Dandelion Fire (45 page)

stared at the arrow, and his heart sank. Fat Frank crouched in front of him, and his eyes were excited.

“Look at it!” he said. “See what you're holding.”

Henry looked back down. This time, he really looked.

He almost dropped the arrow.

Strength swirled around its fringes, but beyond that, Henry could see something else. The stone tip was white-hot and alive, crawling with an unquenchable story. Henry slid his hand away from it, down onto the shaft. It was straight and thick in his hands, growing without increasing, burning without being consumed. And it was fletched with three long, fiery feathers, cold feathers, mothers to the wind.

Henry swallowed and blinked, and once again, he held a twisted, rotting ruin of an arrow.

“Which is real?” he asked.

“Both,” the faerie said. “The two are married. You see its story, its shaped name, and living glory, and you
see the wood and stone decayed. They are twined to one and will not be separated. We must go. You were right to come. This arrow must fly.”

“But how can it?” Henrietta asked. “Even if it's magic, you still couldn't hit anything with it.”

“We'll see,” Henry said, and he stood up, holding the arrow in the middle, hoping nothing would fall off. Henrietta grabbed the case and dumped out the salt water pooled in the bottom.

The three of them hurried down the stairs and back into Grandfather's room.

Henry held the arrow to his chest, and for a moment, he panicked. Grandfather had used the arrow to make some of the cupboards functional. The door might be closed. Dropping to his knees, he stretched his hand into the cupboard, holding his breath, feeling for the back, afraid that he would find it. He felt moist earth, a worm, and night air. Relief flooded through him, and he crawled quickly back up into the moonlight of Badon Hill. When the others were beside him, he began to run, now holding the arrow away from his body.

“Careful!” Henrietta said.

He knew. Don't run with scissors. But he also knew she was more worried about the arrow than him. He wasn't sure he could break it if he tried. They plowed and slid down the side of Badon Hill, and Henry brushed his free hand over tree trunks as he passed them. In this light, in this moment, he felt like he could talk to them if he tried. If he knew the words.

Sitting impatiently in the little faeren hall, the cousins watched Frank prepare a doorway back to the mound.

And then they were through, back into the upper branches of the Central Mound.

The corridors were as bright as they were silent. There were no guards to be seen, and most doors hung open, revealing beds unmade, food uneaten. Occasionally, they heard the voices of children.

Henry laughed as he ran. How many faeries had he sent? Worry crept in. Had they helped? Could they help? Or would they fight on the wizards' side? If he'd frightened them too much, they might have.

He wondered where the committee members were. They wouldn't have gone to help, though they probably had gone somewhere else. Somewhere very far away.

Henry followed Frank as the faerie rushed down the stairs into the Central Mound, panting but unweary He had an arrow, an ancient talisman in his hand, and that brought its own strength.

“I can't believe this is light,” Henrietta said as they entered the darkness, and Henry laughed again. He didn't say anything.

The way room back was empty.

They hurried, squinting, down the sloping floor and through the doorway without a beat of hesitation.

Two faeries sat in the hall with their arms crossed.

They both jumped when Henry appeared.

“Why are you not at the wall?” Henry asked. “What are your names?”

They ran out of the hall in front of them.

Henry climbed up slowly and stepped into underbrush and storm-darkness.

He could see very little, and he'd forgotten the rain, and the wind had grown. The clouds flashed with lightning, but he couldn't see the forks. They were on the other side of the city.

Together, Henry and Henrietta slogged through the mud and the brush while Frank rushed ahead to the wall and the gates.

The gates were open.

The guards were gone.

Henry pulled in a deep breath and looked at the streets ahead. They still had a city to cross.

Frank Willis looked around for his brothers. The city below the river was burning.

Caleb and Mordecai had stood in the street as hundreds of families had retreated across the bridge. Even the faeren had fallen back. The alleys on the other side of the river were probably as full of them as they were of cowering archers.

The last Frank had seen of his brothers, Mordecai had fallen to his knees, drawing lightning to himself. Absorbing strikes. Because of him, the bridge was still intact.

Frank was crouched behind one of the pillars in the center of the bridge. He could see where Sergeant Simmons lay across from him, unconscious he hoped, but he had lost all track of Zeke and Richard and Henry.

When the faeren had come, it had looked like the tide had turned. They had even held the wall for a while, held the entire breach.

And then Darius had come again. The tall wizard, who moved for nothing, and stood in the swirling carnage like he was made of the rock beneath him. No arrow, no faerie, not one of Mordecai's blows had reached him, and his wind had pushed the fire through the city. Mordecai had only just prevented it from crossing the river.

Frank had a bow and a quiver full of salvaged arrows. But they were still slung beside him.

His shotgun had one more shell, and it was time to find his brothers.

He stood, looked across the bridge and through the street and flames. And he began humming. It was a simple tune, a protective charm of a war song, one lost from his boyhood. His mother had called it a breastplate.

Frank was not unhappy. He was home, where he belonged. And if his home was going to be destroyed, he was grateful that he had seen it again, that his life, rather than fading into dust on a couch in Kansas, could be laid down here.

He moved across the bridge and onto the street lined
with fire. Cobblestones were dry from the heat, even as more rain fell.

His arrows rattled behind him as he walked.

All the way at the end of the street, through the shimmering distortion of the heat, he could see the remaining wizards gathering. In front of them sat a tall man on a horse.

