King Of Souls (Book 2) (50 page)

“By your hand. Never willingly,” Thoth said his thoughts quivering with barely contained rage.

“Never? Should we ask your brother that question?” Trace said. “Wait, we can’t because you killed him, and you weren’t even fitted with a command crystal.”

Thoth bellowed in rage and hurtled upward flying blind into a swirling mass of twisted black clouds.

“Thoth! You have to turn back!” Ronan held onto the pommel with a white knuckled grip, but the dragon had gone far beyond reason.

A flash of dark blue cut the sky, and Shedu rammed into Thoth’s right side. A sickening snap came from Thoth’s wing. He screeched a bone-chattering wail of pain that must’ve reached Freehold.

As Thoth plummeted, Shedu extended his talons sinking them deep into Thoth’s belly. With a sickening tearing sound, long ribbons of soft flesh ripped free.

Ronan’s eyes widened as cold air slammed into his face and Thoth dropped through the clouds. His muscles went rigid gripping the saddle’s pommel. Waves of fear and adrenaline pumped through his veins.

Thoth broke through the clouds beating his single unbroken wing in a futile effort to stabilize their free fall. But, he only managed to slow the rate of descent giving Shedu ample time to catch up.

Freehold’s lights sparkled below, but offered little salvation for Ronan and Thoth.

Ronan found the mental bridge between him and Thoth still standing. He reached across finding the rage gone, replaced with pain, fear, and frustration. Shedu and Trace’s presence had disappeared. Thoth had finally severed their mental link.

Thoth fell faster streaking through the sky like a mortally wounded duck. “I’m sorry for my failure Silver Soul,” he said through the bridge. “I should’ve heeded your warning.”

Ronan leaned forward and flattened his palm against Thoth’s broken wing covered by thick layers of ice and snow. He closed his eyes and channeled healing flows into Thoth’s wing. As the magic sealed the break, blackness crept over Ronan’s mind, and he teetered in the crystal saddle. “That’s all I’ve got. Anymore might kill me.” His voice sounded sluggish and slurred through the mind bridge. Ronan fought against a heavy wave of exhaustion sweeping through his body.

Thoth’s right wing caught the wind and unfurled shaking loose the ice and snow. His wings beat faster fighting against the gravity pulling him toward the towering manors closing in below.

Behind Thoth, Shedu closed the gap and bore his teeth as a swirl of fire danced around Trace’s body.

A wind gust blew upward and Thoth glided higher nearing Freehold’s outer wall. A mash of archers ranging in age from fifteen to sixty-five raised their bows preparing to attack.

Ronan pushed himself to a seated position and reached a trembling hand for the frozen arrows knotted in his quiver. He peeled loose a single arrow and jammed it in the longbow’s knocking point. The world blurred as he twisted in his saddle.

Shedu’s teeth glistened with frozen ice as Thoth’s tail fell inside his open jaw. Shedu’s golden eyes held Ronan’s gaze for a full second, and the great dragon froze as a petrified expression crossed his face.

Without aiming, Ronan raised his bow and loosed the arrow. The longbow dropped from his hands clattering against Freehold’s outer wall. His arrow disappeared into Shedu’s open mouth.

Shedu shrieked and cut off his attack retreating skyward. With his wings extended, the wind carried him into the raging winter storm, and he disappeared.

Outside Freehold’s closed gates, a trail of blood extended across the white Meranthian plane.

Blood that Ronan realized came from the wounds running along Thoth’s abdomen. Wounds he’d failed to heal when he fixed Thoth’s broken wing. He placed his hand against the dragon’s back and reached for his healing magic. With his mind a jumble of blurred thoughts and twisted images, he couldn’t find the mind bridge connecting him to Thoth. On blind instinct, he channeled his own magic reserves. Nausea, exhaustion, and a dragon’s wailing cry of desperation mixed in an incoherent mass. As Thoth limped over Freehold’s outer wall, blackness filled Ronan’s vision.

***

A pinpoint of exquisite needle sharp pain throbbed inside Ronan’s skull, but the rest of his body felt nothing. He laid still for what felt like minutes. Pain loosened his thoughts, and he tried recalling memories lying just beyond his reach.

