Chapter Eight
Thunder boomed and lightning slashed in brilliant streaks across a leaden sky. Flintathriël stood upon the sandstone steps, blades twirling in his hands. Hair plastered to his head as rivulets of rainfall flowed down his face, cascading off him like a torrential waterfall. His lungs burned, and his skin sang with runic power.
He surveyed his surroundings, like the hunter who stalked his prey. The necromancer had her back to him, striding across the quarry to where the monstrous dark green dragon pranced restlessly, as if struggling against some unforeseen restraint.
His gaze travelled over Sivath’s lifeless form before alighting on Sairalindë’s unmoving body. His heart clenched, blood turning to ice in his veins. He sprinted toward her, uncaring if Mnuvae saw him and skidded to his knees in the soggy gravel. He raised his hands hesitantly, hovering above her, the slightest wheezing sound the only sign of life. Her wounds were extensive, and he was afraid to touch her lest he tear something anew. He was no healer, and he was out of his depth.
His gut churned at the sight of her shoulder, the flesh cut clean through to the bone. A deep gash ran across her cheek and nose, and blood leaked from her nostrils and mouth. Lacerations sliced across her skin where her leathers had been shredded, her hand was slung limply over her abdomen, blood still leeching from the crisscross of half knitted skin, raw and bloodied still. A failed attempt to heal herself.
Her breathing faltered, and ice-cold dread ripped at his heart—fear and panic bubbling to the surface and spilling over. Grasping her uninjured shoulder, he shook her gently, and when she did not move, he shook her again, harshly.
“Saira! Wake up!”
She groaned, and he shook her again and when her eyes remained closed he commanded, “Wake up! Sairalindë!” Her lids fluttered open, her face deathly pale, head lolling to the side.
“Flint?” Her gaze was unfocused. Her voice hoarse. He removed his leather cuirass and tore off his tunic to wrap her split shoulder. Leather breeches now his only protection in the rain. He helped her to sit against a weathered tree, her head slumped against him, as he cradled her against his chest. The sparse foliage did little to shelter her from the downpour.
She closed her eyes again. Flintathriël gripped her chin between his fingers and brushed the wet hair from her face.
“Saira, open your eyes.”
Bleary eyes opened, the golden irises barely visible, her pupils large and dark.
“Flint, I am dying.” Salty tears rolled down her cheeks, lost in the rain. He cupped her face between his palms, forcing a smile he did not feel to his lips.
“Do not speak of such things, na’vahleth, you will be fine. ’Tis but a scratch.”
“No…no. I…the poison, it hurts. I feel like I am boiling alive from the inside.” She gasped against a new wave of pain. Her eyes going wider than they already were, seemingly too large for her face.
“Let me sleep, Flint, just for a little while. It hurts less.” She tried to close her eyes again, but he was having none of it, shaking her awake once more.
“No, Saira! Stay awake, do you hear me. It is important you not sleep.” He heard the soft crunch of gravel behind him. He could feel Mnuvae standing at his back, and the Wolf roaring to life.
“Do not close your eyes, Saira! Not for a moment!” He growled, his voice raw and harsh when Flintathriël left her side—the Wolf taking control.
He turned to face Mnuvae, unsheathing duel blades. He spun them dangerously in his hands. He stalked toward her, shoulders slightly hunched—head hung low, his dripping hair falling across his brow.
The Wolf stalked it prey.
“The cure. Give it to me,” Flintathriël snarled, his lips curled back in a feral display of bared teeth. Mnuvae did not so much as flinch as he stalked closer. Smugness exuded from her, and a tight smile pulled at her lips.
“And why should I, cousin, not that there is one to give? We may be bound by blood, but you are no kin of mine. The bitch is nothing to me.”
“You know me?” He was taken aback by her recognition. They had never faced each other before.
“Of course I know you Flintathriël Eliowën, the royal brat. Heir to what is rightfully mine. Born to wealth and raised in privilege while your father cast me to the gutter. I am the blood of the true king.”
