The Fifth Sorceress, page 77
This time Tristan was quicker, and thrust his dreggan straight ahead and upward, aiming for Kluge’s groin. Although Kluge was fast enough to dodge most of the blow, the dreggan went straight through his inner thigh and out the other side, blood spurting. Screaming more from rage than from pain, Kluge backed away, Tristan’s dreggan sliding from the wound, and began hacking maddeningly at the prince as he lay there in the dirt.
Get up! Tristan told himself. Get up or you will die in the dirt before this creature!
As the heavy blows rained down on him one after the other there was simply no chance to retaliate, and the best Tristan could do was to try to stand again. Finally, in between the insane, swinging strikes, he somehow once again found the earth beneath his feet and stood there, dazed and dizzy, blood flowing openly from his shoulder.
Kluge then unexpectedly backed away from the prince and reached for the returning wheel at his side. In a flash it was in the air and heading for Tristan’s throat. At the last moment Tristan twisted wildly to the side, but the wheel grazed the side of his right cheek, putting him badly off balance.
The point of Kluge’s dreggan came directly at the prince, only to suddenly stop a short distance from his throat. Stunned, the prince almost didn’t realize the danger as Kluge depressed the button on the hilt of his dreggan. Just as the last foot of sharpened steel launched itself forward, Tristan wheeled to one side, the tip of the dreggan slashing through the space where his face had just been.
I cannot defeat this man, he realized, his arms so heavy that he could hardly raise the sword in his own defense, much less mount an attack against the screaming, half-insane monster that wanted to take his life. For some reason his oxygen-deprived mind flew back to the day upon the dais, when he had used his dirks to kill several of the Minion attackers. At least I killed the one who murdered Frederick, he remembered. Frederick, my friend . . .
And then some long-forgotten memory of the past began to tug at his mind. Something about that day in the royal courtyard when he and Frederick had been fencing in front of the Royal Guard. The same day they had killed the screaming harpy. The same day his mother had given him the medallion he wore around his neck. What is it? he asked himself, trying desperately to dodge Kluge’s blows and raise his leaden arms to strike back. What is it my blood is trying to tell me?
And then he remembered. Frederick’s technique …the one he finally used to defeat me …The way he caught me off guard . . .
The last of his strength was almost gone. It is the only thing I have left, he realized. May the Afterlife grant me the strength for this last act.
Tristan backed away from Kluge as fast as he could, momentarily lowering his sword. As expected, the commander of the Minions of Day and Night rushed forward, but that tiny instant of time without being continuously attacked was what the prince was looking for. As Kluge dashed in and raised his sword, Tristan purposely left his dreggan pointed to the dirt as if accepting his impending death. Then, suddenly looking up and over Kluge’s shoulder, he dropped his jaw with a total look of surprise.
As Tristan had hoped, Kluge quickly turned to look over his shoulder, briefly turning his attention away from the prince to look for what was coming after him from behind.
Exposing his neck.
With a great effort, Tristan swung his sword in a perfect, curving arc, cutting across the monster’s throat.
For a moment Kluge simply stood there, looking at him in amazement as if frozen in time. Then the ghastly line of red began to surface across his throat, and the blood stared to pour from it and down the front of his chest.
With a last measure of strength he didn’t know he had, Tristan raised his dreggan again and cut across the monster’s lower legs, slicing through them at the knees. Kluge collapsed to the ground on his back, one hand still holding his sword, the other reaching to his throat to try to stem the loss of blood.
Breathless, barely able to hold his dreggan, Tristan stumbled over to look down into the face that he hated so much. He had intended to strike fully across Kluge’s throat and behead him, but his swing had fallen short and instead cut shallowly across the windpipe and jugular vein, leaving the monster alive. Tristan looked down into the dark eyes of the murderer of his family, watching emotionlessly as the blood ran from the cut throat and into the thirsty dirt of the courtyard.
And then the commander of the Minions of Day and Night spoke.
