Chapter 33

Obin had taken one look at the gray dog and shaken his head. Aremys nodded, sad for Wyl. Another death he had not been able to prevent, and knowing his friend as he did, Aremys was sure Wyl would blame himself for this one too. One man; so much sorrow. Myrren and her father had plenty to answer for in Shar’s plane. Aremys thanked Obin and then, wrapping the dog in a sheet he found in Rashlyn’s rooms, hefted the animal into his arms.

“I’ll take you to Lothryn,” he murmured to the dog, who was still breathing in short, desperate pants. The dog whined but its eyes did not open.

When Aremys finally made it to the stable, staggering under the weight of the large animal, he heard Galapek whinny. The horse knew; Lothryn knew. Another man had been broken by Rashlyn’s twisted magic.

Aremys laid Gueryn down in some fresh straw and lit a lamp. He explained to the horse who this was, all self-consciousness about talking to a horse gone. The animal reared, angry, and Aremys tried to calm him with soft words and soothing hands. As he touched the stallion he sensed the enormous and agonizing effort Lothryn was making to communicate with him. The horse was begging to be set free. Aremys was torn with indecision. Footsteps approached and the new King of the Razors stepped inside the stable, immediately flattening himself against the wall.

“Fight it, man,” Aremys said, realizing Wyl had been overcome by the tainted aura of magic. “You’ll get used to it, as I have.”

Wyl lost the battle momentarily, gagging and then retching into a corner. “Oh, Shar.” He groaned. “What has he done to them?”

Galapek whinnied again, a sound that nearly broke Wyl’s heart. He forced himself to find composure, wiping his mouth on Cailech’s sleeve, and in so doing, seeing Gueryn lying in the straw.

“Could Obin save him?” he asked.

Aremys shook his head. No point in lying.

Wyl leaned against the wall again, closed his eyes and groaned. The sight of him, so filled with anguish, made Aremys look away. How much more could Wyl take, he wondered, before he gave up on his fight? Or, more likely, found a way to take his own life.

A huge black dog entered the stable, startling Aremys out of his bleak thoughts. “Shar’s wrath! I’ve never seen a dog so big.”

“Meet Knave,” Wyl said, flat-toned.

“Ah, the famous beast,” Aremys replied. “May I?” he asked Wyl, his hand reaching to stroke the animal.

“Knave alone decides,” Wyl said, and Aremys detected just a hint of humor in the tone. Perhaps Wyl would get through this, after all.

“Hello, Knave,” the Grenadyne said, risking touching the great head. Knave growled with pleasure as Aremys scratched his dark brow.

“Welcome to the chosen few,” Wyl said, coming back from the dark place where he had been moments ago. “Knave is particular about who he lets touch him.”

The black dog gave a deep-throated, suspicious bark and walked over to the horse first. Galapek did not flinch. Knave sniffed the creature and whined gently. Then he padded over to where Gueryn lay dying. This time he growled softly and began licking at the wounds of the gray dog.

“Speak to Lothryn,” Aremys suggested, wanting to divert Wyl’s gaze from the touching but painful scene in the straw. “Breathe through your mouth; it makes it easier.”

“That’s how Fynch overcame the major hurdle of being a gong boy,” Wyl said, his mind going back to a time when he had lived the simple life of a Legionnaire.

“Where is Fynch?” Aremys asked.

The fragile shell Wyl had built around his emotions fractured again. “Gone to his death, fighting Rashlyn.” Aremys regretted his question. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to. None of us do, except perhaps Knave. It is not our battle.” The big man had no idea how to respond, so he left it, turning instead to the problem in front of them.

“Come, Lothryn can talk to us.”

Wyl stepped up to the horse. “He’s beautiful despite that repulsive magic.”

“So true. Touch him.”

Wyl did so and his eyes widened. Startled, he fought the reek of the evil magic and laid his head against the sleek forehead of his rescuer and friend. “Lothryn,” he wept, “it’s me, Wyl.” The magnificent horse nuzzled him, as if in thanks, and Aremys too felt the telltale sting of tears.

Wyl, the horse whispered weakly into his mind, I knew you would come. Didn’t expect you to look as you do now.

“I’m sorry I took his life.”

Don’t be. He lived it fully. Paid the price for his decisions.

“We will find a way to restore you.”

Turn me loose, I beg you. Tie the dog onto my back and let us go.

“Aremys,” Wyl gasped, “touch him. Hear what he’s asking.”

The Grenadyne laid a hand on Galapek and shared the conversation.

I must save my strength, Lothryn said, what little is left. Please, put Gueryn on my back and turn us loose.

“Why?” Wyl beseeched.

I don’t know, in truth. It seems right. Don’t leave us here like this.

“Do you know how to rid yourself of this guise?” Aremys asked, heart lurching with hope.

No. But something is compelling me to leave.

Wyl frowned. “Why take Gueryn?”

Do you want him to die here… in a stable?

Aremys grimaced at the harsh words. “Where will you go?”

I don’t know. Give him to me. You must leave. Let us do the same.

