Return of the Crown (18 page)

Grayvern bowed his head for a moment of
silence. He whispered softly in the elven tongue, hard eyes
clouding in pain. He straightened his broad shoulders, shaking away
the sadness. “I can contact the harpies and the unicorn.”

Grayvern turned to a young elf lad. A
beautiful peregrine falcon perched on the boy’s shoulder, preening
its feathers. Grayvern chattered and screeched while scribbling out
a note on a small slip of parchment. He tied it to the bird’s leg
with a leather cord. The lad scratched the bird’s neck with
affection before she launched herself up over the young lad’s head
and flew off over the mountains.

Ravyn woke with a start, covered in sweat.
She felt heat radiating from Blade’s body like a furnace. She sat
upright cradling his head in her lap. He moaned softly but didn’t
wake. She rocked back and forth trying to soothe her frayed nerves,
and she gently sponged his forehead with the sleeve of her
blouse.

The stark white landscape glared at her,
causing her to squint against the morning sun. Blade’s pack poked
her side reminding her she had tools at her disposal. She opened
the pack wide and pushed aside the food. Her fingers brushed
crinkly parchment paper; she’d located the packet of medicinal
herbs. She sprinkled some into a cup of water.

She murmured in his ear, “Drink this; it’ll
help.” She put the cup to his lips, and he managed to swallow some.
She kept putting a little in his mouth, and he kept swallowing.
Finally the glass was empty.

Ravyn tore an extra shirt into strips. She
dabbed at the gash on his scalp, and dabbed some of the ointment
from his pack on the cut. She covered the wound with her makeshift
bandages. Her stomach rumbled reminding her to eat. She began
nibbling on some dried fruit and nuts, and she gazed with longing
at the peak above her.

The magic transportation spell would be so
useful, but it had disastrous effects before. That was not the
answer. Ena was too far away to come and help her. She sat rocking
and thinking, no clever solutions coming to mind.

She sighed. There was only one way to do it.
Rising, she unwrapped the cocoon of cloaks and dragon skin. She
gasped as the chilly air snatched her warmth away. She wrapped the
dragon skin around Blade, tucking it snug about him. She uncoiled
the rope, moving as quick as possible against the biting chill.
With clumsy fingers she tied one end securely around his chest. She
then fastened the other end around her waist.

She put a sock on her right hand like a
mitten. Her left hand was bare to the elements, as the other sock
had disappeared the day before in the avalanche. She closed her
eyes, looking for strength, and then began putting one foot in
front of the other to begin her final ascent.

It was a couple hundred feet to the top. She
didn’t know how long she’d been clawing her way through the deep
snow, dragging along Blade’s dead weigh. When she felt she could go
no further, she collapsed on the top. Great puffs of steam escaped
into the thin air as she clutched her sides, gasping for
breath.

She noticed a rock jutting out of the snow.
Crawling across the snow on her hands and knees, she pushed forward
with urgency. The rope rubbed a raw line across her abdomen
branding her with fiery pain. She pulled up enough rope to get some
slack. Ravyn looped the rope behind the rock and sat to the side
bracing her legs against it. She began pulling, hand over hand,
inching Blade upwards.

Blisters erupted on her fingers and palms
from the friction of the rope against her soft skin. She shoved her
cramping legs hard into the rock, her back and shoulders aching and
screaming for her to stop. Determination coursing through her, she
hauled on the rope again and again. Her breathing came in ragged
gasps as altitude robbed her of valuable oxygen.

She lost herself in her need, concentrating
on each pull of the rope. Blade should near the top soon, maybe
with the next pull. Then she could rest.

A low growling broke her silent reverie.
Glancing over her left shoulder, she saw three enormous wolves,
fangs bared, tense and ready to lunge.

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she started
shaking. She turned her head, averting her eyes, submitting to the
wolves. Warmth and Light surged in her soul, and instinctively she
grabbed at the wave of Light. She prayed to the Light, and the
panic ebbed. Finding the calm she sought, she wove a communication
spell.

“P-p-please,” she stammered, exhausted, still
clutching the rope tightly, “I am a friend of Medina the harpy. She
gave me a feather so you would know me for a friend and allow safe
passage. The feather is in my left trouser pocket. I can’t retrieve
it; my best friend hangs from the end of this rope. I will not let
go of him.”

