Sword Mountain (32 page)

Laughing at a funeral? Occasionally it is apt.

—
FROM THE
B
OOK OF
H
ERESY

F
leydur raised his head and saw Forlath descending from the dungeon stairs, his black mourning cloak sweeping down each step.

“It's morning. Unbelievable, isn't it? First morning without Father,” Forlath said. Shaking his head, he drifted closer, till he nearly leaned against the iron bars. “I know you are innocent, Fleydur, but with Father dead, everybird is lost in grief, and nobird has reason anymore.”

“I know you will do the best for the mountain,” answered Fleydur.

“I will try. The eagles, especially my mother and the Iron Nest, want a scapegoat for their anguish. In truth, you are safest here for now, away from them. I must leave to attend the funeral, but I will get you out somehow!” Forlath's face trembled. A set of his talons curled around the iron bars.

Fleydur reached out to touch his brother. “Forlath …”

His chains clinked. It sounded like a ghastly echo of the bells Fleydur had worn when he first returned.

Forlath clasped Fleydur's talons through the bars for a moment before he left.

The frost of daybreak glistened on the windows. The eagles who had celebrated Morgan's birthday became the attendants of his funeral. A flood of birds dressed in black assembled in the main hall. Morgan's coffin now rested in the central spot where the magnificent mountain cake had stood. With anguish, the mourners recalled the tutor's wish: “
Good health and long life
.”

They lined themselves up, holding hats and flowers, waiting to have a last look at their beloved king. Their eyes lingered upon his face. In death, Morgan seemed to have shrunk beneath his feathers.

When the last golden eagle had paid his respects, the coffin lid was lowered. The eagles burst into wild, despairing cries. Outside, the gong beat madly, passionately, without rhythm or order.

Ten guards lifted the coffin and flew out of the castle, flying high up in the air, slowly circling the mountaintop one last time—the death flight of Morgan. And all across the mountain range, eagles stopped what they were doing, turned in the direction of Sword Mountain, and wailed, “No! No! No!” The valleys echoed with their cries, and the mountain itself seemed to shift and rock in mourning for the king.

On foot, the eagles began the descent toward the final resting place where the stone coffins of the kings hung from cliffs.

“O king!” cried the funeral chanter at the head of the procession. “Where are you now?”

“Not here!” sobbed the eagles of the funeral procession.

“O king! You led us well, through crisis and war. Where are you now?”

“Not here!” moaned the generals, the advisers.

“O king! Your soul rises in the sky to paint it a brighter blue. Where are you now?”

Sigrid tore at her veil. “Not here!” she wailed.

The chanter flung her wings to the sky. “We miss you! We miss the sunshine of your kindly face. Come back.”

“Come back!” cried the eagles.

“We are orphans, every one of us!”

“Come back!” cried the eagles.

“We miss you. Every one of us begs you, O king! Where are you n—”

“Argh!” There was banging; then the coffin lid flew open. The wind blew the shroud off Morgan's face. The corpse struggled to sit up, incoherent gargling coming from his throat.

The pallbearers' legs buckled.

“Great Spirit!” exclaimed the funeral chanter. “Nobird actually came
back
before!” The chanter fled from the funeral train, frightened out of her wits.

Morgan coughed out a golden granule in a gush of black blood. “Who's calling me? I am here,” he rasped, staring at the eagles with bloodshot eyes.

It was so quiet the mourners could hear the chains of the suspended coffins creaking on the vertical graveyard cliff.

“It's really too cold, close the window. Goodness! What are you doing in that awful black garb? Who has died?” the delirious king demanded. The eagles closest to the coffin leaned in, astounded.

“Y-you have … I mean, we thought you had d-d-died,” one stuttered.

“Outrageous! And right on my birthday! Do I look dead to you?” Morgan gripped the sides of the coffin and tried to clamber out. He was too weak. Giving up, he sat straight, as stately as if on his throne, wrapping the shroud tightly around his shoulders to ward off the chill.

The onlookers got over their initial shock and cheered, flinging the funeral wreaths and bouquets high into the air.

The court physician hurried over to Morgan. “Are you all right now, Your Majesty?”

Morgan nodded. “Better.” He studied one face after another. “All of you who should be at my funeral are here, except … Where is Fleydur?” he said.

“He could not be here,” said the queen.

“He hasn't left me again, has he?”

“No. He's locked in the dungeon,” said a member of the Iron Nest.

“What for?”

“He promised not to break your heart,” said Sigrid. “But he did—he took a treasure of the kingdom. And we thought … I thought …”

Morgan slapped the side panel of the coffin. “What do you mean? Summon him to me at once!”

The weight of justice cannot be ignored.

—
FROM THE
O
LD
S
CRIPTURE

T
ranglarhad the owl, singed by fire and mortally injured by debris, opened his orange eyes as he lay in the rubble of his laboratory. Smoke, like ghosts of glory, lingered before his eyes.

It was wrong of me to try to warp myself into a creature of day
, he thought. “I do not belong to the light,” he said to himself.

“But I demand a dignity for those who live in the dark!” He shook a balled set of talons at the stalactites. The owl breathed heavily and thought that the whole mountain pressed down on his chest. “Go chase those archaeopteryxes! Drive them out of here!” he croaked to his followers.

“What about you, High Owl?”

Tranglarhad fell back. “I dream,” he said, his voice fading. “In my unending darkness, I have unending dreams.”

Hooting for revenge, the leaderless owls regrouped and cornered Kawaka as he had cornered Dandelion and her friends. The archaeopteryx fought off the tangle of owls. He would come back to tame these fools later. The young raptors did not seem likely to return anytime soon, so Kawaka would need to go up into the shaft himself, kill them, and retrieve the gemstone.

He summoned his troops and rushed up the shaft. Kawaka raised his cutlass in front, prepared to spike any eagles trapped above him.

Several hundreds of feet above, Dandelion, Cloud-wing, and their friends shivered, wedged in the narrow crack. From time to time they halfheartedly scooted up a few more inches.

In the light of the Leasorn gemstone, Dandelion watched a quivering smudge farther up. It drifted down slowly, showing itself to be a moth. She nudged Cloud-wing. He rubbed his eye slowly, trying to see.

The moth bumbled from wall to wall. Six pairs of eyes watched its progress silently.

“Any of you want to eat it?” said Blitz, who was below Cloud-wing. “It's coming near my talons.”