Ronan’s brain sent commands to his body’s muscles responsible for moving his arms and legs, but they refused to comply. He pushed open his ice-covered eyes and tried to focus.

A blur of stark white nothing lay all around him. An endless field of bitter cold and grayness.

In an instant, Ronan’s memories caught up and slammed into his mind like an enraged bull awash in red. He turned his gaze ahead and the sharp pains in his brain intensified as if begging him to stop.

A gust of wind brought a frenzy of fresh snowflakes whipping across Ronan’s face. He searched the frozen field for Thoth or any sign of human presence.

Ronan found himself on his hands and knees. The snow had numbed his limbs, and he felt no pain other than his brain reminding him of his dire condition. He rolled over and sat up trying to discover his location. He and Thoth had limped into Freehold a few minutes earlier. How had he landed in a wide open field? Every square inch of the city contained people, buildings, and streets. He glanced over his right shoulder and sickening dread replaced the momentary doubt.

Through a gaping hole high on the arena’s outer wall, gale force winds blew snow across splintered, broken seats. Jagged chunks of stone and a swath of shredded timber tore a trail through the empty seats where thousands sat six months ago. They'd come to watch Ronan’s showdown with Merric Pride.

A snakelike pattern ran through the ruined seats created by Thoth’s plated tail. Two inches of fresh snow laid atop the wreckage.

Ronan pushed aside simmering dread and shook his head managing a short bitter laugh. How fitting, he thought. Thoth must’ve seen the snowdrifts inside the arena as his best chance of survival. A place that might offer a soft landing for a horribly injured dragon and his unconscious rider. He rubbed layers of crusted ice and snow from his eyelashes and tried focusing on his immediate surroundings.

Through a bleary haze, drifts of pristine snow came into focus. They laid undisturbed except for Thoth’s path of destruction. Ronan’s cloak, ripped free during the descent, lay in tatters a dozen yards away. Ten-feet away, the hickory longbow he’d used to ward off Shedu peeked above a six-foot snowdrift. Near Ronan’s outstretched legs, his belt pouch lay half-buried beneath a layer of fresh snow.

Ronan reached forward and, using his frostbitten hands as a shovel, scooped up his leather pouch.

The buckle holding the pouch closed had ripped. The flap swung open depositing its contents between Ronan’s legs.

Ronan’s numb mind worked overtime deciphering and placing the contents heaped before him.

Two strips of frozen beef jerky, a smooth piece of flint, a pair of leather gloves, and the bottom of a small statue. A statue that had landed upside down.

Ronan could place each item except the gold statuette. Where had he seen it? He scooped it into his open palm and blew away a thin layer of snow.

He held a golden statute bearing the likeness of a shriveled old woman gripping a simple wooden walking staff. Layers of fur covered her stooped shoulders, and a slight smile stretched across her aged wrinkled face.

Recollection broke through the haze and exhaustion clouding Ronan’s thoughts. He remembered the statue Moira had given him on Dragon’s Peak, but he’d sworn it depicted a dragon. He rubbed pockets of snow from his eyes and blinked, but the statue remained unchanged.

He recalled fond memories of his time spent with Moira and smiled. Warmth combined with a slight tingling sensation spread through his palm where the statue touched his skin. As feeling returned to his hand, pain flared with it. He slipped the statue into his leather pouch and gasped.

Warm blood covered Ronan’s palm where the statuette had rested. His flesh had thawed revealing a deep cut slicing his palm. Sticky half-frozen blood flowed like a funeral procession over his hand and dripped into the snow between his legs.

Ronan pushed to his feet and blackness crept over his field of vision. He paused allowing his body to adjust and felt dread nagging his memory. He should’ve remembered something.

The bleachers remained empty. The only sound came from his mouth pushing billows of steam into the chilled snowy air. Then it hit him like a fist. What happened to Thoth? Had he flown away?

Ronan turned and faced the stadium’s far side and felt the blood drain from his face.

Gallons of blood stretched to the arena’s rear wall. Heaped inside a snowdrift, Thoth lay motionless centered in a circle of frozen red snow.

Words formed on Ronan’s frozen lips but they came out soft and garbled in the arena’s stark silence. “No. In Elan’s holy name, no.” He staggered forward reaching outward for the great dragon. Darkness crept into his thoughts, and the world went black.

