw the reason for his dismay as I pulled myself into Winifred's saddle. The swarm's shift to the east was letting them come at the graveyard without needing to pass the tower, as well as putting the rising sun in our eyes.
Braith passed overhead on a thundering rush of air, laying a line of fire between us and the ghouls. I flinched from the wave of heat.
"Curse it, fairy, you did not charm her!" Owain shouted, and I realized Elaysius was hovering at my shoulder.
"She was sleeping..." Elaysius sounded horrified at himself.
"There is no time now," I said, wondering if Braith would realize that our plan to avoid friendly fire had a chink in it.
Then there was no time for worry, for the hardier ghouls were leaping through the flames toward us.
Owain and his horse rushed forward, eager for the fight, and one ghoul's head went flying before I could draw breath. There were a half dozen of them crowding around him within moments—little hunched creatures, no taller than a child of ten, dark with grime and disgusting stains, their eyes glittering the color of rotting blood.
One leaped up to snap at Winifred's muzzle, an
d I swung my sword at it. The blade bounced off the thick, leathery skin of its shoulder, hardly leaving a mark. The ghoul made a gurgling hiss of rage and swept its claws at my leg, scoring the leather of my boot.
"Ignum ensis!" A brilliant something darted from Elaysius's finger—no, a golden ring on his finger. It was a stream of flame, I realized, no thicker than thread, but blindingly bright. Where it touched the ghoul, even his thick, foul skin curled and blackened. The ghoul turned on Elaysius with a howl, and I used that moment of distraction to hack again with my sword. This time the blade touched his neck, opening a wound. The ghoul fell, gagging, while dark blood poured down his chest.
I had no time to absorb what I had done. Braith's wall of fire was now only scattered patches, and he was some hundred yards off, putting flame to the ghouls that swarmed his father's grave. Howling and hissing, the creatures crowded around Winifred, clawing at any part of her or me that they could reach. Winifred remembered her training after all—she spun and kicked, danced and dodged with hardly any direction from me, managing always to give my sword a good angle from which to fall.
Despite all its opportunities, my sword did little good; my arm had not the strength, most times, to do more than annoy. Nevertheless, I proved an admirable distraction, keeping the ghouls focused on my own tasty flesh, while Elaysius darted among them, a tiny blue light of death—flashing fire into eyes and mouths, his needle-sized sword making short work of tendons, hamstrings, and throats.
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