Daybreak (27 page)

It was an angry wind, the last breath of winter — the time that Thane Evan had called the Wailing Week. He remembered how winter used to shake the summit with its dying gasps. It’d blown so fiercely that Thane Evan had ordered them all to stay inside the walls during the Wailing. But here, the cold’s fury wasn’t nearly as fierce.

Griffith dropped his shoulder into it, dragging Baird along. He grinned when he felt the angry winds give way.

It was only when the walls had closed behind them and they’d marched halfway across the frozen field that Griffith’s heart began to pound. Something like webs of ice snaked their way up his legs. Gwen really
would
be furious with him for leaving.

Even from a distance, he could see how she stalked back and forth before the pile of rocks inside the Cleft. He could tell by how much snow sprayed up from her boots that she was furious — and she hadn’t even seen him yet.

He could only imagine how much angrier she’d be when she caught him dragging a blind man through the wind …

“Courage,” Baird called, as if he could sense how Griffith’s chin twisted back. “You must trust me as you’ve never trusted another soul. My words must be your anchor, your mighty sword. I cannot stop you, should you choose to turn back. But the whole fate of your people rests squarely upon your shoulders. Are you prepared to carry it?”

“Yes,” Griffith said, though his throat tightened around the word.

The way Baird gripped his arm assured him. He clung to Griffith as if to let go would send him rolling across the fields and smack into the castle walls. Surely he wouldn’t have risked stepping out if there wasn’t any danger.

Surely he was doing what was right.
 

“Courage now, young Griffith,” Baird called again. “No matter what you hear or what you see, you must carry me towards the fight. You must be my strength. We must not turn back.”

Griffith nodded and plunged ahead.

They were a hundred paces from the Cleft when he heard it: a mass of voices twisted together, chanting along the path of the wind. The voices grew sharper, louder. Their strange words grated against Griffith’s ears.

“Courage,” Baird bellowed. “Courage!” 

Griffith ground his teeth against the magic and pressed on, pulling Baird close behind him. A shadow covered his boots, scraped across his head. Then all at once, he felt the earth tremble. Swears erupted inside the Cleft. The warriors closest to the wall toppled over; the rest struggled to keep their balance.
 

A monster rose from the drifts before him — a beast with its flesh made from the rocky earth. Snow rolled from its back in a mist. Its head burst from the ground and charged towards them, crashing through the warriors as if they were no more trouble than dust.

Griffith grabbed Baird as the monster charged towards them. The way the earth shook beneath its coming made him realize that the mound they saw was merely the monster’s head — the rest of its body was far beneath the surface.

He ran as far as he could and held Baird tightly as the monster passed. The earth jolted him, made his vision bounce and ached his head. Still, he managed to keep his footing until the monster was little more than a rumble in the distance.

“What was —?”

“Closer! Bring me closer!”

Griffith marched a few paces more before panicked screams filled the air behind him. He turned and saw with a jolt that the monster hadn’t disappeared: its great head struck against Thanehold.

The rocky mound of its head was pressed against the outer walls while its body kicked the earth beneath the village. Their walls shook, their towers swayed. Above them, the cliffs seemed about to collapse: massive sheets of rock cracked and fell from the mountain’s flesh, shattering just outside the castle. White clouds raced down from the snow at its top.

As more rock broke from its base, the cliff top leaned dangerously over Thanehold. The screams were swallowed up for a moment as the mountain groaned. It crushed the whole castle beneath its shadow. Griffith had known warriors who were killed by much smaller rockslides. If those cliffs fell upon Thanehold, the castle and everyone in it would be crushed. 

His heart slammed as he watched several tiny figures fall from the ramparts — thrown from their posts by the castle’s shaking. He kept waiting for the walls to open, for people to start coming out. But if the warriors in the Cleft couldn’t even hold their footing, he knew the craftsmen had no chance.

They were trapped.

A band of warriors peeled from the Cleft and charged for the field. Silas led them with a roar, snow churning up from the beat of his powerful legs. Gwen sprinted close behind him. Her eyes widened at the sight of Griffith and her voice went sharp:

“Get back to the castle! You can reach it — get our people out!”