“We could lose you forever,” Wyl pleaded.

You ‘ve lost us already. Let me try— let me see what or who this is calling to me.

Wyl nodded, resigned. “Let’s do it,” he said to Aremys.

They fashioned a sling from the linen in which Aremys had brought Gueryn to the stable and found a sack to hold the dog. Knave finished tending to the gray’s wounds.

“Odd that he would do that,” Wyl commented absently.

“An instinctive attempt to heal the wounds perhaps?” Aremys offered.

“Or simply Knave’s way of showing his sorrow.”

“He can breathe easily through the sackcloth,” Aremys said.

“He won’t be breathing much longer,” Wyl said, stroking the dog’s face.

“Come on, Wyl. You have to be strong,” Aremys warned. “Like Fynch.” The fighting words rallied Wyl’s flagging spirits. “Yes, you’re right. Fynch is off fighting a lost cause; I should at least try to hold myself together.” He hefted the injured dog into the sack and together he and Aremys tied the sack to the sling, then to the saddle on Galapek’s back.

Aremys watched the King reach again toward the majestic face of Galapek.

“Haldor protect you, Lothryn,” Wyl said.

Shar go with you, Wyl. We shall see each other again.

“Elspyth will kill me in an ugly fashion if we do not,” Wyl joked, trying to lighten the heavy moment.

Lothryn did not reply, simply waited for Wyl to make his farewell to Gueryn.

Wyl cupped the gray dog’s face in his huge hands and kissed it, hoping that love and honor would somehow pour through his touch and reach the brave, dying man trapped inside.

“As One,” he whispered to the dog, and then the horse was off, moving through the great doors Aremys had pushed open and cantering off into the blackness of the night.

Rashlyn felt compelled to return to the clearing, even though every fiber of his being told him he should run. But he was too curious about the boy, Fynch, and his self-proclaimed title of King of the Creatures.

“Come, Rashlyn,” a voice called, startling him, for he could see no one. Then Fynch shimmered before him. “It is time.”

“For what?” the barshi screamed at the child.

“For you to die,” Fynch replied, a new gravity in his voice. He had left behind everyone he loved, deliberately cutting himself away from Wyl and Knave. He knew he could not carry out his task, could not offer himself as sacrifice, if they were near.

Sacrifice. He understood now. It had taken some time to ponder its meaning and recognize how he must apply it to this battle with Rashlyn. It meant more than death. It meant yielding.

Faith Fynch. Sacrifice.

The first wave came as Rashlyn hurled a magical avalanche of blows at Fynch, screaming with madness and anger as he loosed his powers.

Around them the creatures of the mountains quietly gathered in awe. They had instinctively known for many hours that something momentous was about to occur, although they had not been exactly sure what. Now they knew. Zerkons, ice bears, deer, snow hares, even the birds who had been spreading the news since dusk, gathered side by side, predator and prey, forgetting their fear or hunger as they witnessed a wild man doing battle with a creature they had never seen before, a creature they knew of only from stories handed down through the ages. A dragon.

Rollo, Myrt, and Byl saw Cailech glance at the muslin bundle that had been carefully tied to one of the Mountain King’s most trustworthy horses. They could see past the stern expression to the emotional battle going on inside. Wyl steeled himself not to look at Ylena’s corpse again. It was over. Her life was spent and had been given bravely, as all the Thirsks before her had given theirs.

Beside Cailech’s horse stood a huge dog. He explained its presence to the Mountain Men. “This is Knave. He is going to help us with what we must do, and is one of the reasons why Rashlyn no longer has any hold on me.”

“Where is Rashlyn, sire?” Myrt asked. He seemed fully recovered from the barshi’s attack.

“He is dead,” Wyl risked, hoping he was telling the truth.

“And Lothryn, your majesty?” Rollo added.

They deserved to know the truth. “I have released him. Aremys here can talk to him and that was what Lothryn wanted.”

Rollo gasped. All the talk of magic had been confusing enough, but was the King saying that the Grenadyne could communicate with the magically created animals?

“What! How?”

“Myrt knows,” Wyl replied. He was not in the mood for further discussion. “He will explain. Right now we ride for Briavel.”

“May I ask why, sire?” Myrt said. His tone was hesitant but his manner firm.

“To make a new peace treaty, this time with a queen who needs the support of the Mountain People.”

“Against the Morgravian Crown?” Myrt asked, quickly grasping his king’s intent.

It was Aremys who replied. “Celimus has no intention of keeping his promise to the Razor Kingdom. Our only hope of peace is with Briavel.”

“But, sire,” Rollo pleaded. “She is marrying Celimus. Her loyalties stand with him!”

“Not necessarily,” the King replied in a tone that discouraged further argument. “I need you to trust me. I have not yet led our people astray. I will not do so now.”

“Shouldn’t we come with you, sire?” Myrt asked, far preferring to ride headlong into danger with his king than to take over royal duties.

