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He swallowed and attempted it again, but this time made no sound. His eyelids fluttered and slid closed. He forced them open and found a mist had collected in his vision, peppering the forest’s pre-twilight dimness with spots of white. He watched it grow and spread, rolling through the forest.

So is this to be it, then? It seems I will be with you again much sooner than I imagined, Maes.

The mist grew more dense until it obscured trees and brush alike, then it took the bodies of the two Kanosee soldiers, hiding them beneath its opaque whiteness. Somewhere-perhaps somewhere not too far from where he lay-he imagined it enveloping Khirro and Graymon. In his imagining, they lived and they were together.

But if that is the case, why are they not here for me?

He tried to swallow again, this time without success. Instead, it felt as though the saliva caught on the wound in his throat, threatened to tear it open and spill what little blood remained in him over the forest floor.

Athryn closed his eyes, his lips moving ever so slightly as he whispered a protection spell, sending it out into the forest to find his friend and keep him safe, to seek out the boy and find him alive, help keep him that way.

One last death to use.

After a minute, his energy waned and his lips ceased moving.

The magician felt himself drawn up off the ground. Air moved around him, swirling and lifting him. He imagined himself being lifted out of the forest, soaring high above the tops of the trees, and he thought this must have been the way Shyn felt in his falcon form. How free. How liberating.

Athryn relaxed and let the mist carry him off to the fields of the dead.

Chapter Twenty-One

The beat of hooves filled Sir Alton Sienhin’s ears, bounced and multiplied inside his head. The rhythm normally soothed him, brought him a calmness rarely felt at other times in his life, for the sound represented freedom to him as he became one with the horse and it carried him across the land faster than a man had any hope of traveling. Not now, though, because he knew he was pushing the horse too hard. Forced by circumstance, he had no choice. Flecks of foam flew from the animal's lips, carried away on the wind as they thundered toward the capital.

In the distance, Achtindel’s walls and spires rose against the dawn sky. With it in view, the general dared to push the horse even harder. He urged his steed on, a feeling of remorse gnawing at the pit of his gut because he knew when he arrived at the city, this valiant animal that had given its all would be left spent and useless. He leaned forward as far as he dared, stroked the horses neck in appreciation.

“It happens to all of us eventually,” he said, his words stolen by the wind.

The horse misstepped and Sir Alton heard the crack of its front leg snapping in the fraction of a second before the horse pitched forward. Unsteady in his seat, the horse’s fall separated the general from the saddle and flung him through the air. For a second, he saw Achtindel, tantalizingly close yet so far away, then he tucked his head and his shoulder hit the ground with a crunch that made his stomach turn.

Pain exploded through his body as he plowed through dirt and scrub grass until his forward momentum ceased. He came to rest with his cheek and chest pressed against the ground, the heavy breaths he drew through his mouth stirring the hair of his long mustache and disturbing the dirt. At his back, the heavy gasps of the dying war horse overpowered the sound of his own breathing. Wincing with pain, Sienhin moved his head enough to see what state the horse was in.

The brave steed lay on its side, head resting in the dirt and its right front leg twisted at an angle it was never intended to bend. Through his own pain, Sienhin felt a pang of regret; he’d caused this animal’s death as surely as if he drew his sword across its throat.

“I’m sorry, boy,” he said, the effort shooting pain from his shoulder down his arm and side.

He cringed, clamped his teeth together in an attempt to suppress it, but it burned through his muscles, clamped onto his bones.

“Gods,” he groaned aloud. “This hurts more than being stabbed.”

Rather than fight the pain, he let it flow through him. His experience of being wounded in battle told him that, in a matter of time, he would become more accustomed to it, have a better chance of controlling it. He lay his head on the ground and relaxed to the extent the pain allowed. The agony in his shoulder pulsed with each beat of his heart, disguising any other pain, any other injuries he might have sustained. Each torturous breath was a torment rippling through his body, shaking his soul, and he fought against crying out, instead concentrating on his breath, focusing on the task ahead of him.

For the sake of the kingdom, I need to get up.

Minutes passed, then more. The pain made his head feel light and the general lost track of time’s passage.

For the sake of the kingdom. For the sake of the kingdom. For the sake of the kingdom.

The words became his unspoken mantra, distracting him from the pain as well as from the other thoughts that did their best to claw their way into his mind. Each time a thought of Therrador’s betrayal, or Hahn Perdaro’s treachery, of dead men fighting as though they lived, or of his long dead son tried to worm their way through his guard, he repeated the phrase again.

For the sake of the kingdom. For the sake of the kingdom.

Finally, a welcome thought found him, and he remembered Braymon sitting astride his steed, sun glinting on his polished plate and a satisfied smile on his face as he brandished his sword. Beside him, Sienhin sat ahorse as well, his bushy mustache hiding the victory smile tilting his lips. It was the day Braymon claimed the throne: a great day for Erechania.

“For the sake of the kingdom.”

Sienhin gritted his teeth and rolled onto his back as gently as he could. He still felt mind-numbing pain, but it was not so terrible as it had been. He lay on the ground facing the winter sky for a few moments, breathing deep through his nose and smelling the crispness of the day and the sweet odor of the dead horse’s dung. Above him, the sun had risen higher in the sky than he’d expected.

“The kingdom,” he said between clamped teeth and pushed himself to a sitting position.

His shoulder screamed with pain and he felt it grate against itself beneath his skin, but he got himself up. He was facing the city and, through the haze the torturous pain cast upon his vision, he saw spirals of smoke rising from bakeries and smithies, cook fires and fires for warmth. Merchant tents sprawled across the plains leading up to the city’s walls, and he’d come far enough to see the different colors of their canvas.

“If I can see them,” he said, “I can walk to them.”

He filled his lungs, grunted, and braced himself with his good arm. In an awkward movement, he gathered his legs beneath him, then rested again for a minute before attempting to stand. As he put his weight on his left foot, he found he had also twisted his ankle as it came out of its stirrup, and he toppled back to the ground in a dusty heap emphasized by a pained growl.

“Damn it.”

He reset himself, clamping his teeth together against the coming pain, when he remembered the staff he’d taken from Perdaro. Grunting, he looked over his shoulder at the dead horse and the staff tied to the saddle.

Sienhin dragged himself around, leaned on his good arm, and began inching along the path his shoulder had dug in the ground. Each time he moved forward, pain pounded in his shoulder. Sweat formed on his brow despite the chill in the air; beads of it rolled down his temple and caught in his mustache.

It seemed to the general that the sun likely crept across the sky at a faster pace than he crossed the ground to his mount. After two pauses to rest and more pained cries than he would have admitted, he made it to the fallen horse, but hesitated before reaching for the staff.