“Do you see him?” Emeline asked over his shoulder, her voice shaken by the horse’s gait.
“Yes. We will be there soon.”
He watched as the two men who once were their companions split up, spreading their attack and taxing Khirro’s ability to defend himself. Athryn and the king were close, but not close enough.
The tyger, Khirro. Become the tyger.
The Mourning Sword’s red blade flashed, and Athryn saw Ghaul’s head freed from his undead body. He cheered silently, but in Khirro’s distraction, Shyn had transformed back to a man and picked a sword up off the ground.
No.
The border guard skewered Khirro with his blade and Athryn gasped. Shyn pulled the blade free and walked away, leaving Khirro to crumple to the grass.
Athryn reined his horse to a stop, and Therrador did the same; the king leaped out of the saddle before the steed came to a stop. He raced across the field, leaping corpses and slashing adversaries, until he got to Shyn. As he swung a blow at the border guard, Athryn lowered Emeline and Iana off the horse, then followed her out of the saddle. She hurried across the plain, oblivious to the dangers around her as she made her way to Khirro.
Therrador’s first blow glanced off Shyn’s sword, driving him back; the king struck again and again, not giving his foe the chance to go on the offensive. Instead, he stumbled away, retreating. Therrador stood watching him, catching his breath, but Athryn saw what he was doing. Shyn’s face warped and changed; feathers forced their way through the flesh of his cheeks.
“He is changing!” Athryn yelled as he increased his pace, running past Emeline to help the king. “Don’t let him change.”
Therrador looked over his shoulder at the magician then back at his foe. He lunged forward recklessly, the tip of his sword finding its way past Shyn’s defense to cut a shallow gash on his half-man, half-bird chest. Therrador swung the sword around his head and connected with the taller man’s neck, severing his head.
Athryn fell to his knees beside Khirro. Blood masked his friend’s cheeks and chin, splattered across his chest and arms. There was mud and gore caked on his leg and fresh blood flowing from the wound in his belly puddled on the ground beneath him. Kneeling over him reminded Athryn of the similar wound he sustained on the shore of Lakesh when the mercenary stole the king’s blood from Khirro. Then, Maes had saved him with magic and his own blood, now flowing through Athryn’s veins.
There wouldn’t be the same result this time.
Emeline arrived and kneeled beside Athryn.
“Gods. Does he live?”
Athryn looked at her and nodded. Her face was drawn and haggard with stress and worry; the baby, swaddled in a blanket at her breast as usual, remained surprisingly quiet and undisturbed by the goings-on around her.
“He is alive, but barely.” He removed the mirrored mask and his cloak, pulled open his shirt. “He does not have much time. We have to hurry.”
“So you can save him?”
Hope flickered in Emeline’s eyes, touched her lips. Seeing it made Athryn’s heart ache.
“Emeline,” he said quietly, his voice overflowing with his own emotion. “When Darestat’s spell went astray, King Braymon’s spirit and Khirro’s were bonded. To separate them and save the kingdom, only one will survive.”
She stared into his eyes and he saw that, for a moment, she didn’t grasp the weight of his words. He held her gaze, doing his best to keep his own emotions in check as realization dawned for her.
“You’re going to kill him.”
Athryn licked his lips. “It is the only way to raise the king.”
“After all he did for you, all he did for the kingdom, you’re going to kill him.”
Therrador had arrived and stood between the two of them, looking down at Khirro; he said nothing.
Athryn held Emeline’s gaze as he spoke. “Therrador, fetch your son.”
The king nodded and took a step toward the horses and stopped.
“Where is he?”
“I left him with the horse.”
Therrador took another step, stopped, spun a half circle. Athryn looked away from Emeline.
“Graymon!”
The magician followed Therrador’s gaze to the boy crossing the grassland toward the Archon, a jeweled-handled dagger in his hand.
***
Graymon’s toes dangled above the ground as he lowered himself out of the saddle, his hands gripping the leather tight. He hung from it without letting go, fearful though he knew the ground to be close beneath his feet, but the memory of climbing out of the wagon, of falling from the tree, still lingered. He took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of saddle leather and horse sweat, and let go, dropping the six inches separating the soles of his feet from the ground.
When he turned around, he saw his da fighting a man with feathers poking out of his skin while Athryn and Emeline rushed toward Khirro, who was laying in the mud.
She killed him. She killed the tyger.
Graymon’s eyes moved away from his friends to scan the plain. Through the tapestry of falling snow, he saw the pile of wreckage that was once the dragon-green-hued smoke rising from a heap of red rock. His heart lurched at the sight, and he thought of his toy dragon and its broken wing, of the way the woman had manipulated it when he first met her. She stood not far away, naked and laughing, her arms outspread, her hair tossed by the winter wind. The entire length of the staff in her hand glowed green.
Graymon’s fingers wrapped around the hilt of the dagger Khirro gave him. He felt the rough feel of the jeweled hilt against his skin, the cold metal of the pommel. He swallowed hard, pulled the dagger from his belt, careful not to cut himself, and started toward the woman.
He felt like a brave hero at first, fortified by doing the right thing, but with each step, his courage flagged; as he drew closer to the woman, fear crept in. He reminded himself of all the things she’d done, of the way she tricked him, of what she did to his da, to the kingdom, and now to the tyger. She was the one who raised the dead, so if a dead soldier killed Khirro and the tyger, then it was her fault, just as if she'd wielded the sword herself.
As he walked, he looked at the ground in front of him instead of at the woman. He knew if he looked at her, or at the fighting around him, he would surely lose his nerve. So he averted his eyes and counted his steps to distract himself.
When he’d gone a hundred paces, he heard his name and took it as the cue to finally raise his eyes again. He looked into the face of the witch.
She stood ten yards away, staring at him with a bemused look on her face. She raised an eyebrow and one corner of her mouth followed it up in a lopsided smirk.
“Well, well. To what do I owe the honor of your company, my prince?”
Graymon stopped and concentrated on making an angry face instead of the afraid one threatening to usurp his expression. He gritted his teeth and pressed his lips together the way his father did when he was angry; he tried hard to make his eyebrows touch like Nanny’s.
“You killed the tyger.” He said the words quietly, hoping she wouldn’t hear the terror steadily building inside him like water threatening to overflow a dam.
The woman threw her head back and laughed. The sound echoed and rolled across the plain. It seemed to toss the falling snow about in its wake and it touched Graymon like fingers groping in the dark. It might have tickled if he hadn’t been so scared. He shivered.
“The tyger should have stayed dead the first time I killed him,” she said directing her gaze back to the boy. “It would have saved a lot of lives.”
“If you hadn’t attacked, it would have saved lots of lives,” Graymon yelled at her, his voice quaking. He breathed a few short, stiff breaths through his nose, held the dagger out in front of his chest and started toward her again. He made it one step before the arm encircled his waist and picked him up off the ground.