“And your mother a nameless whore.” He spat, a smirk pulled tightly at his mouth. Violent fury flashed in her crimson eyes. Her face contorting in a blazing scowl, a tempest of unbridled rage.
“I am going to enjoy ripping you apart,” she screamed. The shrill hysteria in her voice ringing out in the quarry, echoing through the downpour. Balls of blue flames burst to life in her hands. She hurled the flaming projectiles. He dove to the side, rolling and jumping to his feet—easily evading her attack. He spun and twirled, dodging and weaving about the sodden grounds, eluding her maniacal spell-casting.
Mnuvae screeched in rage and frustration as he continued to evade her attacks. She tore the willow wood stave from her back, slamming it down hard into the earth. Flintathriël felt the muddied earth begin to tremble beneath his bare feet. Razored pinnacles of rock shot up abruptly from the earth, the quaking ground knocking him off balance. A purplish bolt slammed into his chest, his swords thrown from his grip, and he roared in pain. He fell to the earth, his hands beating wildly at his bare chest, the skin blackened and burned by the fiery bolt.
The Wolf in him roared in denial, and a bestial cry tore from his lips. Power surged through him, and he sprinted headlong at Mnuvae. He leapt into the air, a silver tipped dagger drawn, slicing down wickedly through the air. A piercing cry filled the quarry as his blade cut through the cartilage of her ear, slicing it clean off, blood pouring from the wound as she clasped her hand to the side of her head. The blood easily spilled through her fingers, red streams running down her face as the rain continued to pour.
Unsheathing a second dagger, Flintathriël raised his blades. A blinding burst of green light sent him flying backward halfway across the grounds. He groaned in pain as he skidded across the gravel, his bare back burning, his head slamming hard against solid rock protruding from the earth.
He squinted against the lights dancing behinds his eyes and saw Mnuvae stalking toward Sivath’s corpse. He watched in horror and awe as her hands emanated a purplish glow. Thrusting her hands forward, the dragon’s corpse lit up with the same violet light.
She stepped back as the broken creature opened its glassy eyes, no longer the brilliant shade of sapphire they once were. The creature raised its shattered body. Sivath’s neck was bent in such a way his head almost hung upside down. Splintered bones jutted haphazardly through his leathery hide, and his front feet were bent so that he was walking toward Flintathriël on the backs of his feet. His once beautifully translucent wings had been torn in his crash landing.
Flintathriël’s mouth hung open, and disgust and revulsion shot through him. He chanced a glance toward Sairalindë, hoping against hope she had turned away. No such luck, she was slumped down against the tree behind Mnuvae, arms clasped across her abdomen, her eyes wide, her lips moving in silent protest.
“Come now, cousin of mine. Let us see if all that Nuvian training has prepared you for this!” Mnuvae backed away, as the undead beast roared to life, clasping her hands together in glee at her masterpiece. The dragon lumbered forward, drawing in its breath with a rattling gasp, spewing forth igneous flames the rain refused to dampen.
He scrambled to his feet, dodging the flames. Her laughter rang in his ears. He threw himself toward a rocky outcrop, pressing his back against cold stone, clasping for swords he did not have. Only one silver tipped dagger and one stiletto remained in his possession. His mind raced as he hid behind the rocks like a rabbit caught in a snare. He needed to think. He pressed his palms against his eyes, forcing his mind to work. Even with his runes, two daggers were not going to bring down a hulking beast like Sivath, even if he were already dead.
“Falannas!” Flintathriël swore, pulling at his hair, hoping the pain would keep the panic building inside him at bay. He hazarded a glance around the rocks. The beast cried in a high-pitched wail, spurting flames. A mindless dragon corpse was not a good thing.