Frank kept moving forward, scanning the walls and the side streets, wherever people could be hidden.

After more than one hundred yards, he stopped and stared into an alleyway. The buildings around it had already burned themselves out.

“Mr. Willis,” a voice said.

“Zeke?” Frank hurried to the alley, glancing down the street.

“Have they come?” another voice asked. “Shall we stand?”

Frank stepped into the shadow and laid down his shotgun. Caleb was leaning back against a wall with his legs splayed in front of him, his horn bow across his knees.

Beside him, Mordecai slumped.

Zeke was crouched in front of them both, holding a bow. Behind him, wide-eyed, sat Richard, his arms full of quivers.

Caleb opened his eyes, and Mordecai raised his head. “Have they come?” he asked again. “Shall we stand?”

“No,” Zeke said.

“But they are coming,” Frank said. “Are you wounded?”

Mordecai smiled. “Our wounds are the wounds of
exhaustion. Of being overpowered. But we are not yet dead, and I do not want to be made a liar.”

“A liar?” Frank asked.

“I told my wife I would not be lost again.”

“Is Darius himself coming?” Caleb asked. “Or is he still unsure of his victory?”

“He is coming,” Frank said.

“Then we stand on the bridge,” said Caleb.

He stood, and the two of them pulled Mordecai to his feet.

They hobbled into the street, and Zeke and Richard followed.

Below them, the wizards were approaching.

When they reached the bridge, Frank called into the shadows for water. A man hurried forward with a skin, and Frank handed it to his brothers.

He turned to Zeke and Richard. “Now it is time for you to fall back to the house,” he said. “If it comes to it, you'll have your own last stand there. Go.”

Richard turned, but Zeke only backed up into the shadows.

Mordecai pulled in long, slow breaths, straightened up, and squared his legs. Caleb stood beside him, leaning on his bow. Frank leaned on the shotgun.

After a moment, Frank hurried forward and lay on his back among the pillars on the bridge. He was careful to spread a leg visibly into the road. Darius would know he was there if he was hidden or not.

There are men who would have scruples about shooting an enemy in the back. Frank Willis was not one of them.

When Henry and Henrietta reached the top of the hill in front of the house, they stopped in shock, looking down over the burning lower city.

“Look to the bridge,” the faerie said behind them.

Two figures, both tall, stood on the near side of the bridge, with their feet spread and their shoulders square. Up the road from the other side came a single horseman.

“Where's my dad?” Henrietta asked.

Henry was already racing down the hill.

Darius sat still on his horse. Half the city had fallen. He had only to cross the bridge, to trample the two weary lives in front of him. He nudged his horse forward and stopped even with the first thick posts in the railings. His cloak rolled and flapped in the gusts that burst through the streets. His mouth opened and spoke. He did not choose his own words.

“You are of a blood I do not love,” he said. “You cannot stop me.”

“Likewise,” Caleb said. He closed and opened his fingers around the grip on his bow. There was a shaft on the string.

Darius listened to the words that poured out of him.
“I am Nimroth. Blackstar. Mountains have bowed to me. Your knees, your souls, will bend.”

“You are not Nimroth,” Mordecai said. “Mountains may have bowed to him, but our grandsires made sure that they bowed to the ground. He is under them still.”

After a moment of silence, Darius opened his mouth to speak again. This time, he spoke with a woman's voice.

“I am Nimiane, dread queen of Endor. Nimroth lives in me for I am his daughter.” Darius said this without flinching, without even noticing. His soul was being crowded out.

The horse sparked a hoof on the cobbles, snorting.

“That much we know,” said Caleb. “Why have you come?”

“To settle old grievances. To collect a debt from your diminishing clan. It is a debt they will pay.”

“We owe no one,” Caleb said. His right hand found the bow string.

“Do you think an arrow can find my flesh? Do you think there is a bow that can pierce me?”

“Yes,” Caleb said.

The woman in Darius laughed. “You are not your father. Nor are you your brother. You are not even equal to your brother's son. He at least drew my blood when I was weak and entombed in the prison his father gave me. He is also the one who opened the
way to my freedom. The father's seals were broken by the son, but that will not prevent him paying his portion of the debt.” Darius nudged his horse a step forward. “Speak to me, Mordecai. Have you learned of that betrayal?”

Mordecai's voice was heavy. “Darius,” he said. “I do not know you, but she has filled you past return. You cannot but die, even if you defeat us. And you shall not defeat us. Do not set foot on the bridge.”

Caleb shifted his feet and drew the bow back to his cheek. Raindrops ran down the string and dripped off the arrow's feathers onto his lips. Caleb held the bow drawn, and his arms did not shake.

The horse tossed its head, but did not move.

Caleb's voice rang out. “This shaft was taken from the tomb of the Old King, and the bow was made for his brother kings in the South, who set the ancient stones. Try its strength if you dare.”

“I dare,” the woman's voice said, and Darius rode onto the bridge.

Henry ran past alleys and shadows crowded with watching men. He ran straight for the bridge.

He saw Darius ride forward.

He saw the shotgun blast from the side, and the horse rear. He saw Caleb's arrow fly and turn to ash in the air. He saw Uncle Frank thrown from the bridge and his father grasp Darius's own wind and hurl it toward the ramping horse.