The Demigod Proving (46 page)

His intensity—the raw anger and emotion—caught her off guard. She stepped back again, and her heel hit a rock at the base of the cliff; she only kept herself from falling by throwing a hand back against the stone.

He kept his face close to hers, so it nearly blocked all of her vision. But it couldn’t hide how his body began to shake. Ripples ran along his furry back. Waves ran down his neck. His wings opened just a bit as they fluttered like canvas in the wind. A dull pain invaded his eyes. If a draegon could weep, he would’ve done so right then. She blinked back her own tears.

“Krack, I . . . “

She had nothing to say as she realized that she’d never talked with him about his experience seventeen years before—not even right after. She’d been too absorbed in her loss to think about what he’d endured and help him address it.

Athanaric had bound him—just a pup—in chains, and held him there for hours until she and Cuchorack had returned from their hunting. What terror had he endured then? What loss at the bereavement of his father compounded by the abandonment by his mother? She’d never asked, and he’d never brought it up—no doubt because he feared looking like a coward.

She choked on the swelling tears, and brought a hand to her mouth. How hypocritical of her to demand that he play the noble draegon, when she had acted most un-draegonlike and ignoble.

The strength in her legs faltered. She felt like she would collapse. But she fought it. She couldn’t do this—she couldn’t, again, become consumed in her own world. She had to be a mother.

“You see,” Krack said. “I’m right.”

He lifted his head back up, straightening his neck and standing on his hind legs. He turned his head to the right and left, looking out over the edge of the bowl.

“I’m going hunting.”

“No!” She stepped forward and reached up to him, though he stood twenty feet back. “We’ve broached the topic. We should talk about it.”

He didn’t look down, but spread his wings so they nearly touched rock on both sides and blocked the sun from her view. It became a round ball silhouetted through his wings.

“Krack, I’m sorry.”

She didn’t know what else to say, but nevertheless words spilled out of her lips, forming even as the thoughts burgeoned in her head. Her mind, opened by the realization of her own selfishness, loosened from shackles, and she saw herself as he must’ve seen her.

“I haven’t considered you in all of this. I’ve only thought about me and myself, and what I need. It’s been that way since the day we lost your father. It’s been all me, me, me; and not only have I not considered you in all of it, but I’ve completely disregarded the fact that you might need something different than me.”

He remained there, his head high and turned away from her. He didn’t even direct his gaze at her. His body shook as if an earthquake had struck at his heart. His wings tensed, stretching just a bit further.

“I understand, now,” she said. “I see what kind of draegon I’ve been—exactly the opposite from what I’ve asked you to be.”

He looked down at her, but stayed standing with his neck and wings extended.

“It’s not that I don’t want to rescue him.” If it could happen to a draegon, his eyes grew distant. “I remember father, you know. Even though I was just a pup. I remember when he taught me to fly—how he caught me when I faltered. I would’ve broken my wing. I remember a lot about him.”

Leenda felt light-headed. She stepped over to a waist-high rock and leaned on it with one hand. She had no idea what to say or do. Her heart told her to continue on after Wrend, but it also told her she needed to be a mother, to help her child. Could she do both, or was forcing Krack to go with her abusive?

Her guilt made her want to tell him to go away, to return to the caves so she wouldn’t expose him to Athanaric any more. Yet, she couldn’t do that. She
was
right. A noble draegon
would
face down his fears and take back what was his—especially if that thing was his father.

But what right did she have to hold him to a draegon code of conduct? Goat guts!

“And I remember . . .” Krack said. He squatted back on his hind legs, with his body upright. His wings folded just a little. “I remember when Athanaric came.” A growl drifted from his throat. He stared off into nowhere. “He wasn’t even as big as me, and I thought I could fight him, but he tackled me and pinned me down. He was so strong. I nipped at his face, but he moved too fast, and threw that muzzle over my snout. I couldn’t even call for you then. Or warn you.”

His fur rippled again as his body trembled. His wings shook, and he folded them against his back.

She wanted to reach out to him, to stroke his face and neck, and wrap her arms around him. As a pup, he’d been so rambunctious and such a troublemaker, but also so tender-hearted. Once he hurt a paw and came whimpering to her, and she put her wing about him and licked his face to comfort him. His crying ended fast, and soon he climbed on her back and ordered her around like some kind of draegon-rider of old.

But she couldn’t do that now. What could a tiny human body do? What was she to do?

She stepped toward him, reaching out for him.

“And he put his arms around my neck,” Krack said.

He fell forward to his front legs, into the dirt he’d cleared the night before. Leenda had to jump aside to avoid being crushed as he settled his belly against the ground.

“And he said he would break my neck if I fought him. So I did what he wanted. I was weaker than him, and he hit so hard and he tied me up, all the while telling me what he was going to do with my father. He was going to take his soul and put the soul of a dog into his body. A common
dog
. My father was going to become a dog.”