Her words frightened him; the panic in her eyes froze his legs.

Then Baird’s hands bit forcefully into his arm. “No, we haven’t the time, we mustn’t stop — we must reach the mages! Bring me closer!”

Gwen’s face burned red. The golden axe hissed as she cut it through the air. “Run!”

Every part of him wanted to turn back for Thanehold. The cliffs screamed, the castle groaned. In moments, his people would be crushed to death beneath the rocks. Griffith turned …

“Press on!” Baird cried from behind him. “Courage!
Courage
!”

Ahead, Gwen lashed him with a furious howl. The warriors began to scream:

“What are you doing?”

“Your people need you!”

“Come on, Griff —
run
!”

Their voices hurt his ears. He didn’t know what to do. Silas charged by and the warriors burned him with their glares. Gwen was growing steadily larger. He could see the fury wrought in each line of her eyes, felt his limbs begin to shrink beneath it.

There were too many glares, too many screams. They danced before him and shook his head with the force of that monster’s flesh. Even Baird’s voice was lost to it. Snow stung his eyes. He reached blindly for the marble.
 

As it rolled between his fingers, one word cut through the fog:

Courage
.

“Get back to the Cleft — move the stones,” Griffith bellowed.

The warriors at the front paid him no heed. He numbed his ears to Gwen’s roar and the others’ furious swears and locked eyes with the warriors who charged behind them.

Their legs froze for a moment, unsure.

“Move the stones,” he said again. “We have to stop the mages!”

That seemed to do it. They spun and fell back upon the shattered wall, their hands moving more furiously than before — their strength bolstered by panic.

For half a moment, Griffith moved surely through the drifts. He dragged Baird behind him and kept his eyes fixed upon the warriors’ work. But then the rumbling didn’t stop. The screams only grew louder. The mountains began to howl.

When Griffith looked back, he saw the cliffs were only moments from breaking. Everything would be gone in an instant — crushed to death beneath the fall. It didn’t matter how furiously the warriors worked: there was still a hill of stone between them and the mages.
 

The realization stuck him like a boulder across his back. Griffith crumbled to his knees. “We’ll never reach the mages! We’ll never stop them.”
 

His throat twisted and tears brimmed inside his eyes. He’d been a fool to go marching out here. He’d been such a fool.
 

Baird’s frail hands pulled desperately on his arms, but it was his words that brought Griffith back to his feet: “We don’t need to
reach
them. We’ll slay them without the fist or sword. Courage, young Griffith!” he bellowed over the rising storm. “Steel your legs and carry me on.”

They were too far to save Thanehold, too far to stop the mages. And so Griffith had no choice but to do as he was told — begging Fate for mercy at every step.

Three paces, the three longest moments of his life, and then Baird roared:

“
Silence, mages! I am the voice of the mountains, the great refuge against all spells. Your powers whither beneath my shadow
.”

His words burst inside Griffith’s ears — a loud boom of a summer storm, more forceful than a river. It thrust his legs forward and bolstered his strength. He bared his teeth, his legs charged hot by the power in Baird’s words.

“
Your voices are swallowed up by my mighty winds. See how I carry them away? See how your magic rolls like water from my sides? You have no power here
.”

At first, Griffith thought he was only imagining it. But soon it became too clear to doubt: the mages’ voices shrank beneath Baird’s words. The cliffs slowed their trembling.
 

But as the earth stilled, it was the bard who began to shake. It was as if he’d taken the whole spell upon himself, as if that stone monster had rammed through his skin.
 

Griffith slowed for half a pace before Baird rasped:

“No, don’t stop! No matter what, you mustn’t stop.”

So Griffith didn’t. He dragged Baird against his side, all but carrying him to into the Cleft. His eyes stayed fixed upon the rock wall in front of them. He pushed at the warriors with his gaze, silently begging them to dig on.

