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 outline 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.

Tristan raised his sword.

―Now! For Eutracia!‖ he shouted at the top of his lungs as he spurred his mount. All at once, weapons at the ready, Tristan‘s Minion warriors started to move.

Gathering speed, both hatchling and Minion alike tore across the sky, covering the distance between them in mere moments. Amid relentless battle screams and the brutal sounds of smashing bodies, the two forces tore into one another.

Tristan immediately went high, pulling his bird up at the last moment, just before the armies clashed. He turned around in his saddle, waving his dreggan.

Almost at once, Ox‘s bugle rang out.

Tristan looked down to the battle. It was progressing exactly as he had anticipated, the bulk of the hatchling legions attempting to hack their way through the center of his forces, separating them into two parts. For now, the Minions were holding their ground, their front lines uniform. But he knew that not all the hatchlings had reached the fighting. From each side of the struggle blood, bodies, and severed limbs and heads went flying into the cold air, falling almost in slow motion, bathing the ground below in red.

Tristan heard the bugle ring out for the second time, and he turned to stare at the towering clouds behind him. Now! he ordered silently. You must come now!

On cue, twenty-five thousand Minion warriors—almost a full third of Tristan‘s forces—came pouring from the clouds, Ox in the lead. Their wings folded back, their bodies pointed straight down, and their weapons held out before them, the Minions dove directly at the rear, still-uninvolved lines of unsuspecting hatchlings at full speed.

Tristan held his breath.

Nearly twenty-five thousand hatchlings died on the spot. Most of them never saw their attackers as the Minions came plummeting out of the sky, the sun at their backs. Rent apart by dreggans, daggers, and axes, blood flying, the mangled bodies of the grotesque birds fell in convoluted postures of instant death.

The idea had actually been Traax‘s, based on one of the strategies the Minions used to capture the swamp shrews in Parthalon. Tristan and the wizards had agreed.

But the prince could also see that the Minions remained badly outnumbered. With the scattering of the hatchlings‘ rear lines, the battle was quickly decaying into individual struggles, each fighter for himself. With the two foes filling up what seemed to be the entire sky, Tristan continued to hover, his anxious eyes trying to find Scrounge. And then, in the midst of the melee below, the prince finally saw him.

Scrounge was diving his bird toward the back of an unsuspecting Minion. Raising his broadsword in his left hand, the assassin took the warrior‘s head off with a single stroke, only to wheel his bird around and approach yet another of his enemies from the rear.

Although tempting, this deceitful approach was not for Tristan. You shall know it was I who killed you, he swore. He swung his bird around and dove. ―Scrounge!‖ he screamed as he approached the assassin.

Scrounge wheeled about and raised his broadsword. As the two men met, he struck a vicious blow that Tristan just barely parried; only the thigh straps saved the prince from falling off.

Tristan countered from overhead with his dreggan, but the weakness in his arm and shoulder made him too slow. Dodging, Scrounge raised his right forearm and snapped his wrist; a poisoned arrow flew straight for Tristan‘s breast. The prince whirled his bird at the last moment. The arrow just missed him, going on to bury itself deeply into the neck of an unsuspecting hatchling behind him, sending it crashing to the earth.

Tristan dropped the reins and tossed the heavy dreggan into his left hand. Then he reached back with his right, grabbed one of his knives, and sent it end over end toward Scrounge‘s heart.

Twisting in his saddle at the last moment, the assassin was able to keep the spinning blade from entering his chest, but not the shoulder of his sword arm. The dirk buried itself into his flesh up to the handle. Screaming wildly in pain, Scrounge yanked out the bloody weapon and sent it tumbling to the ground.

Tristan dug his heels into the sides of his bird, directing it to hover just above and to one side of Scrounge. Trying to ignore his pain, he raised his sword with both hands and began hacking at the assassin with everything he had.

Wounded, and his broadsword too heavy for overhead fighting, Scrounge lifted his crossbow and let go another of the yellow-tipped arrows. It missed widely. In desperation, he wheeled his bird around, trying to dive to safety by outrunning the prince. Tristan followed him down.

The intense coldness of the wind slammed into Tristan‘s face and eyes, blurring his vision so that he could hardly see. They approached the lower levels of the fighting, but Scrounge descended even farther, actually soaring beneath the battle. Then he pulled his bird up at a seemingly impossible angle, in an attempt to hide among the massive numbers of warriors and hatchlings above him.

Tristan tried to follow suit, but the pain in his arm kept him from pulling back on the reins as hard as he wanted. He lost sight of the assassin almost immediately. Before he could continue in his pursuit, a hatchling was upon him, its sword held high, its red eyes gleaming. Just as it approached, Tristan reached back and threw a dirk, burying it into one of the awful thing‘s eyes. It died screaming, blood and vitreous matter spurting violently from its head as it tumbled to the blood-soaked ground. Two more birds died at the prince‘s hand before he had a safe opportunity to look around and take stock of the battle.

