Crown of Three (34 page)

And she was staring straight at Gulph.

Except no. She was looking past him. Gulph spun on his heels.

Brutan was there, lunging out of the murk. His eyes blazed like miniature red suns. His grisly hands groped. His black tongue lolled against his rotting lips.

“My killer!” he roared. “I will kill you!”

“Not me!” Magritt screamed. “Not me!”

She backed away, her long dress obscuring her feet so that she seemed to float through the dust.

“Kill you!”

“Not me!” Magritt pointed both hands at Gulph. “Him! He killed you! He is the one who placed the poisoned crown on your head! Kill him! Kill him!”

Without slowing, Brutan made straight for Gulph. Gulph tried to move his feet, but the manacles were heavy and the pain in his ankles had deepened to a burning agony. He tried to take in a breath, but his lungs were clogged with stone powder. He could barely even stand.

A soldier thrust at Brutan with his sword. The undead king swatted him aside like a fly. The man's sword slid across the ground to land at Gulph's feet. He stared at it. He'd never used a sword in his life. He didn't think he had the strength even to pick it up.

Ossilius seized the weapon. Pivoting on his heels, he swung it around in a tremendous arc, its blade aimed squarely at Brutan's exposed neck.

Brutan tilted his head, twisting his neck to such an alarming degree that Gulph was sure it would roll from his shoulders and onto the ground. Ossilius's blade grazed Brutan's skull, sending bone chips and a cloud of wriggling maggots flying in a wide spray.

As Ossilius recovered from his swing, Brutan grabbed the blade of the sword. The sharp metal edge sliced through what little flesh remained on his fingers, but the bones were strong. The undead king tossed the weapon aside and closed his free hand around Ossilius's throat.

“No!” Gulph yelled, surging forward. He would not see his friend and protector become one of the undead. While there was breath in his body, he would not!

But Brutan released his grip almost immediately, tossing Ossilius aside like a doll. The captain landed on top of the fallen soldier and lay there groaning and clutching at his throat.

As Brutan came on, Gulph backtracked. The manacles scraped together and he fell. Magritt was nowhere to be seen. Only he and Brutan remained. The thing looming over him looked nothing like the father he'd dreamed of when he was a little boy. He scarcely looked like a man. Yet here they were, father and son, reunited at last.

Brutan lunged. A dark shadow fell over Gulph. Dust rose, a sudden whirlwind.

He fell back and waited for the end to come.

T
he closer he flew to the city of Idilliam, the more astonished Tarlan became. He'd grown up in a land of icy mountains and frozen valleys, where the biggest settlements were no larger than the village he'd helped save with Lady Darrand. Castle Vicerin had been big enough to take his breath away.

Castle Tor was something else entirely.

It was a mountain all its own. Towers built upon walls built upon ramparts . . . The rambling stonework rose like a termite mound from the surrounding maze of streets and buildings. How many people lived here? Thousands? More? Tarlan had no words to describe such numbers.

He just knew that Idilliam was vast beyond his comprehension.

“Never mind the buildings,” he muttered. “Concentrate on the people.”

“Dead,” wailed Theeta as they swooped down toward the crowds. “Not dead.”

Tarlan strained his eyes as they flew lower. What did she mean?

Theeta repeated her words over and over again, confusion clearly locking her thoughts into a never-ending spiral.

“It's all right, Theeta.” Tarlan stroked her head; the soothing movements seemed to steady her nerves.

Scant breaths later, his own nerves were jangling.

Dead!
he thought as he watched lumbering creatures stagger through mounds of rubble.
Not dead!

It was a battle, but a battle like none he'd seen before. Backed against the main city wall, a dwindling cluster of soldiers wearing bright bronze armor and carrying crimson shields were trying to hold their ground against an onrushing wave of . . . What exactly
were
they?

Living corpses!

Tarlan could think of no other way of describing them: these stumbling things draped in ragged cloth and trailing strips of torn flesh behind them.

“How can this be?” he said, simultaneously fascinated and horrified.

“Theeta not know,” said the thorrod miserably.

“Dead,” called Nasheen, swooping in from the left.

“Undead,” cried Kitheen, soaring on the right.

“I thought the Icy Wastes were bad,” said Tarlan. “But this . . .”

He steered the thorrod flock in a wide circle over the melee, keeping high enough to avoid any arrows or missiles that might be hurled their way. But both armies seemed unaware of their presence.

Cries rose from below.

“Brutan! Brutan has returned!”

“The undead king!”

“Brutan!”

Father!
Tarlan's thoughts reeled. The sight of the undead warriors was shocking enough. Hearing his father's name left him breathless, as if he'd been punched in the belly.

You're supposed to be dead!
He remembered the grave delight Lord Vicerin had taken in explaining how his father—the evil king of Toronia—had been murdered.

“Lower!” he barked.

“Danger!” said Theeta.

“Fly lower, Theeta!”

Cawing anxiously, the giant bird banked toward the crowd, pumping her golden wings against the clouds of dust rising up from the ground. It was like descending over boiling mountain rapids; in the gloom, the battling figures teemed like angry fish.