“No. I need you here, Myrt. You and Rollo will keep everyone steady. And in case the horse returns—he will need friends, allies who know the truth.” He said no more. It would not serve any purpose to get their hopes up that Lothryn might be restored.

Myrt asked anyway. “Can the spells be reversed?”

“It’s my keen hope they can be. According to Aremys, it is why Lothryn asked to be released.”

“Where has he gone?”

“We don’t know,” Aremys replied. “But he took the gray dog with him. We just have to hope he knows more than we do, now that Rashlyn is finished.”

Myrt nodded unhappily, a glum Rollo by his side. “Haldor keep you safe, sire.” Cailech nodded back, appreciating the warrior’s suffering and his wish to protect his king. “It is better this way, Myrt. We two can slip into and out of Briavel far more subtly than a pile of Mountain barbarians storming Werryl Palace.”

“Get word to us the usual way,” Myrt said, cocking his head toward a small box fastened to the side of the horse that carried Ylena.

Wyl frowned, taking a moment to delve into Cailech’s memories. He understood. “I hope those pigeons are strong fliers,” he said.

“The best,” Myrt answered. “Rollo’s top birds,” and he grinned toward his companion.

“All right. Keep faith. Look after Aydrech. If anything happens, if Celimus sets a raid, the boy must be protected at all costs.”

The big man nodded. “I will take care of him personally.”

“Good,” Wyl said, adding: “Rotate the watches regularly. I have no idea whether Celimus will attempt anything or not.”

“Possibly not with a wedding so close,” Aremys commented drily.

“Nevertheless,” Wyl replied, “the child’s safety is paramount.” He leaned down and clasped each man’s hand in farewell, suspecting that neither of these loyal Mountain warriors would see their king again.

The horse arrived at the edge of the wood. Lothryn was drawn toward the trees, and as he entered their cover he felt the pulse of magic emanating from somewhere deep inside the forest. He also noted that he was feeling stronger, more himself, than he had felt since the change had been inflicted on him. Pain continued to be his companion, but he believed it had lessened ever so slightly.

Lothryn was reassured by the connection between him and the dog. He could feel its heartbeat, weak but still there. Hang on, Gueryn, he passed through the link, even though he had no idea whether the trapped man heard him or could even register something as subtle as another’s thoughts.

Still following the compulsion, Lothryn pushed deeper into the wood until he came to a clearing. He stood at its fringe and looked in wonderment at the sight that confronted him—a huge dragon coated in a shimmering armor of scales. Its serpentlike neck was twisted and the great head was thrown back, but there was no sound. The great beast was silent as wave after wave of sickening magical power pounded its body. The deathly magic was a sickly brown color, impenetrable by light. And Rashlyn was dealing the blows, his face a twisted mask of hate.

Lothryn was tempted to rush forward and pummel the barshi with every last ounce of strength he could muster from Galapek’s powerful body, and yet something stopped him. He stared at Rashlyn and knew that if hate, madness, and despair could be embodied, they would look exactly like the sorcerer before him. Although Rashlyn looked exhausted, he was standing and seemed to be in control of his powers. He muttered a stream of unintelligible words; the dragon faltered.

Looking around, Lothryn became aware of other creatures—dozens, no scores of them—clustered among the trees and dotted around the nearby foothills. He even saw zerkons, and flinched in fear, before he realized they were paralyzed by the same awe that he was experiencing.

A dragon! Who would have thought they truly existed? Lothryn had always considered them creatures of myth.

Fight back! Lothryn begged.

He won’t replied a voice, startling him.

He twisted to see who it was. A bird on a nearby branch stretched its wings. Who are you? the horse asked.

I am Kestrel.

And who is that? Lothryn tossed his head toward the dragon.

That is the King. The King of us all. And he is sacrificing himself to save us. He was once Fynch.

I gathered Fynch was a child.

He is so much more.

But I see him as a dragon, Lothryn persisted. There’s no boy there.

He is still a child physically, but the dragon reflects who he truly is.

Kestrel’s explanation served only to confuse Lothryn. He looked back at the dragon, which staggered slightly. Why doesn’t he use his powers? Surely he can topple a man!

Oh yes, he could overcome the sorcerer with ease, but he refuses to kill. That is the child in our king. He made a pact with himself, I think. I sensed it when he first spoke to me. There is no violence in Fynch. He agreed to destroy Rashlyn but in his own way.

Lothryn felt his spirit lurch with grief. Wyl’s friend, now—like all of them—somehow changed by enchantment. So how can he beat the barshi?

Kestrel’s sorrow was immediate and apparent. By taking everything that is Rashlyn. He will absorb the storm of magic, consume the pain, devour the evil. Already his glow lessens. When they began, the King of the Creatures burned golden bright. See how the murky evil has dimmed him.

But then he will die himself Lothryn said, aghast.

I suspect so, Kestrel agreed, bitterness in his voice. But not before Rashlyn burns through his power until there is none left.

Lothryn needed to ask no more. Both creatures fell silent, keeping vigil with the other animals of the mountains, still gathering to pay homage to their king.