The tyger tore out the man’s throat with a flick of his head, then stalked toward Therrador, snarling its flaming lips back from teeth of fire. The man inside looked bewildered, sickened.
“Thanks for-”
Therrador pushed himself to sit up, but the tyger pounced and knocked him back to the ground, pinning his shoulders with its fiery paws. It roared in his face, blowing hot breath on his cheek; a drop of flaming saliva fell from its mouth and splashed on the top of Therrador’s chest plate. The man within the beast looked at the king, and his lips spoke Therrador’s name, but the sound of his voice was hidden by the flames. His eyes offered apology.
Roaring again, the tyger drew back its left paw, flaming claws unsheathed, taking the man’s arm with it. Therrador thought of Graymon, of how close they might have come to vanquishing the Archon if this man possessed control over the beast.
It may yet happen, but I won’t see it.
“No,” he said but didn’t expect the man to hear him or the beast to understand.
The tyger’s paw moved forward an inch and Therrador flinched, but the killing stroke did not fall. The man inside the beast looked away, his lips moved again forming a word Therrador didn’t recognize. A second later, the tyger climbed off him and bounded away.
The ghost woman stood a pace away, regarding Therrador with a mixture of sadness and relief in her green eyes. She offered her hand and Therrador accepted her help up. Her flesh felt neither warm like the living nor cool like the dead.
“Elyea,” he said and realized her name was the word the man inside the tyger had spoken. “What was that?”
“That was Khirro, who will save your kingdom. Braymon lives within him.”
“Braymon? I thought this man only carried the king’s blood.”
“The tyger is the spirit of the king, but it matters not right now. I have someone here to see you.”
She stepped aside to reveal the man in black cloak and silvered mask standing behind her-the dragon rider. A woman with a baby cradled against her chest and a bandage on her forearm stood at his side, and a young boy staring at the ground held his hand.
“Graymon?” Therrador whispered, disbelieving his own eyes. The witch had tricked him before. He wouldn’t let it happen again.
The king strode a few tentative steps toward the small group, hand gripping the hilt of his sword tight. He didn’t know the woman or the masked man, but they had his son, and he didn’t know their intent. The boy looked up and saw Therrador; his face brightened and a smile crossed his lips.
“Da,” he cried and let go of the dragon rider’s hand to rush to his father. The man didn’t try to stop him.
Therrador kneeled, his legs giving out under the weight of relief, and the boy leaped into his arms. They embraced for a few seconds, then Therrador moved his son away to arm’s length to look at him.
Graymon was skinnier, if that was possible, and his clothing was tattered; his hair was longer and greasy, hanging limp past his ears, but he looked reasonably healthy and unharmed.
“I worried I might never see you again,” Therrador said through a pained smile. His son may have been miraculously returned, but it was his fault he’d been taken nonetheless, and the battle was not yet won.
The boy raised one eyebrow. “I knew I’d see you, Da.”
Therrador laughed and pulled his son back into his arms. Over the boy’s shoulder, he saw the man and the woman with the baby approach. The ghost woman was nowhere to be seen.
“Thank you for returning my son,” he said fighting back the threat of tears. “But who are you?”
The man pulled back his cowl and removed his mask as a gust of snow-laced wind blew his blond hair across his fair face. His expression looked calm and in control compared to the woman, whose sunken eyes cried out with desperation and fear. She looked like a woman who’d been through much.
“We are friends of Khirro's, your Majesty. Loyal subjects of the kingdom.”
Therrador nodded, accepting the man’s words.
What choice do I have?
He stood and took a step back from his son.
“I have to go, Graymon. The kingdom is in need of my sword.”
Tears welled up in Graymon’s eyes instantly, his bottom lip quivered, but he didn’t let himself cry. He sniffled and wiped his arm across his eyes to prevent tears spilling down his cheeks.
“You can be my brave little hero, can’t you?”
Graymon nodded twice and sniffled again. Therrador ruffled his hair, conscious of the thumb missing inside his gauntlet, though his son would neither feel nor see its absence. But if it came down to a matter of trading his thumb for his son’s safety, the choice was an easy one.
Therrador laid his hand on Graymon’s shoulder as he turned his attention to the dragon rider.
“What is your name?”
“Athryn,” he replied and bent his head in deference.
“Athryn. Take the woman and the children to safety. I have a witch to kill.”
He gave Graymon a tap on the back, sending him back to the magician, but Athryn shook his head.
“No,” he said. “We will all be accompanying you.”
“Impossible,” Therrador snapped, suddenly angry and unused to being disobeyed. “I am your king. Do as I say.”
“I am sorry, but I cannot.” Athryn’s voice remained calm, smooth, and its tone drained any more argument from Therrador. “Their roles in this are not yet complete.”
Therrador looked from the man, then to his son finally returned to him, and his heart sank with a certainty that the boy would be taken away again, and he felt like there was nothing he could do about it.
***
The woman rode through the battle, hewing and chopping men with her long sword without regard for what colors their armor displayed. She muttered spells to freeze them in their place or transform their muscles to jelly, she touched them with the glowing tip of the staff and turned them from the living to the living dead.
She stared straight ahead, her eyes on the ruby dragon as it burned her troops with its breath, cut them down ten at a time with powerful swipes of its tail. Arrows and spears bounced off the beast’s scaly chest. The blades of the soldiers who got close enough to swing their swords at it shattered against its ruby plate, and they lost their lives under its wicked talons for their effort. Its emerald eyes flickered with fire, anger and hatred; its pointed teeth gnashed the air.
Sheyndust had seen the dragon once before as it guarded the Necromancer’s keep in the haunted land of Lakesh, but then it was a statue. She hadn’t attracted its attention because she didn’t need the entrance concealed beneath its belly-the ancient texts she’d discovered in Poltghasa at the cost of a hundred lives had revealed another entrance, one only possible for a powerful magician to divine and use. And use it she did when she entered Darestat’s keep to steal his secrets for raising the dead, but as long as he lived, she would merely be able to animate the corpses, not truly bring the dead back to life. She’d learned the limits of her powers when she brought the assassin from the fields of the dead-once and no more, as long as Darestat existed. With him still alive to any degree, she wouldn’t be the most powerful magic user in the world; she wouldn’t be the true Necromancer.
Here, finally, was her chance to defeat him and claim her prize. With him gone, nothing would stand between her and limitless dark magic, and she would claim the world as her own.
Thirty yards from the ruby dragon, the Archon reined her horse to a stop and slid out of the saddle. Snow melted under the soles of her bare feet; mud squished up between her toes and she felt the blood in it, her flesh tasted death in the muck of the battle.
Sheyndust tossed her sword aside-it would do her no good against the beast-and set her feet at shoulder width, braced the butt end of the staff on the ground. With her arms spread, she tilted her head back and allowed the falling snow and winter wind to caress her, flap her dress around her, embrace her.