The Minions were losing.

For what Tristan assumed to be the first time in their history, the winged warriors were giving ground. Many of the hatchlings continued to fall, as well, but it was clear that if the situation was not reversed, the Minions would soon lose the struggle altogether.

Not yet ready to signal a retreat, Tristan swooped down, trying to find Traax and Ox. But neither of them came into view. Yet another hatchling bore down on him, and he found himself locked into swordplay. For what seemed an eternity the advantage harrowingly seesawed back and forth, Tristan‘s right arm growing weaker by the moment. Finally seizing his chance, the prince leaned forward, placing the point of the dreggan against the bird‘s breast and simultaneously pressing the hidden button in the hilt. The tip of the dreggan launched forward, slicing directly into the bird‘s rib cage. Tristan retracted the bloody blade, and the hatchling helplessly pawed at its fractured chest with its strangely human arms, turning over free fall.

The screams of the dying resonated in Tristan‘s ears. Looking around, he still could not locate Ox or Traax. He would have to alter the course of the battle by himself.

Rising higher into the sky, he tried to rally the Minions. He wanted to get as many of them as possible to retreat, in order to regroup into a cohesive fighting unit again, at a far greater altitude. But before he could get the attention of his officers, his hatchling rebelled.

Disobeying his commands, it flew straight down into the battle, swooping and darting among the struggling fighters with unmatched speed and dexterity. Tristan tried desperately to control the bird, but nothing he did worked. It flew unerringly through the worst of the havoc, seemingly searching for something. Several harrowing near misses later, they finally came upon Traax and Ox, fighting grimly back to back.

Tristan pulled on the reins with all his might, trying frantically to get Traax‘s attention. But his rebellious hatchling swooped quickly by without pause, and the prince‘s raging words were drowned out not only by the wind of his swift passage, but by the screams and shouts coming from the carnage all around them.

The hatchling climbed with amazing speed up through another sky-blue gap in the fighting, heading high in the air over the carnage. Then it slowed to a hover in the cold, blustery air, momentarily safe from the raging battle below, and turned its head around to face Tristan as best it could, its glowing orbs staring directly into his.

―Trust the process, Chosen One,‖ it said in a deep, controlled voice.

Stunned, Tristan thought he might be hearing things, or that the fourth of his convulsions was upon him, making him hallucinate. But no convulsion came. Raising his dreggan higher, he looked around to see if someone or something was playing a trick. But there was nothing near. The bird‘s head was still turned toward him; its glowing eyes continued to bore their way into his own. The hatchling could speak!

―Trust the process, Chosen One,‖ the bird repeated. With what seemed to be a strange kind of finality, it turned its head forward once again.

The hatchling had just said the same words that Shailiha had so cryptically whispered to him while he was recovering from his third convulsion. But what is the “process”? he wondered frantically. What is it I am supposed to trust?

―Speak to me!‖ he shouted at the bird. ―I command you! In whom or what is it I am supposed to trust?‖ But the bird refused to acknowledge him, and it still would not move.

From below, Tristan heard the peal of four bugle calls. Ox! They understood my meaning, and are sounding a retreat!

Then, as if at the behest of the bugle but still in defiance of Tristan‘s direct commands, the hatchling started to move. As it circled lazily in the sky, Traax and Ox neared, followed by what remained of the Minion army. Then, just when Tristan was about to shout orders, the bird turned and flew off again.

Tristan pulled back on the reins with all of his strength. He had to speak with Traax and Ox!

But whenever the two Minions gained on them, the hatchling would speed up. Then it turned east.

We are in a full-fledged retreat! Tristan realized with growing horror.

Sensing imminent victory, the entire hatchling army, with Scrounge at the lead, chased after them.

“Trust the process, Chosen One.” He wondered what it meant.

Finally bowing to the inevitable, Tristan leaned forward a little in his saddle as his hatchling mysteriously continued on its way.

Shailiha stood with her back to the magnificent pine forest; before her, to the west, lay the barren, snow-laden fields of Farplain. Her eyes were closed, her face raised, her arms outstretched. The only sound she could hear was the soft brushing together of the pine needles in the boughs of the trees behind her as the cold wind moved them about.

And then, suddenly, she heard it—the mental call of the flier, Caprice. Dropping her arms to her sides, she opened her eyes.

―They come,‖ she said softly. ―Tristan, Ox, and Traax remain unhurt.‖

―It is Caprice who has told you this?‖ Faegan asked.

―Yes,‖ the princess replied.

―And the hatchlings follow?‖ Wigg asked.

―Yes.‖

―How long?‖ Faegan demanded.

