CHAPTER

Fifty

When Tristan finally awakened again, it was to find Ox looking down at him.

―It almost dawn,‖ the Minion said. ―Chosen One all right?‖

His head still swimming, Tristan got out of bed, testing his abilities. He hurt everywhere, especially in his right arm and shoulder. He found that he could move it, though it remained stiff. He shook his head. Bad as it is, it will simply have to do. For today we go into battle.

―I‘m able to fight.‖ His grin to Ox was stark and determined. He dressed as quickly as he could, then placed the dreggan and scabbard over his back against the gray fur jacket Shailiha had given him and donned the leather quiver that held his dirks, adjusting it so that the handles of the weapons would not interfere with one another. He reached back to check that none of the weapons would stick, though the movement caused his shoulder to burn in agony.

And then he saw the brain hook.

He picked it up from the night table and turned it this way and that. Its pearl handle and the hook at the end of the blade gleamed quietly in the light of the chandeliers. For a moment he smiled, wondering how many secrets it held, and how many more it would yet participate in.

Finally he concealed it within his right knee boot. Then, remembering another item he would like to have, he retrieved the handkerchief Celeste had given him and tucked it into a pocket.

Another table was laden with food and drink: tea, long since cold; dark bread; and cheese.

The first few bites reminded him how long it had been since he‘d had nourishment, and he ate and drank greedily. Finally feeling more refreshed, he squared his shoulders and walked to the door with Ox at his side.

As they neared the field to the north Tristan slowed, amazed at the sight before them.

All of the Minion warriors, some eighty thousand strong, were standing in the cold, white snow, awaiting his orders. The sun was just coming up, and its orange and golden rays illuminated the warriors one seemingly endless row at a time. When he saw what some of those in the forward areas were holding, it took his breath away.

At Traax‘s sharp order, battle drums began to sound. Fifty of the warriors walked forward, each holding a long pole. At the end of each pole was a blue-and-gold battle flag carrying the heraldry of his family, the House of Galland.

The gold field of each flag had superimposed upon it a blue Eutracian broadsword and a roaring lion. The sight strengthened Tristan‘s heart. They march to their deaths under my family"s flag. I could never have asked for more than this.

For the first time since he had seen them violently crashing through the roof of the palace on his ill-fated coronation day, he felt genuinely pleased to have the savage, winged warriors in his presence.

As Tristan watched, they all went to one knee in the snow, lowering their heads in submission. With a single, unified voice, they shouted, ―I live to serve!‖ Several moments passed as Tristan looked down at them, the snow lightly falling on their bodies and wings.

―You may rise,‖ he said, finally finding his voice.

Traax approached him, smiling. ―We didn‘t think you would mind, my lord,‖ he said. ―We asked the wizards where we might find these, and they gladly obliged us. We march for you, and you alone. Under your banner—the banner that is now also ours.‖

―Thank you, Traax,‖ Tristan answered softly. ―And I don‘t mind. I don‘t mind at all.‖

Just as the prince was about to address the warriors again, some of them began looking upward, pointing to the brightening sky. Tristan, Traax, and Ox raised their eyes to behold what was taking shape above them.

Writing.

Spellbound, Tristan watched as a single hatchling with a rider, high over the royal palace, somehow began tracing words into the sky. With every turn the bird made, a flowing line followed gracefully behind it, leaving azure letters. Slowly, the letters began to spell out words. As he watched the twisted, sick poem continue to form, Tristan‘s hands balled up into fists. The rider must be Scrounge, but he knew that the power would be coming from Nicholas. Finally the verse was complete:

Come up, Chosen One,

In the clouds we shall meet.

For when the fight is finally over,

And the carnage is complete,

I know I shall have found your death

To be marvelously, sinfully sweet.

S.

Traax turned to Tristan and saw the look of hate in the prince‘s eyes. ―This one called Scrounge waits for you,‖ he said quietly. ―And it is now time for you to go to him.‖

Tristan took his gaze from the sky just as Scrounge and his mount began to soar away to the northeast. ―Yes,‖ he answered, his eyes dark. ―There is much between him and me that needs to be put right. But first I will address the warriors.‖

Looking to the thousands of winged ones before him, he thought for a moment. Many, if not all of them, were about to die in his service. He wanted to make sure as best he could that his address would count for something.

―Warriors! Minions of Day and Night!‖ he shouted. ―When you first came to my land, you came as attackers. This time you come as defenders of Eutracia. I am honored by your presence here today, for you are the most skilled warriors I have ever seen. Follow my instructions and those of your officers to the letter, and you may survive. If I should fall in battle, know that for as long as the struggle reigns, you are to take your orders from Traax.

But following the conflict, no matter how it ends, you are to seek out the wizards Wigg and Faegan and submit to them as your new lords. Do you understand me?‖

Again came the thunderous chorus. ―I live to serve!‖

Tristan reached painfully behind him and drew his dreggan. The deadly, familiar ring of the blade leaving its scabbard reverberated a long time in the cool, dry air before finally fading away.

―I also charge each of you with something else this day,‖ Tristan shouted. ―It is no secret that we are greatly outnumbered. But if each of you kills at least three of the enemy, we shall win!‖

With that thousands of dreggans came out of their scabbards, their blades ringing through the cold air amid eager cheering.

Tristan looked at the warriors for a time, and then over to both Traax and Ox. They were smiling broadly. ―Remember our battle plan,‖ he said. ―And may the Afterlife have mercy upon us this day.‖

Saying nothing more, he replaced his dreggan into its scabbard and checked his knives. His hatchling was waiting nearby, and Tristan climbed into its saddle and strapped himself in. He wheeled the bird around to face his warriors a final time. And then a thought came to him.

He reached into a pocket and produced the scented handkerchief that Celeste had given him.

As the myrrh hidden there came back to him for what would almost certainly be the final time, he smiled fatalistically and tied it around his left arm. Then he launched his bird into the sky.

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.