Ahead was a patch of clearer air.
Strange.
Tarlan directed Theeta to head toward it. A man stood there, the still center of a circle of chaos. As they drew near, Tarlan saw it was not a man but the remains of one: another of the undead army, but taller and broader than the rest. Where his eyes should have been, red flames licked.

And he knew who it was.

He knew not because of the scraps of fine embroidery that still clung to the corpse's royal robes. Not because of the tarnished gold chain around his neck. But because, despite everything, this shell of a man still carried himself like a king.

The thing that had once been Brutan was bearing down on a boy lying sprawled on the ground. Nearby lay two men. But it was the boy who held his attention. Tarlan's shock at the dead king was driven from his mind as he stared unbelieving at Brutan's next victim.

The boy was about his age.

He was oddly proportioned, as if his body had been made from parts that didn't quite fit together.

His eyes were black, like Tarlan's and Elodie's.

His hair was a striking blend of red and gold.

Like Tarlan's.

Gulph! It must be!

“He's going to kill my brother!” he shouted.

Kicking his heels into Theeta's back, he drove the thorrod into a steep dive.

“Dive!” he yelled at Nasheen and Kitheen. “Dive now!”

Wings pumping in perfect unison, the three mighty birds powered down toward the undead king. Tarlan felt the sun burning the back of his neck, saw the great shadow his flock cast over the ground, a shadow that seemed to solidify into a thick, menacing darkness as they bore down on their target. As they neared ground level, the thorrods' wings raised whirlwinds from the dust.

Sensing their approach, Brutan spun around with blinding speed. He leaped, his gore-spattered arms thrashing at the air. Instinctively, Theeta dodged aside. At the same time, she lashed out with her talons. One claw made contact with Brutan's shoulder, slicing off something that looked like raw steak. The undead king spun backward, mangled arms flailing.

Nasheen and Kitheen, having peeled off to each side, were hovering over the hordes of undead warriors closing in to support their leader.

“Go around!” shouted Tarlan desperately. “Go around!”

As Theeta wheeled in a tight circle, he saw the boy staring up at them, his mouth a round O. His torn and filthy shirt had fallen open to reveal a green jewel on a gold chain.

Tarlan felt a surge of satisfaction. He was right! He'd found his brother at last!

Our brother
, he corrected, as his thoughts flew instantly to Elodie, on the opposite side of the chasm.

“We're coming for you!” he shouted, not knowing if the boy could hear. It didn't matter.

I'm coming!

To Tarlan's relief, Nasheen and Kitheen's combined attack with claw and wing had succeeded in driving back the undead army, although he suspected the respite was only temporary. They should make the most of the lull—and act before Brutan could recover.

“We have to pick him up,” he said to Theeta, lining her up for another pass. “Can you do it?”

“Pick him,” she agreed.

As they swooped in for a second time, a fresh line of soldiers burst through the dust clouds. But these men were alive: soldiers of Idilliam, pushing home the advantage the thorrods had given them. Leading them was a curious figure: a thin young man wearing a strange gold mask.

On his head was a golden crown.

“Nynus!” hissed Tarlan.

All the stories Tarlan had heard—everything he'd been told—crashed together in that single moment. Here was his father, dead and yet not dead. His brother, the third of the triplets. And his half brother, the young madman who'd committed murder to seize the crown.

In a moment of clear and perfect serenity, a single thought blossomed in Tarlan's mind:

I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

“To the Idilliam Bridge!” Nynus screamed. The gold mask muffled his voice only slightly, and Tarlan could hear every shrill word. “A new enemy is upon us. Beat them back! They must not cross!”

For a moment, Tarlan was confused. What was Nynus talking about? His enemies were already upon him. Then he understood. The young king wasn't talking about Brutan and his undead army. He was talking about an attack from beyond the borders of the city. An attack coming from over the bridge.

He was talking about Trident.

“They don't know!” he said. “They don't know about the undead. They're not marching on one army. They're marching on two!”

“Warn them,” said Theeta.

“Yes! We have to warn them. But first we're going to save my brother!”

Theeta's wings were a blur as she carried Tarlan down to the spot where his brother lay. The scene rushed at him: Brutan bearing down on the boy once more; the boy himself, cowering beneath his father's outstretched hands.

“Now!” yelled Tarlan. “Now, Theeta! Now!”

But they were too far away, and Brutan was too fast. Aghast, Tarlan watched as the undead king's skeleton arms reached down toward his brother.

Then, to his utter amazement, the boy vanished.

T
he farther they ventured onto the Idilliam Bridge, the more exposed Elodie felt. Here they were, an entire army, balanced on a narrow finger of rock jutting over a seemingly bottomless chasm. The longer they remained out here the more vulnerable they would become.

We can't stop now,
she thought.
Gulph needs us.

Trident took up the entire width of the bridge, yet the ghost army was there too, their mounts matching the strides of the living horses hoofbeat for hoofbeat. Now that they were close to the Idilliam end of the bridge, she no longer needed Fessan's spyglass to see what was happening in front of the city. A battle raged there, with legions of troops clashing inside clouds of white powdery dust. Maybe the fighting was about Nynus's seizing power; maybe it was something else. It didn't matter. Trident was here to end it, once and for all.

But what would be the cost?