Scrounge wheeled about and raised his broadsword. As the two men met, he struck a vicious blow that Tristan just barely parried; only the thigh straps saved the prince from falling off. Tristan countered from overhead with his dreggan, but the weakness in his arm and shoulder made him too slow. Dodging, Scrounge raised his right forearm and snapped his wrist; a poisoned arrow flew straight for Tristan’s breast. The prince whirled his bird at the last moment. The arrow just missed him, going on to bury itself deeply into the neck of an unsuspecting hatchling behind him, sending it crashing to the earth.
Tristan dropped the reins and tossed the heavy dreggan into his left hand. Then he reached back with his right, grabbed one of his knives, and sent it end over end toward Scrounge’s heart.
Twisting in his saddle at the last moment, the assassin was able to keep the spinning blade from entering his chest, but not the shoulder of his sword arm. The dirk buried itself into his flesh up to the handle. Screaming wildly in pain, Scrounge yanked out the bloody weapon and sent it tumbling to the ground.
Tristan dug his heels into the sides of his bird, directing it to hover just above and to one side of Scrounge. Trying to ignore his pain, he raised his sword with both hands and began hacking at the assassin with everything he had.
Wounded, and his broadsword too heavy for overhead fighting, Scrounge lifted his crossbow and let go another of the yellow-tipped arrows. It missed widely. In desperation, he wheeled his bird around, trying to dive to safety by outrunning the prince. Tristan followed him down.
The intense coldness of the wind slammed into Tristan’s face and eyes, blurring his vision so that he could hardly see. They approached the lower levels of the fighting, but Scrounge descended even farther, actually soaring beneath the battle. Then he pulled his bird up at a seemingly impossible angle, in an attempt to hide among the massive numbers of warriors and hatchlings above him.
Tristan tried to follow suit, but the pain in his arm kept him from pulling back on the reins as hard as he wanted. He lost sight of the assassin almost immediately. Before he could continue in his pursuit, a hatchling was upon him, its sword held high, its red eyes gleaming. Just as it approached, Tristan reached back and threw a dirk, burying it into one of the awful thing’s eyes. It died screaming, blood and vitreous matter spurting violently from its head as it tumbled to the blood-soaked ground. Two more birds died at the prince’s hand before he had a safe opportunity to look around and take stock of the battle.
The Minions were losing.
For what Tristan assumed to be the first time in their history, the winged warriors were giving ground. Many of the hatchlings continued to fall, as well, but it was clear that if the situation was not reversed, the Minions would soon lose the struggle altogether.
Not yet ready to signal a retreat, Tristan swooped down, trying to find Traax and Ox. But neither of them came into view. Yet another hatchling bore down on him, and he found himself locked into swordplay. For what seemed an eternity the advantage harrowingly seesawed back and forth, Tristan’s right arm growing weaker by the moment. Finally seizing his chance, the prince leaned forward, placing the point of the dreggan against the bird’s breast and simultaneously pressing the hidden button in the hilt. The tip of the dreggan launched forward, slicing directly into the bird’s rib cage. Tristan retracted the bloody blade, and the hatchling helplessly pawed at its fractured chest with its strangely human arms, turning over free fall.
The screams of the dying resonated in Tristan’s ears. Looking around, he still could not locate Ox or Traax. He would have to alter the course of the battle by himself.
Rising higher into the sky, he tried to rally the Minions. He wanted to get as many of them as possible to retreat, in order to regroup into a cohesive fighting unit again, at a far greater altitude. But before he could get the attention of his officers, his hatchling rebelled.
Disobeying his commands, it flew straight down into the battle, swooping and darting among the struggling fighters with unmatched speed and dexterity. Tristan tried desperately to control the bird, but nothing he did worked. It flew unerringly through the worst of the havoc, seemingly searching for something. Several harrowing near misses later, they finally came upon Traax and Ox, fighting grimly back to back.
Tristan pulled on the reins with all his might, trying frantically to get Traax’s attention. But his rebellious hatchling swooped quickly by without pause, and the prince’s raging words were drowned out not only by the wind of his swift passage, but by the screams and shouts coming from the carnage all around them.
The hatchling climbed with amazing speed up through another sky-blue gap in the fighting, heading high in the air over the carnage. Then it slowed to a hover in the cold, blustery air, momentarily safe from the raging battle below, and turned its head around to face Tristan as best it could, its glowing orbs staring directly into his.
“Trust the process, Chosen One,” it said in a deep, controlled voice.
Stunned, Tristan thought he might be hearing things, or that the fourth of his convulsions was upon him, making him hallucinate. But no convulsion came. Raising his dreggan higher, he looked around to see if someone or something was playing a trick. But there was nothing near. The bird’s head was still turned toward him; its glowing eyes continued to bore their way into his own. The hatchling could speak!
“Trust the process, Chosen One,” the bird repeated. With what seemed to be a strange kind of finality, it turned its head forward once again.
The hatchling had just said the same words that Shailiha had so cryptically whispered to him while he was recovering from his third convulsion. But what is the “process”? he wondered frantically. What is it I am supposed to trust?
“Speak to me!” he shouted at the bird. “I command you! In whom or what is it I am supposed to trust?” But the bird refused to acknowledge him, and it still would not move.
From below, Tristan heard the peal of four bugle calls. Ox! They understood my meaning, and are sounding a retreat!
Then, as if at the behest of the bugle but still in defiance of Tristan’s direct commands, the hatchling started to move. As it circled lazily in the sky, Traax and Ox neared, followed by what remained of the Minion army. Then, just when Tristan was about to shout orders, the bird turned and flew off again.
Tristan pulled back on the reins with all of his strength. He had to speak with Traax and Ox! But whenever the two Minions gained on them, the hatchling would speed up. Then it turned east.
We are in a full-fledged retreat! Tristan realized with growing horror.
Sensing imminent victory, the entire hatchling army, with Scrounge at the lead, chased after them.
“Trust the process, Chosen One.” He wondered what it meant.
Finally bowing to the inevitable, Tristan leaned forward a little in his saddle as his hatchling mysteriously continued on its way.
Shailiha stood with her back to the magnificent pine forest; before her, to the west, lay the barren, snow-laden fields of Farplain. Her eyes were closed, her face raised, her arms outstretched. The only sound she could hear was the soft brushing together of the pine needles in the boughs of the trees behind her as the cold wind moved them about.
And then, suddenly, she heard it—the mental call of the flier, Caprice. Dropping her arms to her sides, she opened her eyes.
“They come,” she said softly. “Tristan, Ox, and Traax remain unhurt.”
“It is Caprice who has told you this?” Faegan asked.
“Yes,” the princess replied.