***

Through the icy windowpanes of Ronan’s private quarters the dingy gray sunlight gave way to nightfall. The snow that had deluged Freehold for two straight days tapered off. Gentle flurries fell ending the worst snowstorm to hit Freehold in a century.

Inside Ronan’s bedroom, split pine logs, stacked high in the open hearth, crackled beneath a roaring fire. Rika sat in a rocking chair beside the hearth with fresh wood shavings piled at her feet. Her carving knife gleamed by the firelight. She concentrated on a small piece of aged oak cradled in her hand, transforming it into some great work of art.

Danielle paced near the foot of Ronan’s bed twirling her golden curls around her finger. She paused and stared into her brother’s face where he lay sleeping in his bed beneath piles of quilts and blankets. She folded her arms and sighed. “I don’t understand why he won’t wake up. It’s been two days. Alcott, are you sure you healed all his wounds?”

The quill pen in Sir Alcott’s fingers paused where he sat scribbling at Ronan’s desk. Piles of paper spread across Ronan’s mahogany desk surrounded the scholar. Sir Alcott’s pipe sat smoldering in a glass ashtray near his elbow curling sweet smoke into the air. He looked up from his work and stared as if just now processing Danielle’s words. “Yes.”

He cleared his throat, scooped up his pipe, and bit down on its stem stoking its embers by inhaling a fresh puff. “I’ve healed all his physical wounds, but the mind is a tricky thing.” He blew smoke around the pipe clutched between his teeth. “I can’t make any promises in that area.” He shook his head. “I’ve said it before but he was tapped out Danielle. He had nothing left to give. I think his body just needs to rest. If we wake him too soon, there’s no guarantee we’ll get the same Ronan back.”

Rika’s knife paused and she looked up tucking errant strands of hair behind her ear. The worry lines etched on her face deepened. “What do you mean Sir Alcott? Why can’t we just wake him up?”

“Strange things can happen to knights when they’ve tapped every drop of usable magic from their body. It takes time to replenish of course, but that’s not what I mean.” He pulled on his pipe and reclined in the desk chair while his gaze wandered to a chessboard sitting on a nearby serving table. “He could lose pieces of his memory, or even his senses.”

Rika’s eyes widened, and her mouth dropped opened.

Danielle glared at Sir Alcott. “Alcott, don’t tell that to Rika, she’s already worried enough for ten people. Besides, that’s not true.”

“I don’t mean to worry her Danielle, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t speak of the possibilities,” Sir Alcott said. “Unfortunately, I’ve seen it happen firsthand.”

“The storm’s letting up,” Jeremy said.

The conversation stopped cold, and every head swiveled toward the shield knight. Jeremy leaned against the window’s ornate molding staring out the expansive frost-covered bay windows.

A nervous flutter rippled through Danielle’s stomach, and she wrung her hands. She’d managed to forget the invasion for five minutes. But it always came back, looming over every conversation like an unwelcome guest. “Which means our grace period has ended.” She cast an uneasy eye toward her brother.

As if reading Danielle’s mind, Rika stood and fresh wood shavings spilled from her lap. “I know that look Danielle.” She jabbed her carving knife in the air for emphasis. “You’ll not wake him. I’ll not see him hurt. If you —”

Danielle held up her palms trying to calm Rika’s outburst. Like a lioness protecting her den, she had to take care with Rika. “Relax Rika, I wouldn’t dream of hurting him.” She let go a deep breath and crossed to the bay window tracking the bonfires burning on the arena sand glowing like hot coals in a dying fire. “Sir Alcott, how’s Thoth?”

The old scholar’s brow furrowed, and he stroked his long gray beard stretched over his ever expanding belly. “By Elan’s grace he’s alive, but I don’t know how. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“And you can’t move him from the arena?” Danielle said.

“I’m afraid that might kill him.” A curl of purplish-white pipe smoke seeped through Sir Alcott’s mustache before vanishing overhead. “Besides, I don’t know where to put him. He doesn’t fit through any traditional door we’ve here in Freehold.”

“Can’t you heal him? Ronan healed his wounds once before,” Rika said. She sat perched on the rocking chair’s edge with one eye locked on Ronan.