They had only taken a few paces when a crowd of male gnomes came running around the corners of the houses, brandishing knives, axes, and bows. Shailiha recoiled, fearing for Morganna.
But the gnomes ran to Faegan. He landed to embrace them, and then they joyously hoisted him into the air, chair and all, amid great cheering and laughter.
Faegan finally became more serious, and called for Shannon the Small and Michael the Meager.
“Escort Celeste, Martha, the baby Morganna, and your wives to my mansion,” he told them. “Find for Martha anything she might need for the welfare of the child. As for the rest of us, including the Minions, there is much work to do.” He then gave the compressed, repaginated Tome to a warrior and told him to go with Shannon and Michael. The Paragon remained hanging around Faegan’s neck.
“And now,” the old wizard said sadly, “I suggest everyone say their good-byes.”
Tearfully, Shailiha kissed her baby and handed her to Martha, bidding the kindly matron farewell. Celeste walked to Wigg, holding him close. “Good-bye, Father,” she whispered. “No matter what happens, I shall never forget you.”
“I know, my child,” Wigg answered, his voice cracking. “But you must go quickly, for time is now the only remaining ally we possess.” For what seemed an eternity, he held his daughter close. Then finally, reluctantly, he let her go.
With that, her splinter of the group walked down the knoll toward the houses of Tree Town.
Faegan turned to Shailiha. “It is time,” he said solemnly.
Shailiha nodded. Closing her eyes, she raised her right arm. Caprice flew down to land upon it.
Go and do as I have ordered you to, Shailiha thought. And may you all return to me safely.
Caprice fluttered up from the princess’ arm and flew back to join the squadron of twelve fliers especially chosen for this most important of tasks.
And then, Caprice in the lead, they soared away.
Those remaining—human, gnome, Minion, and flier alike—waited there for a moment, watching the butterflies disappear into the sky. Then, at a gesture from Faegan, those who were to be carried reentered their litters, the gnomes clambering into the many extras that had been brought. Snapping open their leathery wings, the Minion bearers gently lifted the litters.
Their numbers darkening the sky, both the warriors and the cargoes they carried disappeared against the horizon.
52
“We are outnumbered, my lord,” Traax said calmly. “But we will do all we can to prevail. You have my word on it as a Minion.”
Tristan’s hatchling hovered high in the sky, just below the clouds. Traax and Ox, their breath coming out in little columns of frosted vapor, hovered next to him. Thousands upon thousands of other warriors fanned out around them. The blue-and-gold banners of Tristan’s heraldry, which had been carried aloft, snapped back and forth with the cold gusts.
Here, on this bizarre battlefield several thousand feet above the ground, the wind sliced into the exposed skin of Tristan’s face like invisible icicles. The blustery, raw day had developed into one of very dense, gray cloud cover—just what he had been hoping for. But as he looked down to the overpowering numbers of Nicholas’s hatchlings swirling below, his heart sank.
There were so many of the enemy that they literally blotted out the earth beneath them.
Tristan took a deep, cold breath, thinking. Farplain lived up to its name in every respect. It was a vast, flat, barren expanse. Even at the height of the Season of the Sun it contained little more than dry, low-lying grasses, with nowhere to hide. Tristan planned to keep the battle in the sky, where his troops could make use of all three dimensions of movement.
And then, as he watched, the hatchlings below them slowly began to form airborne columns, their lines stretching almost as far as the eye could see. Then, led by a single bird and rider, as a great, disciplined army they began to soar to higher altitudes. Their formation was so perfect it seemed they were somehow bonded together. Finally they stopped, and the entire hatchling force, armed with swords, axes, and in some cases shields, faced the Minions in the sky about one hundred meters away. The tens of thousands of red, glowing eyes were unnerving, seeming to light up the sky around them. Holding a white flag, the base of its pole lodged into one stirrup, the rider on the lone bird spurred his mount toward Tristan.
The prince’s hands tightened on his reins to the point that his knuckles became the same color as the snow. He reached back as best he could, tugging on the hilt of his dreggan, and then the first of his throwing knives.
The flag-carrying rider was Scrounge.
Pulling his bird to a stop about five meters from the prince, the assassin smiled. He looked quite out of place, holding his white flag of peace as it fluttered there in the unforgiving wind.
Tristan took in the sallow face, lean torso, and sunken eyes. The assassin was still wearing the miniature crossbow on his forearm, and had a broadsword at his hip. The arrows and sword tip were both stained with yellow.
“And so the day has finally come, Chosen One,” Scrounge sneered. He leaned his forearm on the pommel of his saddle as his feline eyes scanned the columns of Minion warriors.
“Your fighters are most formidable,” he continued. “Although there aren’t as many of them as I thought there would be. Such a pity. That fact just seems to make this all too easy. I also find it highly interesting that you somehow ride upon one of my master’s hatchlings. But it is of no matter, for you shall die this day anyway. And I see you go to that certain death under the heraldry of your ruined kingdom—the same colors that fared so poorly in their last battle. Such an ironic turn of events, wouldn’t you agree?
“But surely even you can see that you are hopelessly outnumbered,” he continued. “Therefore, I shall grant you a compromise. Surrender now, and I will promise each of you a quick and painless death. Resist, and each of you will die horribly. Also, know that this offer does not come from me, Chosen One. For I would rather see you all perish by my hand personally, if I could. Rather, this offer comes from my lord himself, he who is your only son. The choice is yours.”
“Minion warriors never surrender,” Tristan answered calmly. “A fact with which you are about to become painfully familiar.”
One corner of Scrounge’s mouth came up as he shook his head. “My lord, your son, was quite sure that was what you would say. And so, he has another message for you.”
Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “And that is?” he asked.
Scrounge spurred his bird closer. So close that Tristan could almost reach out and touch him. “The Gates of Dawn are finished, Chosen One,” he said quietly, almost reverently. “Tomorrow at the break of day your son shall activate them, and the Heretics will return. Your wizards are useless. And your fabled stone, the so-called Paragon, is all but without life. Even the consuls of the Redoubt have turned against you. The world as we know it will soon be forever changed. For the final time, my lord asks that you, the only other being on earth with azure blood, come and take your rightful place at his side, and at the side of those who shall soon descend from the heavens. To do so, my master tells me, is to live forever within the perfect ecstasy of the Vagaries. But refuse him, and you shall die either this day by the sword, or very soon due to the poison that runs through your body.” The assassin paused, looking at the veins that lay darkly on the back of Tristan’s right hand. “Tell me, Chosen One,” he asked, the wicked smile returning. “How is your sword arm? Can you even lift it?”
“Well enough to see you die by it,” Tristan whispered. It was all he could do to keep himself from unleashing a throwing knife right then and there. But he held himself back, knowing he must stick to the strategy he and Traax had so carefully formulated. And then there was the unsettling memory of how fast the assassin had been that day in the Caves. How his crossbow had deflected Tristan’s throwing knife as if it had been mere child’s play. Tristan knew himself to be an amazingly fast warrior, but Scrounge was clearly his equal.