The largest wolf, beautiful grey with sky
blue eyes, stepped to her side and sniffed at her pocket. “She
speaks the truth. Oakley, Filliu, help her pull the other human
up.”

Stepping to her side, the two wolves clamped
their teeth down on the rope. “One, two, three, pull,” the large
wolf howled.

A few feet of rope came over the edge. Ravyn
took up the slack. The wolves found new purchase on the rope,
digging their paws into the crusty snow, they heaved again. On the
fourth pull, Blade’s head and shoulders crested the top. The large
grey wolf bit gently into the dragon skin, careful not to nip
tender flesh, and hauled Blade completely over the edge to
safety.

Ravyn crawled to Blade’s side, brushing her
forehead across his. His skin felt hot and sweat beaded his brow,
but he seemed no worse than before.

The wolf leader growled, “What are you doing
on Hidden Pass? We have no tolerance for man. For years man has
hunted us for our skins, blamed us for the death of their
livestock, and at times has killed us for no reason other than the
sport of the hunt.”

Ravyn met his piercing sky blue eyes, then
glanced away. “I will tell you my story, but it’s a long one. Blade
needs shelter; I must find a place to stop and care for him.”

Stepping up to Ravyn, the smaller brown wolf,
Filliu, sniffed her. “She is with the Light; she is good. We can
shelter her and her mate until he can travel.” Filliu glanced up at
the cloudy sky and shivered. Her brown fur bristled with unease.
“The snow came early; it smells unnatural, filled with the
Darkness.” She sneezed as if to clear the taint from her senses. “I
sense a great destiny lies with this woman; she needs our
help.”

The large grey wolf growled low in his
throat, towering over Filliu. She averted her gaze, whining softly.
“Do not let motherly intuitions overcome you, Filliu. We owe these
humans nothing.”

The other grey wolf, Oakley, nudged Ravyn
with his snout, sniffing long and deep. “Filliu is right, Kialgyn.
Light fills this woman.” He sniffed Blade, “The man is of the Light
as well.” Oakley sauntered over to a large pine tree and hiked his
leg. “I have never been, nor will I ever be, a mother. Let’s take
them to the den and hear their story at least.”

“I must do what is good for the pack,”
Kialgyn stated firmly. He advanced a step toward the younger male.
Oakley flopped down in the snow, laying his head on his paws. He
looked at Ravyn with sadness in his eyes.

“Then let the pack decide,” interrupted
Filliu, daring to peek at Kialgyn. “Surely one woman and a man at
death’s door can bring no harm.”

Kialgyn stared hard at Filliu; she looked up,
her steely gaze boring back into his blue eyes. He let out a whuff
of air. “Very well, you two drag the Blade.”

Offering a prayer of thanks to the Light,
Ravyn followed silently behind the great grey wolf. Her numb feet
shuffled through snowdrifts, and her growling stomach complained
that she hadn’t eaten in some time. Glancing back, she saw the two
wolves dragging Blade on the dragon skin litter. She smiled,
turning forward once again to put one foot in front of the
other.

Connor changed his appearance again. Taking
up the guise of a bard, he travelled from inn to inn, aiming toward
Hidden Pass. His voice was passable, nothing spectacular. His
fingers danced over the lute strings, though he hadn’t played in
years.

A shocking red mop of hair topped his head,
and he’d tinted his eyes emerald green. A touch more magic plumped
out his wrinkles and trimmed his waist. He looked to be in his late
thirties, not the centuries old wizard he really was.

He’d been hired at three inns so far, earning
his room and board in exchange for night-time revelry and news. Few
bards were traveling the roads anymore, and the villagers flocked
to the inns, filling every available nook and cranny. He was
packing the house.

He used the opportunity to spread information
about the resistance and the return of Princess Ravyn. It was risky
business, as Zelera had spies everywhere. But the benefits
outweighed the risks.

It was heartening, the ready reception of his
information. Men and women alike asking how they could help.
Everywhere his response was the same, “Pass on this information to
any who are willing to stand up to Zelera, and be ready to leave
when General Joff or his men come. Sharpen your weapons, and
practice your skills.”