Something glinted at the corner of his eye. There, underneath the stomping dragon’s twisted feet, lay his scimitar and sword. He rolled away from the rocks, crouched low as he watched the dragon’s movements. The Wolf came forth, the muscles in his legs coiled and ready as he rocked on the balls of his toes. A wolfish snarl peeled his lips back, and he zeroed in on his target. His runes thrummed with anticipation.
The Wolf was ready for a fight.
He sprang forward with lightning speed, a growl on his lips, hands hitting the ground, tucking his head between his shoulders. He rolled between the dragon’s feet, landing on the balls of his toes, scooping up the blades. He threw himself sideways thrusting the blade upward, slicing the dragon’s belly. The creature bellowed in pain, and Mnuvae, slack-jawed, stared in disbelief. The dragon thrashed its tail as its innards spilled out. Flintathriël circled wide, running straight for the sandstone wall. Another surge of power pushed through him, as he sprinted partially up the rock-face, before twisting and leaping onto the beast’s back.
Flintathriël scrambled up Sivath’s spine until he was standing between the undead dragon’s shoulder blades. His toes curling into the leathery hide to stabilize himself as the dragon thrashed from its wounds. He raised his swords high, bringing the blades down into the meaty flesh where the bone had already been broken.
He hacked and slashed as the beast violently tried to fling him free—blood spraying in thick spurts, coating him in red. He slipped in the blood and still falling rain. Grasping one blue-black spine, he pulled himself so he was straddling the shoulder. His arm rained down violently, how many times he knew not. His arms and shoulders burned, until finally one last cut severed the dragons head.
He had no time to catch his breath. The sound of beating wings filled his ears. Mnuvae sat astride the emerald giant.
“No!” Flintathriël shouted, leaping down from the dead beast’s back. He slipped a dagger from his hip, and sprinted after the dragon, hurling the stiletto into the air. The blade struck deep into Mnuvae’s right shoulder, knocking her from the winged giant. The book bound at her hip falling to the ground.
The necromancer got to her feet, clenching her teeth, as she pulled the blade from her shoulder, the blood from her mutilated ear mingling with her new wound. Her blood-red eyes narrowed on him. She tossed the thin dagger behind her and summoned yet more balls of flame to her palms. Flintathriël unsheathed his last remaining dagger.
“It seems you are out of moves, cousin.” Her crimson eyes darted over the blade. “And weapons it would seem.” She laughed at him, her tone mocking as she raised her flaming hand.
“Now, let us finish this,” said Mnuvae.
His eyes flickered past her shoulder, then back, his gaze locking onto hers, pinning her with his stare. A genuine smirk graced his lips.
“Yes, lets.” He raised the silver tipped dagger and hurled it at her feet, the blade digging deep into the sodden ground. Mnuvae’s brows knit in confusion.
“What…” Her words were choked, a wet gurgling sound as the thin blade of the stiletto protruded through her throat. She clasped futilely as blood sprayed from her severed jugular. Her eyes went wide before she slumped forward, revealing an unsteady Sairalindë standing behind her. A wane smile on her lips, then her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed—her wounds splitting open even more on impact.
Flintathriël rushed forth, and scooping her into his arms, he carried her to an overhang, sheltering them from the rain. He cradled her gently against his chest, in his lap. She shivered violently. His gaze raked her small form, and he frantically pressed one hand against her abdomen—trying to stem the fresh flow of blood seeping between his fingers. His heart clenched painfully in his chest.
“Wake up, Saira! Na’vahleth!” He gripped her chin firmly between his fingers, and a soft moan escaped her lips. He released the breath he did not know he was holding. Her eyes flittered open, before rolling back in her head and closing again. He pressed her head against his bare chest, brushing her damp hair from her face.
“Come back to me, na’vahla! You cannot leave me.” He gave her a gentle shake, and her eyes fluttered open again. She looked up into his face and tried to smile.
“I will find a cure. You just need to hold on.”
“There is no cure…Flintathriël…”
He shook his head. “Mnuvae lied. I will find one.”
She attempted to focus her gaze on his, reaching a trembling hand up to cup his cheek as he struggled to hold back tears.
