ZYGRADON (8 page)

"I think we can," Lyon said slowly. He moved around so he stood at the
Warhawk's side, and went down on one knee. He met Mrillis' gaze, and narrowed his
eyes as he studied the boy. "The question is whether we should. If it's right and wise.
What sort of magic hold does he have on the boy?"

"The Nameless One has a son," Graddon said. "That much our spies and visions
have showed us. The visions and prophecies speak of two boys. Either two futures for
the same boy, or two boys with two futures to choose from."

"We think--we fear--the Nameless One's son was born close to Mrillis' birth. It is
likely he used his son's birthing blood, possibly slaughtered the boy's mother in childbed,
to create an enchantment that has grown with the boys," Breylon said. "You have seen a
red-haired boy, yes?"

Mrillis nodded. He tried to stand still and straight, shoulders back, but Le'esha
felt the growing tension, the fear and weariness underneath the hand she rested on his
shoulder. She ached for the boy, and tried to push away her personal feelings to see the
wider picture. Perhaps Mrillis' presence here, in the war camp, was meant to be.

"Red hair is usually the sign of a half-blood possessing considerable
imbrose
," the High Scholar continued. "We do not know if the boy is simply a
mindless, soulless tool in his father's hands, or if he is being raised as a partner for
conquest. Is he nothing more than an anchor stone for the cords of the enchantment? Or
does he drain our boy's strength, perhaps spy on his dreams?"

"A boy told Mrillis to cut the cords that choked him in his dream," Le'esha said.
"But not the red-haired boy."

"Fascinating, yes, but what good does all this talk of magic do us?" Lyon said.
He stood and stepped closer to Mrillis and frowned more deeply as he looked down at
the boy.

"The most important question is whether the Nameless One wants Mrillis dead,"
Le'esha said, "or if he needs him alive to mold him into a weapon against us. Tonight's
dream could have been merely a test of how strong a hold his magic has on our boy. He
could have freed Mrillis from the dream at the last moment, when he learned what he
needed. Or tonight's dream was indeed meant to destroy our boy."

"Either way..." The Warlord's frown turned into a vicious grin and he nodded.
"Either way, we can turn him into a weapon." A snort of laughter escaped him, like from
a restless horse. "With your permission, brother, I'll take the boy for a long ride as a
distraction. Make our enemy panic and look away, while you go for his throat."

"A good plan." The Warhawk nodded. "It will be a hard ride, and the enemy
might send men to take or kill you, boy. Are you willing to obey?"

"Majesty." Mrillis stepped away from Le'esha. Her hand fell back into her lap as
she felt him grow older, more aware in that moment. He went to one knee before the
Warhawk. "I was stupid."

"No," Graddon said, with a chuckle rasping in his voice. "You're simply a normal
boy, hungry for adventure. And you knew better than to ask, because you knew we'd
say no."

The others in the tent relaxed a little more and grinned. Le'esha reflected that
all four men likely remembered childhood pranks, adventures and dangers that had
taught them wisdom.

"Why did you come, lad?" Breylon asked.

"To protect my Lady." Mrillis shrugged and flicked his gaze up to meet Le'esha's
for just a moment.

"I think the Queen of Snows is the last person who will ever need anyone's
protection," Afron grumbled. He nodded, and the smile he gave the boy held a little
more warmth. "Your loyalty is admirable. Even if your choices were bad."

"At least Ceera didn't come, too," Le'esha remarked. She saw Mrillis flinch at her
words. "Oh ho--she argued when you left her behind. Or did you sneak away from her,
too?"

"She cried," the boy admitted.

"Neither you nor the little lass had any reason to worry," Lyon said.

"I know, but... she's our mother."

"Ah." The Warhawk nodded. He cleared his throat and glanced around the
gathering.

Le'esha fought not to cry. Her eyes burned with tears. She wasn't sure if she
would scold Ceera first when she returned home, or sit and simply hold the child for
hours.

"Well, lad, are you willing to obey now?" Afron continued.

"If you give me this chance to help, I will be grateful," Mrillis said, and pressed
his hand over his heart in pledge.

"Just keep that in mind when you're saddle sore and limping," Lyon said. He
winked at Mrillis. The boy grinned back at him.