He kicked a rock, watching it skitter down
the road. The next little village was a few more miles. The trees
lining the road grew thick together, their leaves blocking out the
sky making it dark for mid-day. No birds were singing. No crickets
chirped. No critters rustled amongst the leaves.

Men burst from the trees surrounding him.
Crashing, clanging sounds filled the air. Connor stopped short. A
sharp blade pricked his throat; a drop of blood slid down his
neck.

“Ah, it’s the minstrel we’ve been hearing so
much about. Care to sing us a tune?” a big hairy man sneered.

Connor cleared his throat, the dagger’s sharp
edge resting on his Adam’s apple. “And what tune would suit you?
I’m not sure I know one with words simple enough for you to
understand.”

“A lullaby would do, huh, Brest,” chortled a
skinny pimply youth.

“Shut up, Criggit,” Brest roared. His huge
meaty hand slammed into Criggit’s stomach doubling him over.

“I only meant,” coughed Criggit, “he could
sing his self to sleep. I t’weren’t sayin’ you cain’t understand
nuttin’ but baby songs.” He stayed on his hands and knees, catching
his breath.

The man named Brest glared at Connor. “Well,
he’ll sing a pretty tune for Zelera. She’s keen to hear the songs
he’s been singing. Mighty interested she is.”

Connor centered himself, focusing on the well
of magic within. Arrows came whizzing from the trees. One glanced
off Brest’s cheek, leaving an angry gash. The man holding the knife
to Connor’s throat cried out in pain and dropped the dagger.

A group of young men dropped down from the
trees, like cats landing on their feet. Their bows were raised,
arrows drawn, and targeting the bandits’ fear-filled hearts. Brest
glared at a young man emerging from the trees.

“I would encourage you to drop your weapons,
Brest. You are outmanned.”

Brest tossed his dagger to the ground. The
rest of his gang followed his lead.

The young man walked to Connor and bowed. “I
am Kevlin. My father owns The Boar’s Rest, where you last played.
As you left this morning, I saw these men following you. I talked
to a few of my friends, and we decided you needed to be able to go
about your business unhindered. Nay, go about our business
unhindered. So, here we are.” A boyish grin split his face.

Connor bowed low, “Kevlin, my deepest
gratitude to you and your friends. Do what you like with all these
men except one. Let him return to Zelera. Let him tell her we are
coming, with Princess Ravyn leading the charge. We do not fear her.
Her rule is at an end.”

“You, Criggit, did you hear what the
honorable bard said?”

Criggit shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“Yeah, I heard. You gonna set me free?”

“Free to go back to that witch you call
master. Tell her we are coming.” He shoved Criggit backwards. “The
crown will return,” Kevlin roared, sword arm reaching to the sky in
triumph.

Backing into the trees, Criggit stumbled and
then turned, running for dear life.

Connor listened to the young man crashing
away through the trees and turned to Kevlin, “I don’t think he has
any intention of returning to Veris. When these men don’t return,
Zelera may retaliate for this stand you are taking. Be wary in the
coming days.” Connor studied the young man in front of him. Kevlin
was really just a boy, but life was forcing him to be a man. “Now,
I must be off. Many a mile to tread.”

Kevlin stepped in front of Connor, “Sir, is
it true that old Connor is still alive, helping General Joff and
the resistance?”

Connor grinned, “Thanks to you, Connor is
very much alive and able to continue the work of the resistance.”
Connor let the magic dissipate, and his real features returned.

Kevlin stepped back, eyes wide with wonder.
He brushed a tawny lock of hair out of his eyes. “Well I’ll be,” he
gasped.

Connor chuckled. “The General is heading this
way. When you see him please let him know that you need a regiment
under your command. We need young men with quick minds out there
leading.”

Kevlin beamed, “Thank you, Connor. I am
honored. But sir, one more thing before I let you go, how long till
we go to war?”

A sad smile crept into Connor’s grey eyes.
“Don’t be so anxious, Kevlin. Before Autumn Equinox, but an exact
date, I do not know.”

Giving a sharp salute Kevlin turned on his
heel, returning his attention to his men and the prisoners. The
resistance fighters had bound the thugs’ hands and were marching
them back down the road, arrows at the ready.

Connor began walking down the road, pondering
a host of new disguises as he went.