“You know in your heart the sorceress spoke the truth.”
“No! We were to be bound together, you were meant to be mine, forever. We…” His voice broke, and the tears fell unchecked down his face. “We were meant to have children, grandchildren. A great long life we had planned for… No!” He shook his head. She would not die here in his arms, like this, her life unfinished, their lives barely begun. “Flint…” Fresh tears brimmed her eyes as she pressed desperately to his chest, “I do not want to die, I can feel my life slipping away from me… I…I do not want to go.”
He held her tighter against him. As if in doing so he was defying death herself. Sairalindë gasped sharply against the pain, and he relaxed his grip slightly.
Grim determination gripped him, he could not, would not lose her.
“Do something,” Flintathriël demanded, a desperate fire burning in his eyes.
“Flint…please…just hold me until I…”
“No! You are a powerful mage. Do something! You cannot leave me.” She shivered against him, and he immediately regretted his harsh tone.
“I have no mana… Flint.”
“Then take mine, like you did in the wilds… Sairalindë…please. I cannot let you go. I love you more than anything in all the realms of Véneanár. More than anything I will ever love. Please, Saira. I need you.”
“I am poisoned, na’vahla…there is no antidote.”
“Then cast something else.” He cupped her face between his hands and pressed a kiss to her lips. The metallic taste of blood on his tongue frightened him.
“I cannot live this life without you…do something. Anything. Something to slow the poison, freeze your wounds until I can get you a healer.” He had never been more desperate in his life, or felt more hopeless.
“And if you cannot…promise me…you will let me go.” Her eyes were wide and pleading.
“Ir vahla ena na’vahleth, Ir ra vashti seranna’ma, I will find a way, this I swear to you. Even if it takes me until the end of my days.”
“Promise me Flintathriël…if you cannot help me, you will let me go.”
Grudgingly the words came. “I promise.”
“All right…you will need to help me,” she whispered. “I do not have the strength to draw on my magic.” Weakly she placed her hands over his runes and gave a slight nod, struggling to keep her head upright.
He brought his runes to life, and she closed her eyes.
“Sairalindë…”
“I am here, Flint.” Her voice was fading. He was unsure of what to do. Then he felt it, a small tingling running through him. It was not as violent as when she drew on his power in the wilds, extremely faint, barely there at all. He hoped she had the strength to do this, that he had not pushed her too far only to lose her anyway. And as quickly as the sensation began, it was gone.
“It has started.”
He felt the iciness creep into him and noticed a fine layer of hoarfrost beginning to form over her.
“Saira? What?”
“It will keep me encased, until you find a way.” She smiled and cupped his cheek. “Kiss me, Flint.” Carefully he drew her close, the ice already spreading up her chest. His lips met hers, and he poured all his passion, love, hurt, and everything he was into the kiss. He kissed her as if it were their last. For perhaps it was.
“I love you,” she whispered, closing her eyes as the ice crept over her lips.
“And I you.” He pulled her close, gazing down at her frozen face, cradled in his arms.
He was still cradling her icy form when darkness fell and his father’s men came upon them.
****
“It is so sad, is it not?” The child rubbed the tears from her eyes and rolled onto her side in the bed. The woman smiled, brushing the pale hair from the little girl’s face.
“Yes, it is. Now, I think it is time for bed.”
“But you did not tell me the rest!” The child protested.
“You know the rest. After the witch was defeated, the spell was broken, so the army of undead ceased to be. The Wilderling clans disappeared back into the forest, and the war ended.”
“And the prince never saved the princess,” the child said sadly. “Why did he not rescue her?”
The woman sighed, this was why she did not like telling this tale.
“I do not know why. It is just a story, my dearest. They are not real people.”
The little girl sighed. “I know. But would it not be wonderful if all the legends were true?”
“Yes, darling.” The woman smiled. “It certainly would. Now sleep little one.”
“Goodnight,” came a sleepy reply.