Le'esha tried to be proud. She tried to put away her worry, because she,
Breylon, Graddon and the Warhawk had a long night of planning ahead of them. Mrillis
left immediately with Lyon, to sleep for what remained of the night and prepare for days
of hard riding. It nearly broke her heart when the boy clung to her a little longer than
usual when she kissed him goodnight and bade him obey the Warhawk's brother.

The next time she saw Mrillis--if she did not die of this battle of magics--he
would no longer be her innocent, reckless boy. He would have seen too much of war
and killing and evil to ever be that child again.

* * * *

Lyon woke Mrillis in the thick, chilly darkness that lay heavy on their camp just
before dawn. The boy had slept badly, waking in a cold sweat whenever he started to
slide into dreams. His stomach knotted with shame and a sense of failure, so he shook his
head and refused when the Warhawk's brother offered him a chunk of cold bread spread
with apple paste before they climbed into their saddles.

Norum, a battlemaster who had helped train Afron when Maksin was
Warhawk, rode with them. Just the three traveled together, walking their horses through
the darkness, beyond the reach of the campfires' light, vanishing in silence. The one-eyed,
gray-haired man said nothing to either man or boy, and led the way for the first three
hours.

Mrillis started to relax as the effort of riding swiftly through the darkness
warmed him and drove the stiff chill from his fingers. He enjoyed the novel experience
of riding the piebald, heavy-muscled warhorse he had been given for the flight. The
unusually silent beast stood four hands taller than the old brown gelding he had shared
with another boy while they led the supply wagons. Its gait was smooth, and through
the saddle, Mrillis sensed the heaviness of its tread. Rey'kil trained their horses to dance
through battle, to protect their riders. Noveni preferred the heavier breeds and trained
their mounts to act as weapons. Mrillis could well believe his horse would rear up and
pound enemies with his hooves, or kick like a mule and bash a man's brains out.

He would have quite an adventure to tell the other boys about, when he
returned to Wynystrys. Despite the disgrace of having been discovered and being a
liability and a target of the enemy, the other students would still envy him. He rode a
warhorse and traveled with Lyon, Warlord and brother to the Warhawk. He wasn't sure
yet about Norum, but Mrillis thought he could learn things from the battlemaster that
the other boys would beg him to teach them.

If he was allowed to return to Wynystrys.

If Master Breylon and Lady Le'esha and Graddon weren't killed in the attack on
Flintan and the Nameless One.

Would it be his fault if they were?

"What ails you, lad?" Norum said. His crackling, deep voice surprised Mrillis so
he flinched and sat upright.

Mrillis felt his face heat as he realized both men watched him. The morning
light had grown so he couldn't hide anything unless he tugged his hood up over his
head.

"I didn't mean to make trouble," he muttered.

"Boys are born to make trouble," Lyon said, and shrugged. "That's the only way
they can learn--through bruises and scars. I pulled a few wooden-headed tricks of my
own at your age."

"Aye, that you did." Norum chuckled, and it was a surprisingly warm, rumbling,
comforting sound. "What I want to know is, what's so special about you, boy, that the
Nameless One wants you dead or his slave?"

Mrillis' stomach twisted. He wondered if he should have eaten that bread.
"Lady Le'esha said it's not what I am, but what I might become."

"Clay in a potter's hand." Lyon glanced over his right shoulder at the rising
sun--they rode due north. "Let's see about putting iron into this clay, while it's in our
hands."

"Lad..." Norum winked at him. "When we're through, you'll wish you'd been
beaten until you couldn't sit, but you'll be on your way to being a warrior the Warhawk
will want at his side."

Mrillis nodded, not quite sure if they teased him, threatened him, or promised
something wonderful. Perhaps all three. Lyon gestured ahead as they broke out of the
trees and a rolling plain sprawled before them, leading down to a river white with rapids
and tiny falls.

"We'll stop there. First man there gets to fish, not collect wood or tend to the
horses. On three."

Mrillis barely realized a race had been declared by the time Lyon reached three.
The other two mounts leaped out ahead, but his horse understood and raced to catch
up. The boy leaned low over the neck of his horse, its mane whipping his face until tears
stung his eyes. Thunder from three sets of hooves deafened him. He nearly got tossed
from the saddle before he learned to roll with the rocking, swift gait. This was nothing
like riding the hunting horses Kathal and Tathal favored. He let out a whoop of
exhilaration and dug his heels in, urging his mount to greater speed.