“
My peaks fall down upon your bodies, worms
,” Baird cried. “
They bend defiantly from your spells. You feel my voice inside your bones — your blood freezes against my spirit. You knew from the moment you stepped beneath my shadow that you would not live to see the setting … setting of …
”

Baird clutched desperately at Griffith’s arm. His legs shook too badly to move. When he turned, Griffith saw with a shock that he was bleeding. Scarlet tears rolled from beneath his bandages, gushed from inside his ears. They stained the edges of his beard.
 

Griffith knew what was happening — he’d seen this once before. “No —!”

“You
must
! We’ve nearly got them, young Griffith. We’re nearly … but I can’t … can’t do this alone.” Baird’s knobby fingers went taut across his arm. He bared his teeth in a defiant grin. “Courage, now …
courage
.”

It took every ounce of Griffith’s courage to move. He scooped Baird into his arms and marched for the Cleft. The earth stopped its trembling, but only because Baird shook. The warriors had begun to beat the hill aside with their fists; the sound of Baird’s chant stoked their strength to frenzy.
 

Gray light burst through from the other side — the faintest glimpse of hope. They were nearly there.

Though Baird couldn’t see it, he must’ve sensed that they were close. Griffith lunged ahead when the bard roared: “
Yes, you knew from the moment you stepped beneath my shadow that you would not live to see the setting of the sun. Your spirits quake against this truth. You see Death coming towards you, now — his great sword leveled at your throats
!”

The warriors threw their bodies against the last line of rock. They burst through and went after the few remaining soldiers that waited on the other side.
 

Even as his limbs swelled beneath the power in Baird’s voice, hot tears streamed down Griffith’s face. He felt the wet warmth of Baird’s blood against his chest. As he stepped through the rubble and into the battle beyond, he kept his eyes fixed upon the robed men cowering behind the soldiers’ backs.

Their faces were masks of terror. Their hands coiled about their throats and they screamed as Baird’s words raked across their ears.

The warriors clobbered the soldiers away. They left him a straight path through the fight. As they neared the end, Baird laughed through the blood that coated his lips and howled: “
Death comes for you now, mages
!
He strikes your spirits into the depths with a mighty roar:
You are dust!”

Griffith gasped as the mages’ bodies burst. Their skin ripped back from their skulls as if they’d been caught inside a pillar of flame. Their bones blackened, cracked, and crumbled — their robes fell emptily upon the ash. 

The sounds of battle rushed inside Griffith’s ears. His chest swelled with a howl as he watched the warriors crush the remaining soldiers beneath their fists. “We got them, Baird! We …”

But the words trailed away when he looked down and saw the beggar-bard’s face resting gently against his chest. One of his knobby hands still lay atop Griffith’s arm, though the grip was gone from his fingers. 

Red stained the bandages over his eyes. It darkened his hollow cheeks and colored the slight gray of his beard. But the blood was the only mark of his pain: the rest of his face was smooth with sleep, his lips bent ever so slightly upwards … parted in a smile.

Griffith sat down hard. He pulled the bard into his lap and pressed an ear against his chest. Through the fading noise of the battle and the warriors’ excited howls, he heard the tiniest murmur of life …
 

The smallest, faintest
thud
.

Far beneath the fortress of Midlan, the King’s prisoners had awoken. Howls tore through the chambers; screams thickened the air. They rent the mortar with their claws and threw their monstrous bodies upon the iron doors.

Argon the Seer leaned against the dampened wall of a chamber much larger than the rest. His swollen hands gripped the sides of a scrying bowl; his head fell so low that its water soaked the tip of his beard. A moment ago, the basin had rocked under the force of his vision. It’d been alive with swirling colors, voices, the noise of battle and flame. Now, there was only silence …

A silence that frightened him more than the monsters’ wails.

“What’s happening?” Crevan growled. His stony eyes roved as he paced, flicking to follow every thrash and scream. His knuckles were white about the hilt of his sword.

Argon couldn’t think to reply. His vision wavered beneath the lingering power of what he’d Seen. His head throbbed. Blood dripped from his nose and fell one drop at a time into the bowl, stirring its waters and coloring its ripples once more.