‘Our struggle is not over, Chosen One,’ he said, his voice gurgling. He coughed up blood. ‘Even in death it shall go on for me. There are still things you do not know, and even if you should somehow return to your homeland you will be a wanted man, hunted day and night because of me, your forever-damaged sister a mere shadow of her former self. No, Galland, your victory over me here today is far from complete.’ Somehow, even now, Kluge managed a wicked grin of defiance.
‘Our battle goes on, even from my grave.’
His arm covered with blood, his mind barely conscious, Tristan pushed the button at the hilt of his sword. He felt the dreggan jump in his hand as the blade launched the extra foot into the air. He looked down into the hated, dark eyes for the final time.
‘As you forced me to do to my father,’ he said quietly. ‘With the same sword.’
He swung the blade in a high arc and brought it down with everything he had left, severing Kluge’s head from his body. He stood there for a moment, listening as Kluge’s lungs expelled their final death rattle.
Then, thrusting the tip of his sword into the dirt before him, he leaned weakly on the hilt of his dreggan and closed his eyes for a moment, the only sound in the little sunlit square the intermittent rush of the wind as it wandered through the charred destruction of the city.
Rest in peace, my father, he called silently. For we shall be joining you soon.
Exhausted, Tristan looked up to the wall where Kluge had stood, knowing that at any moment the Minions would descend upon them. Traax, Kluge’s second in command, immediately snapped open his long wings and jumped off the wall, flying menacingly down in a straight line toward the prince.
Finally, this is where I die, Tristan thought. I am too weak even to lift my sword, much less defeat another of these creatures. Dying here is as good a place as any.
He tried with both hands extended to raise the now impossibly heavy dreggan in his defense but could only manage to bring it as high as his waist, his weak, trembling legs bent at the knees. He stood there abjectly, the blood still running from his shoulder and down to the handle of his sword as he finally accepted the fact that he was about to die.
Traax landed lightly in front of the prince and drew his dreggan, its clear, harsh ring seeming to call out the prince’s death knell. The curved blade twinkled momentarily in the sunlight.
And then Traax did something that would change the Chosen One’s life forever. Placing his dreggan in the dirt at the prince’s feet, he went down on one knee before Tristan and lowered his head.
‘I live to serve,’ Traax said obediently.
Stunned, the prince raised his face to see an entire ocean of Minion warriors doing the same thing. As they simultaneously drew their swords from their scabbards the air rang overwhelmingly with their blades’ combined songs, and then the troops laid their dreggans on the ground. There was a great rustling sound as they all went down on bended knee and simultaneously uttered the simple, all-encompassing oath of the Minions.
‘I live to serve,’ they said, as if of one mind. The combination of so many strong voices literally shook the weakened foundations of the buildings around them.
Wondering if he was dreaming, Tristan looked down to see that Geldon had run up to stand alongside him.
‘It’s true!’ the dwarf exclaimed excitedly. ‘You are their new leader, and they will do anything you say!’ He was grinning so widely that it looked as if his face might burst. Tristan stared at him, confused.
‘Minion tradition says that whoever kills the commander becomes the new commander of the Minions of Day and Night.’ He smiled sheepishly, his face scarlet. ‘I had forgotten all about it, since the custom of Minion succession by death had little meaning for me. Had I remembered, I would have told you sooner.’
‘Is it really true?’ Tristan whispered, half to himself, as he looked out at the sea of kneeling troops. He couldn’t believe that his eyes were not lying to him somehow.
‘Oh, yes, it is!’ Geldon exclaimed. ‘In fact, they know no other way. You are their new lord.’ He was obviously enjoying seeing the Minions in this position. ‘I suppose you should tell them what to do before their wings begin to wilt.’ He snickered.
Tristan looked down at the still-submissive figure of Traax and then out to the vast hordes of kneeling, winged troops before him. Thousands upon thousands of them. The thought staggered him. My sworn enemies, the butchers of both my nation and my family. What am I to do with such numbers?
He again looked back down at Geldon, and a brief smile crossed his lips as he continued to lean weakly against the hilt of his dreggan. Shaking his head, he snorted a disapproving, unbelieving laugh down his nose at the dwarf. ‘You forgot?’ he asked.
