tip across the highlander’s legs.
His thigh muscles severed, the highlander screamed and fell to his knees. As his sword slipped from his hands, he dazedly looked up into the face of the man he knew would kill him. Without hesitation Tristan swung his dreggan again, taking the highlander’s head off at the shoulders. The dead man’s eyes still open, his head toppled to the dirt.
But there would be no time for the prince to consider his victory, or to try to find Yasmin again. As soon as he looked up, another screaming highlander was on him.
HIS DREGGAN IN ONE HAND AND HISJIN’SAI’S MESSAGE STILLringing in his ears, Hector took to the sky. Eager to join the fray, the nineteen other warriors followed.
Nothing would ever assuage their shame at having been captured. And Balthazar’s strange warning that they attack only those fighters dressed in all-black garb was surprising. But if he and his warriors could kill enough of the enemy, perhaps they might partly redeem themselves in theirJin’Sai ’s eyes.
Seeing the fighting in the highlander camp’s center, Hector led his warriors down.
HIS EYES FLASHING, TRISTAN’S SECOND OPPONENT RUSHEDtoward him. The prince soon found that this man was an even greater threat than the one he had just killed. Nearly the size of Balthazar, he was far stronger than Tristan. His technique was simple but brutally effective: He rained nonstop blows down on the prince, knowing that Tristan would soon tire, and be forced into a mistake. Then, like a big cat that had finished toying with its prey, the huge highlander would rush in for the kill.
Backing up desperately, it was all Tristan could do to parry the bigger man’s blows, say nothing of going on the offensive. Using his quickness, Tristan tried to side-slip the highlander and seize on an opening. But despite his huge size the man moved nimbly, matching the prince’s every step. Finally the highlander sensed the growing tiredness in Tristan’s arms. Screaming wildly, he raised his sword high, then brought it down with everything he had.
The strategy worked. The sharp blow resonated through Tristan’s sword blade and into its hilt so sharply that it stunned his hands, painfully forcing the dreggan from his grip. Tristan frantically dived to the dirt, scrambling to pick the sword up again. But that was just what the highlander wanted. Taking his sword into both hands the Zorian raised it vertically, readying its blade to plunge straight down into Tristan’s back.
With the dreggan in his hands again, Tristan quickly rolled over. But when he looked up he knew that he was too late. As the highlander blade came streaking down, a final thought flashed through his mind. So this is how it ends, he thought.
Just then Tristan saw something flash through the air, and the highlander’s eyes went wide. What was left of his face had become bloody, deformed. A Minion returning wheel had embedded itself into the highlander’s face. Starting at the top of the man’s forehead, its teeth lay deeply buried diagonally between his eyes and down the length of his face, ending in his chin.
Like time suddenly had no meaning, the highlander dropped his sword to stand there stupidly as blood cascaded down his destroyed face. For a moment his mouth tried to work. But the deadly wheel held his jaws fast, causing his lips to tear even more as he tried to speak. Then he fell over onto his back, dead where he lay.
Tristan scrambled to his feet and looked around. He soon saw Hector, hovering in the air about ten meters away. Tristan gave him a nod. Hector nodded back, then eagerly went about killing more Zorian highlanders in the service of his lord.
The Minion presence finally turned the tide. Hector’s warriors were doing just what Tristan would have ordered, had he been given the chance. Hovering above the fray, they used their tactical advantage to hack down every fighter dressed all in black that they could find. As the Minion’s bloody dreggans and returning wheels sliced through the air, one by one the enemy highlanders fell. Before it was over, two more died by Tristan’s hand.
Finally the battle ended. Physically exhausted and his hands smeared with blood, Tristan wearily drove his dreggan into the ground and leaned down on its hilt. Looking around, he saw that the carnage and destruction were even worse than he had imagined.
Every wagon in sight was afire. Running about the camp, Rafe’s men shouted out urgent orders. The healers among them were working furiously, trying to save as many of their stricken clansmen as they could. Other Kilbourne clansmen were systematically searching the campsite, driving their swords into Zorian bodies to ensure that they were finished. Sometimes terrible screams rang through the night from those who had been faking death.
Corpses and body parts from both sides seemed to lie everywhere. Turning, Tristan saw a black-garbed Zorian wandering about blindly. Dazed and in shock, he was cradling his own severed arm like he was looking for someone who could magically reattach it. Turning his gaze toward the stars, he collapsed, his massive blood loss finally securing his eternal peace. As the great bonfire in the clearing’s center continued to crackle and burn, horses ran wildly, children cried, and the clan’s elderly bemoaned their losses in their strange, secret language.
Just then the Minions landed warily in the clearing. Tristan watched curiously as they immediately formed strict ranks, with Hector front and center. Taking a quick count, the prince realized that all twenty had survived.
Hector suddenly went to his knees and bowed his head. The other warriors followed suit. Hector drew his sword and held the bloody weapon vertically across his palms, humbly offering it up to hisJin’Sai. The other nineteen did the same.
Tristan understood the Minion gesture. Having been captured, the warriors believed that they had failed him. By giving up their swords they freely admitted their mistakes, and would gladly accept whatever punishment Tristan chose to mete out-including their deaths. Pulling his dreggan from the dirt, he sheathed it and walked over.
“Arise, all of you,” he ordered. At once the twenty warriors came to their feet.
“I refuse to accept your swords,” Tristan said. “The fault for your capture was mine, for not sending patrols aloft.” Turning, he looked across the bloody clearing, then back at them.
“Your fighting was exemplary,” he added. “It made the difference between victory and defeat. You should feel proud, rather than dishonored. Go now, and do what you can to help the highlanders tend to the wounded.”
Like they were of one mind, the warriors sheathed their swords with simultaneous precision. After giving Tristan a look of gratitude, Hector barked out some orders and sent the warriors about their new duties.
“Those flying creatures of yours fight well,” a voice said from behind him. “And so do you.”
Tristan turned to see Yasmin standing there. She was bloodied and dirty, but seemed unharmed. Reaching out, she handed him the dirk he had given her. He had no doubt that she had made good use of it. After wiping its blood onto his trousers, he slid it back into its quiver. Walking closer, he smiled.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes,” she said, “but you aren’t.”
She took him by his left hand. Tristan looked down to see that he had been wounded. A jagged, bleeding cut ran diagonally across his inner forearm.
“This is deep,” Yasmin said. “It must be tended to before infection sets in. Come with me.” Taking him by the hand, she started leading him across the ravaged clearing.
They walked for a while until Yasmin came to one of the few wagons that hadn’t been destroyed. Lowering its rear door, she bade Tristan to sit on it. Glad to be off his feet, he did as she asked. The beautiful highlander woman quickly went to work.
Reaching into the wagon, she removed an aged wooden box. She opened it to show various healer’s tools, some of which Tristan was familiar with. After cleaning the wound she produced a small amber bottle. Uncorking it, she spread the open wound wide, then poured some of the bottle’s contents directly onto it.
Shouting with pain, Tristan yanked his arm away. Not to be outdone, Yasmin scowled, then grasped his wrist again and commandingly pulled it back. She gave him a little smile.
“What in the name of the Afterlife is that awful stuff?” he shouted.
“Aged goat urine,” she answered, “tinged with certain herbs. There’s nothing better for a wound. Now stop being such a child! I know what I’m doing-I’ve sewn up plenty of men. Be still and let me do my work!”
Wondering what Abbey and Faegan would say about Yasmin’s potion, he finally gave in and let her do her worst. It hurt like blazes as she sewed the wound shut, but he knew it had to be done. Flexing his fingers, he left the wagon door to stand on the ground. He looked at his wound to see that Yasmin’s stitches were clean and