―One hour, perhaps a bit more.‖

―Then it is time to make ready,‖ Wigg replied.

The wind blew the snow back and forth into little drifts of ever-changing shape; the deceivingly calm, blue skies overhead were soon to be full of the coming fury. Behind Shailiha stood the most magnificent forest she had ever seen. And just before her, though she could not see it without proper training, lay the invisible canyon guarding the borders of Shadowood.

Within that dark, enchanted forest, the Minions and the gnomes had hurriedly begun to go about the tasks the wizards had given them. The various sounds coming to her ears from their work seemed strange, and foreign-sounding.

Everything else seemed so peaceful here in this place of the craft, but in her heart of hearts she knew all of that was about to change.

Tristan held tight to both his reins and his saddle pommel as the snowy ground below him flew by at an astonishing speed. Almost an hour had passed since they departed the battle scene. By now it was abundantly clear that they were heading for the coast, or at least as far as Shadowood.

In sheer desperation he pulled once more on the reins, trying to change the bird‘s direction and thus veer the monsters behind them off course.

But still it was no use. Exhausted not only by the poisoned blood swirling through his veins but also by the recent battle, he carefully replaced his heavy dreggan within its scabbard and slumped forward. The bird carried him across the sky at what now seemed to be an even greater speed.

They are here,‖ Shailiha said, opening her eyes. She looked up to the sky, where tiny dots were beginning to form. ―First come Tristan, then Ox and Traax, the Minions, and finally Scrounge and his hatchlings.‖ Her voice was cracking with the strain. ―They will be over us in moments.‖ She closed her eyes once more.

Wigg turned his own white, unseeing eyes toward where he knew Faegan to be. Desperation showed clearly in his face. ―Are they ready?‖ he asked.

―If they are not,‖ Faegan answered softly, ―then all that we know is truly and finally lost.‖

With Shailiha and Wigg standing quietly in the snow to either side of his chair, Faegan reached out and linked hands with the princess and Wigg. He turned his eyes to the sky before speaking again.

―May the Afterlife have somehow granted us the wisdom to be right.‖

Tristan clung to his hatchling as it tore across the sky. Looking up, he could just begin to make out the edge of the dark forest protecting the western border of Shadowood. He still didn‘t know precisely where his bird was taking him, but one thing was now blindingly certain: It was no use trying to get the hatchling to change direction.

But then, quite unexpectedly, it did on its own.

Pointing its head down in an incredibly steep dive, the bird plummeted headlong toward the white, cold earth. Turning around as best he could, Tristan was able to see that all of the Minions were obediently following him, with hatchlings still in relentless pursuit.

It was then that the insidious realization gripped him.

It was a trick! His hatchling had not been successfully tamed by Wigg and Faegan. It was one of the enemy still—and it intended to dive straight at the ground, killing Tristan along with itself. How could he have been so blind and mistrusting? And what about the Minions?

Would they follow him to their deaths, as the hatchlings driving them onward pulled up at the last moment?

He tried to raise his hands to wave the Minions off, but the force of the oncoming wind was too strong.

Finally, as the white, snowy ground raced up to meet them, Tristan remembered the invisible canyon. And then it all became clear.

“Trust the process, Chosen One.” Now he understood!

For a split second, as the earth approached headlong toward him, he saw three figures holding hands. Shailiha?

One second later, as the white, snowy ground rose up into his face, he gripped the bird around its neck for all he was worth, wondering if he was about to die.

He didn‘t. But all he could see was blackness.

What seemed like an eternity passed as the hatchling continued its steep descent into the canyon. Then he felt the bird begin to level out, and his eyes started to adjust to the gloom.

His hatchling made a curving turn to the left and went speeding along what seemed to be the floor of the canyon; the walls flashed by so quickly they were just a blur. Looking down, he saw bones scattered everywhere. They were no doubt the result of having gone one step too far in the pursuit of the magical place known as Shadowood.

Glancing up, he could see the sky overhead, sunlight streaking down here and there between the clouds. Then he looked behind him, and his mouth fell open.

The entire Minion army, led by Traax and Ox, was following him along the floor of the canyon. There was no way to tell whether the hatchlings were still pursuing them.

All Tristan could do was hold on as best he could while the floor of the cavern and its macabre carpet of bones flew by at an astonishing speed.

Are you quite sure of the timing?‖ Wigg asked nervously. ―It must be absolutely perfect!‖

Faegan pursed his lips, trying to retain his concentration. ―I am well aware, Wigg,‖ he responded curtly.

The three of them were still at the edge of the invisible canyon, and had watched both the prince and the Minions dive into its depths, followed by Scrounge and the hatchlings. With the rapid disappearance of the two forces, the skies above had gone still. But Faegan, Wigg, and Shailiha knew it was not to last.