‘Uh, yes, I mean, no, uh, I’m sorry, Tristan …I know it would have made a big difference, but it was just that there was so much happening . . .’ He nervously started up his old habit of fingering his jeweled collar. Not wishing to engage the embarrassingly dark gaze of the Chosen One, Geldon’s small eyes suddenly began examining his equally small toes.
Tristan looked back at Traax, his eyes narrowing, wondering what it was he should do. ‘Rise, Traax,’ he said finally.
Traax quickly came to his feet, leaving his dreggan in the dirt before the prince’s feet. ‘Yes, my lord,’ came the quick reply. The man was younger than Kluge, almost his dead commander’s size, and clean shaven. He looked at the prince with calm but inquisitive green eyes. His face was handsome, his intelligence apparent.
But just as the prince was about to order the Minions, he heard Wigg’s urgent voice calling out from behind him.
‘Tristan, come here quickly. I need you!’ the old one shouted.
Tristan turned to run back to the wizard, wondering what was wrong. When he reached the wagon he found his answer, and his knees began to buckle.
Narrissa rested against one of the wagon wheels, her lower abdomen covered with blood. Kluge’s returning wheel lay on the bloody ground next to her. Wigg looked up into Tristan’s face with a mixture of sorrow and finality.
‘She was struck by Kluge’s wheel,’ he said, standing up and pulling Tristan to one side. ‘I tried everything, including the use of the Paragon, to help her, but even my strongest healing incantations were not enough. I have stopped her pain, but the wound is too grievous.’ Wigg’s face was pinched and serious, knowing how much Tristan’s heart was aching.
‘She has little time left now,’ he said compassionately. ‘Use it well. There is nothing else I can do for her, so I will attend to your sister.’ With that, the Lead Wizard reluctantly turned and slowly walked away, leaving the two of them alone.
As if in a dream Tristan sat down on the ground next to her, cradling her in his arms. He took in the bright red blood that had splattered against the fluffy white wings, and her tiny, bound feet. No, please! he wailed silently. I cannot lose you, too. Not like this!
Her expression was calm as she managed a light smile up at him. His shiny eyes took in the honey-blond hair and sapphire-blue eyes, richly lit by the warm sun as it approached its impending zenith.
‘Tell me, Chosen One,’ she asked him quietly, ‘what is the color of your heart?’
Tristan swallowed hard and looked away, the tears coming freely as he struggled to regain his voice. ‘It’s gray,’ he whispered finally. ‘My heart is gray.’
She placed a fragile hand against the worn leather of his vest and gazed into his eyes. ‘No,’ she said simply. ‘Your heart is golden. It does not feel that way to you now, but I can tell. You have won. You have your sister, and now you can go home.’
But I still do not possess what it is I truly want, he thought as he watched her fade. I cannot take you and Shailiha with me. We will never know what the future could have held for us.
‘Remember me,’ she whispered, ‘but also remember that your heart is too special to keep from another.’ She smiled again.
Reaching up, she wiped a tear from his cheek. ‘Odd, isn’t it, Tristan?’ she asked. She paused slightly as if trying to gather her breath to form her last few words, then continued in an even more faint voice. ‘Had I been able to choose a place to die, it would have been in your arms.’ Her eyes closed for a moment and then opened again, more slowly this time, the light in them already beginning to fade. ‘There will be another for you, Chosen One,’ she whispered finally. ‘One whom you shall truly have the chance to love. Find her. Then plant your love and let it grow.’
Stay, his heart called out to her. Stay with me.
Gently, quietly, she closed her eyes, and was gone.
And then he screamed. Screamed aloud at the true, unrelenting insanity of it all.
It was a blind, overpowering, plaintive scream that seemed to go on and on and live in his heart forever as he sat there uncaringly in the dirt, holding her in his arms. An angry scream that rang out not only for Narrissa but also for his family, for the Directorate of Wizards, and for his countrymen. And for the nations of Eutracia and Parthalon, which had virtually perished at the hands of the Coven and the grotesque, winged monsters that now stood before him, impossibly calling him their lord.