She stepped around his front paws to his side, and placed a hand on his body, below his wings. His flesh shook—whether from her touch or from his memories, she couldn’t tell. She craned her neck to see his face, but couldn’t read it. He stared blankly at the rocky wall. She had no idea what she should do, how she could possibly make it up to him or heal his wounds. But she had to do something. She rubbed his fur.

“Krack, what can I do for you?”

He twisted his neck around, and for a moment looked at her from above. But then he lowered his face down to her, so she could feel the hot breath from his snout.

“You think I can help you get father back? You think I can help you fight Athanaric? Maybe I can. I’m bigger now. Stronger. I can use Ichor better. But I can’t face the body of my father. I can’t do that, and I know that is what it will come to. Every time we’ve been near the camp these past days, he’s been riding that zombie. Have you seen those horns? I can’t fight them. I only have these little horns.”

He rolled his eyes as if to look at the horns that extended down from the top of his head, just past the corner of his mouth. Cuchorack’s horns went down past his lower jaw and the end of his snout.

Still pressing her hand against his side, she reached out with the other hand and touched his snout. It was nearly as big as her entire body. As she’d learned a week before, he could gobble her up in a few quick chomps. And she would deserve it.

He flinched at her touch, pulled back. She stepped forward, sliding one hand over a rib and again touching his face.

“Krack. I’m so sorry. What can I do to make amends? Is it even possible?”

He didn’t pull back this time, but narrowed his eyes at her and growled softly from deep in his throat.

“No. I don’t think you can. Unless you can alter the past.”

She couldn’t alter the past, of course. And it broke her heart. Because he was right.

In the end, there was really only one thing she could do to make it up to him.

Chapter 59: The nature of the test

All rebellions against me have ended in tragedy for those who have opposed me.

-Athanaric

Wrend planned his attack as he stood at the edge of the pool and looked over the water.

It would be over in a few minutes.

Across the way, at the mouth of a cave, the apostates stood with bows ready. Around them, water rippled against the rocks gathered at the cliff base. The sheer surfaces loomed hundreds of feet above, to the right and left, angling in to form a corner like two walls inside of a house. Near that junction, at the top of the cliffs, a waterfall toppled over the edge, scattering into a fine mist that showered the area and disturbed the surface of the pool like rain.

A sheen of water covered everything: the rocks lining the far edge of the pool, the red sand, Wrend and his sword and shield, and the paladins that stood in two platoons behind him. The shallow pool stretched a hundred yards long and half as wide, with a narrow stream flowing out of it near Wrend.

He gestured to the lead paladin of one platoon.

“Take your soldiers around the left side of the pool. I’ll take the other around the right. Stop out of bow range and wait for my signal. If anyone tries to flee, kill them. No one can escape.”

The paladin, wearing a red coif and mask, nodded. It motioned for its troops to follow, and they set off around the pool. Their tight formation loosened as they scrambled over the rocks and splashed through the shallow water.

Wrend motioned at the other leader.

“Lead the way along the right shore.”

Paladins could take dozens of arrows and keep going; the only sure way to kill them was to decapitate them or burn their bodies to ashes. They made for good shields to absorb arrows, and served just as well at taking the brunt of pikes and swords.

After his platoon marched past him, it returned to its formation of five rows and five columns. Those in the front two rows carried pikes and rectangular body shields, and the rest carried swords and smaller round shields with sharp edges. He fell in behind them, looking over the water at the increased activity at the mouth of the cave. Dozens of rebels stood behind a row of waist-high rocks at the water’s edge, readying bows. As he and his contingent had approached, the rebels had retreated back to the cave, gathering their women and children.

Wrend didn’t like having to kill women and children, but surely that was part of the test, the question the Master wanted answered: could he do what needed doing, make the hard choices, take the difficult actions? That’s what the Master needed to know.

Wrend would make sure it got done, but he wouldn’t do it himself. He would let the paladins do most of the killing, and numb his heart against it by telling himself they were the spouses and children of murderers, of renegades that needed to perish lest they throw the country into chaos. There was no way around it. The Master had made his decree. These people—the men, women, and children—needed to die.

“Remember,” he shouted out over the water, to the paladins on the opposite shore, “save the leader for me.”

Wrend would kill the leader and take his head back to the Master.

The small rocks along the shore were uneven and difficult to traverse, so he stepped out into the shallow edge of the water, where the way was easier. The water went up past his ankles. Its chill stung his feet and sent shivers up his spine.

He’d never killed anyone, but as all demigods did at the Seraglio, he’d received combat training and instruction in using all manner of weapons. He also had light training in tactics. The Master reasoned that in an all-out war with another country, his children would function as the generals in his army. Wrend had never anticipated having the opportunity to fight, and he’d never fathomed that he would travel to a remote area of the country to slaughter his own countrymen.