He didn't win the race, but he didn't care. Mrillis gathered a pile of wood as
high as his waist, and in that time, Lyon had only caught two fish for their noon meal.
Without asking, the boy fashioned a spear and moved upstream a few paces. He speared
three fish by the time Lyon told him to leave off and come back to their camp. The
Warlord tossed him the fish he had caught, and Mrillis understood that he had to clean
the fish, also.

Neither man said anything about his skill with spear and knife, but Norum
nodded and belched when they finished eating, and patted his stomach
appreciatively.

"Hope you know some field healing," the battlemaster said, when the three
climbed back into the saddle. "You'll be sore by nightfall, but you'll not see your blankets
until we see what you know about swordplay."

"I know some," Mrillis said, and tried not to gulp too loudly. He only knew
what any boy his age knew about swordplay--what he had heard and seen. The games
he had played with Nixtan and other boys on Wynystrys, using crooked sticks for
swords, certainly couldn't count as training. Except for that midnight visit to the armory,
he had never held a real sword.

Maybe Norum and Lyon hadn't been teasing or threatening, but warning him.
He was going to be sore and exhausted by the time Lyon was sure they were beyond the
Nameless One's reach. He would have to ride all day, and then take warrior lessons in
the evening instead of relaxing in front of the fire. If they even had fires when they made
camp.

"Even the worst storm tosses up usable driftwood on the beach," Theana always
said, when the younger women in the Stronghold complained about circumstances that
went wrong. Mrillis wondered if she would say that to him right now.

It was up to him, he knew, to turn this embarrassing time into an adventure he
could tell Ceera about without her scolding, or tell the boys on Wynystrys without being
mocked.

* * * *

The time had come to shatter the might of the Encindi and the Nameless One.
This battle had endured through four generations.

Rey'kil scholars had searched the histories and fables for some means to defeat
blood magic. Rey'kil warriors, male and female, worked side-by-side with the Noveni as
scouts, spies and couriers. Rey'kil artisans turned their hammers and forges to making
light, impermeable armor and turned their looms to making clothes that didn't tear or
burn. Rey'kil healers took students from the Noveni and shared everything they knew
about every healing plant, every salve and potion that would preserve life and fight
wounds gone bad, so that healing would reach every warrior no matter where they fell
in the battlefield.

Because all of Lygroes had become a battlefield.

Noveni and Rey'kil spies brought back stories that supported cruel rumors. The
evidence grew stronger as the shores of Flintan became visible in the distance. For every
enemy warrior killed by the allied Noveni and Rey'kil forces, the Nameless One in turn
killed two prisoners, to use their blood and pain to fuel his magic. When he ran out of
prisoners, he used his own people--and they were so lost within his power, they went
willingly to the knife.

The only consolation Le'esha and Breylon could offer the Warhawk was that
the rebel enchanter could not tap the power of the World. The use of blood magic
forever changed a Rey'kil, destroying his
imbrose
and denying him access to the
Threads.

A storm struck during the night, after Lyon rode away with Mrillis. Le'esha
didn't think it at all a coincidence. The Nameless One had thought his long-sought prize
rode into his den. He had likely been startled when his attempt to make Mrillis kill
himself had failed. That would have made him doubly cautious and alert. When his
quarry fled the ranks of the warriors who marched toward Flintan, the Nameless One
would have been startled, and furious. The pivotal question was whether he had wasted
precious energy from blood magic to raise the storm to satisfy his fury, or if he had done
so to stall and distract his enemies while he devoted all his energy and forces to
destroying one small boy. That question became moot when the storm held, varying in
intensity, all the long journey to the coast.

At dawn on the day of battle, icy rain fell so heavily, the air seemed on the
verge of turning into a part of the ocean. Every Rey'kil in the southern half of Lygroes
focused all their thoughts and strength, to send all their
imbrose
to the Queen
of Snows and the High Scholar. They erected walls of power to hold the battering rain
and killing winds at bay. While the storms raged and leagues of shoreline fell into the
sea, the ferries and coracles and barges of the Warhawk's army crossed a smooth
highway through the sea, with a fair wind at their sterns to speed them along.