She never knew I was a prince, he realized as he looked down into Narrissa’s face. The only woman who loved me for who I was, and not what I was. She was so hard to find, and now so much harder to lose.
And now I feel truly lost, he thought. Lost in the arms that once held me.
Then from all around Narrissa’s body light began to gather, finally coalescing into an aura of radiant illumination. It slowly condensed into a small, twinkling amber sparkle of light that revolved in the air before his face as if somehow trying to say good-bye. And then the amber, sparkling light that was Narrissa’s soul came yet closer to his face and brushed his lips once, and then twice. Finally, reluctantly, the fragile, amber sparkle ascended into the sky, vanishing forever.
Fly to the sky, his heart cried as he looked to the heavens. Go and join your brothers and sisters in death, the Specters of the Gallipolai.
He might never have moved from that spot had he not heard the sound of a baby crying.
He looked back at the old wizard, his heart and mind struggling to deal with all that was happening. Wigg was getting to his feet, holding something in his arms.
‘Shailiha’s child,’ the old one said, smiling. ‘Her daughter is here. The truly firstborn of the Chosen Ones.’
Gently laying Narrissa’s body down, Tristan stood shakily to look at the baby Wigg held. His eyes opened wide.
From all around Shailiha’s newborn daughter came a dazzling, azure light. The baby gazed up at him, exuding a calm, quiet consciousness that the prince had never before seen in one so new, almost as if the child were already aware of her place in life.
Tristan turned to look at Narrissa’s body lying there on the bloody ground, and then once more looked into the face of the newborn child. A life that I cared for has left me, he thought, but another that I will love has somehow found me.
‘…and the azure light that accompanies the births of the Chosen Ones shall be the proof of the quality of their blood . . .’ Wigg quoted as he rocked the child gently. He looked into the prince’s eyes. ‘It is from the Prophecies. The Prophecies that you will soon read.’ Holding the newborn in the crook of one arm, Wigg looked to the sky, taking note of the position of the sun. It was directly at its zenith in the bright, Parthalonian sky. He then reached beneath his robes with his free hand and removed the Paragon from the locket, placing it on its chain about his neck. As soon as he did so, Tristan could see the sparkle of the gift returning to the old wizard’s eyes.
And then, almost immediately, the wizard’s face darkened, and Tristan knew why. He could feel it in his blood, and it seemed almost as if his entire body was in some kind of harsh, stark awareness of it.
He turned with the old wizard to see Faegan’s portal starting to form at the base of the destroyed aviary.
On and on it came, swirling in a magnificent circle of azure, turning faster and growing in strength. Tristan could feel the warning of its arrival rising in his blood. Finally the portal stopped growing, and its turning slowed. The sky-blue light beckoned to them.
Realizing what the appearance of the portal meant, Tristan went directly to where his sister was sitting on the ground, her eyes still lifeless, unseeing. Her hair was soaked with perspiration, and her black, bloodstained gown was torn. Her medallion, the duplicate of his own, still lay upon her chest, suspended from the chain around her neck. Tristan’s heart went cold, knowing that the time had finally come to take the responsibility for her into his hands.
Wigg handed the baby to Geldon and quietly walked up behind the prince. ‘She has shown no improvement,’ the old one said. ‘She cannot go back with us, Tristan. You must see that now. To infect Eutracia with one who was once a sorceress and still so overcome with these remnants of one of Failee’s incantations would be unforgivable.’ He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in.
‘And I’m afraid the child must now be dealt with, as well,’ he continued, his heart heavy. ‘Although the baby appears normal, there is no way to tell for certain, and there may never be until she has matured. Only if the princess were to show some awareness of her former life could I then in good conscience take with us both her and her daughter.’ Wigg hung his head as a tear came to the corner of one eye; he brushed it away, trying to keep command of his feelings.
‘It is time,’ the old one said.