Turning around to face the forest, hoping against hope, Shailiha held her breath.

Now also turning, his eyes closed, Faegan silently employed the craft to calculate the variables of time, speed, and distance. It must be neither too soon, nor too late, he reminded himself. As Wigg said, it must be absolutely perfect. There will be no second chance.

Still concentrating, Faegan slowly raised his right hand. Then he opened his eyes and sent an azure bolt from his fingertips into the sky. At the signal, the trees in the forest seemed to tremble.

The Minions who had brought Wigg, Faegan, and Shailiha here flew from the woods. Many of them carried something in their hands other than weapons. And others of them carried something on their backs that seemed stranger still—the gnomes of Shadowood.

Each of the little men had one of his small arms wrapped tightly around the neck of the Minion he was riding, and in the other he gripped what appeared to be a canvas bag.

Rising quickly into the sky, the Minions fanned out over a section of what the wizards had previously shown them to be the unseen outline of the canyon‘s facing edges and unwrapped their cargo. Faegan again sent a bolt of magic shooting skyward. Without hesitation the Minions dived for the earth, spreading something before them.

Swamp shrew nets.

Holding the nets out before them, the Minions plunged headlong into the canyon. Shailiha watched in amazement as they disappeared, as if they had been literally swallowed up by the earth. As quickly as they had come, the Minions and the gnomes were gone. Turning to the princess, Faegan nodded.

Closing her eyes, Shailiha raised her arms.

Without warning, Tristan‘s hatchling lurched upward, soaring toward the top of the chasm.

The prince watched, mouth agape, as the walls of the canyon flew by, vertically this time, and wondered what was to become of him.

His bird stopped about midway to the top. The Minion forces quickly caught up, coming to hover in the gloom before their leader.

―What is happening, my lord?‖ Traax called out. ―What is this place? Why are we stopping?

Are we to finally turn and fight like warriors?‖

A glance downward told Tristan that Scrounge and the hatchling army would shortly be upon them.

―Everyone turn around, and get ready to fight!‖ he hollered at the top of his lungs. ―There is no time for explanations!‖

But just as Tristan‘s forces started to fan out, their other brothers, carrying the shrew nets before them, gnomes still clinging perilously to their backs, plummeted down above the unsuspecting hatchlings. Approaching with incredible speed, the Minions drove the heavy, whistling nets lower, finally muscling them over the top of the awful birds. Realizing what was happening, Minions from Tristan‘s group soared downward, helping their brothers to secure the great rope webs over the hatchlings in clumps as far down the length of the canyon as the prince‘s eyes could see. The Minion warriors then began forcing the trapped birds closer to the canyon floor.

Tristan watched, dumbfounded. Amidst the confusion, the gnomes leapt from the backs of the Minions and began using stakes and mallets with a vengeance, securing the outer edges of the nets to the canyon floor and trapping the screaming hatchlings securely inside.

Realizing at last that what had just happened had largely been the work of Wigg, Faegan, and Shailiha, the prince drew his sword, ready to search for Scrounge somewhere beneath the nets. But just as he did so, his bird lurched upward again, carrying him up and out of the chasm.

Tristan fully expected the hatchling to drop him off next to where he could now see Wigg, Shailiha, and Faegan waiting for him. But it didn‘t.

He finally realized where he was being taken. Exhausted, he had no choice but to lean forward on the neck of the bird, closing his eyes, and trust his life to the fates.

As she watched the tiny speck in the sky disappear, Shailiha wiped an errant tear from her cheek. ―Will he live?‖ she asked Wigg.

―We have been fortunate this day, Princess,‖ he answered softly. In his unseeing way, he placed an affectionate arm around her shoulders. ―But what you ask is not in our power to grant. I must tell you from my heart that there is no way for him to survive. What we do now is simply give him additional closure to his life, nothing more. For that is all we can do. His fourth and final convulsion will soon be upon him, and there is nothing that either Faegan or I can change about that. Nor is there any action we can take to stop the Confluence. As we said before, we didn‘t think Nicholas would send his hatchlings after us until the construction of the Gates had been completed. My guess is that they are now finished. The Confluence thus cannot be far behind—perhaps as soon as tomorrow.‖

―We should be going with him,‖ she said, her eyes still locked on the empty sky. ―I simply cannot say good-bye to him like this . . .‖

―We have already said our good-byes, Shailiha,‖ Faegan replied softly. ―What he does now he must do alone.‖

Looking up, the princess saw Caprice and the other fliers finally returning. She raised her arm, and the magnificent yellow-and-violet butterfly obediently came to rest there; the others swirled gently in graceful circles over their mistress‘ head.

Her tears coming fully now, she grasped the gold medallion that hung around her neck.

Good-bye, my brother. I shall always love you.