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 to the 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.