Free ZYGRADON by Michelle L. Levigne

because she,
Breylon, Graddon and the Warhawk had a long night of planning ahead of them. Mrillis
left immediately with Lyon, to sleep for what remained of the night and prepare for days
of hard riding. It nearly broke her heart when the boy clung to her a little longer than
usual when she kissed him goodnight and bade him obey the Warhawk's brother.
    The next time she saw Mrillis--if she did not die of this battle of magics--he
would no longer be her innocent, reckless boy. He would have seen too much of war
and killing and evil to ever be that child again.
    * * * *
    Lyon woke Mrillis in the thick, chilly darkness that lay heavy on their camp just
before dawn. The boy had slept badly, waking in a cold sweat whenever he started to
slide into dreams. His stomach knotted with shame and a sense of failure, so he shook his
head and refused when the Warhawk's brother offered him a chunk of cold bread spread
with apple paste before they climbed into their saddles.
    Norum, a battlemaster who had helped train Afron when Maksin was
Warhawk, rode with them. Just the three traveled together, walking their horses through
the darkness, beyond the reach of the campfires' light, vanishing in silence. The one-eyed,
gray-haired man said nothing to either man or boy, and led the way for the first three
hours.
    Mrillis started to relax as the effort of riding swiftly through the darkness
warmed him and drove the stiff chill from his fingers. He enjoyed the novel experience
of riding the piebald, heavy-muscled warhorse he had been given for the flight. The
unusually silent beast stood four hands taller than the old brown gelding he had shared
with another boy while they led the supply wagons. Its gait was smooth, and through
the saddle, Mrillis sensed the heaviness of its tread. Rey'kil trained their horses to dance
through battle, to protect their riders. Noveni preferred the heavier breeds and trained
their mounts to act as weapons. Mrillis could well believe his horse would rear up and
pound enemies with his hooves, or kick like a mule and bash a man's brains out.
    He would have quite an adventure to tell the other boys about, when he
returned to Wynystrys. Despite the disgrace of having been discovered and being a
liability and a target of the enemy, the other students would still envy him. He rode a
warhorse and traveled with Lyon, Warlord and brother to the Warhawk. He wasn't sure
yet about Norum, but Mrillis thought he could learn things from the battlemaster that
the other boys would beg him to teach them.
    If he was allowed to return to Wynystrys.
    If Master Breylon and Lady Le'esha and Graddon weren't killed in the attack on
Flintan and the Nameless One.
    Would it be his fault if they were?
    "What ails you, lad?" Norum said. His crackling, deep voice surprised Mrillis so
he flinched and sat upright.
    Mrillis felt his face heat as he realized both men watched him. The morning
light had grown so he couldn't hide anything unless he tugged his hood up over his
head.
    "I didn't mean to make trouble," he muttered.
    "Boys are born to make trouble," Lyon said, and shrugged. "That's the only way
they can learn--through bruises and scars. I pulled a few wooden-headed tricks of my
own at your age."
    "Aye, that you did." Norum chuckled, and it was a surprisingly warm, rumbling,
comforting sound. "What I want to know is, what's so special about you, boy, that the
Nameless One wants you dead or his slave?"
    Mrillis' stomach twisted. He wondered if he should have eaten that bread.
"Lady Le'esha said it's not what I am, but what I might become."
    "Clay in a potter's hand." Lyon glanced over his right shoulder at the rising
     sun--they rode due north. "Let's see about putting iron into this clay, while it's in our
hands."
    "Lad..." Norum winked at him. "When we're through, you'll wish you'd been
beaten until you couldn't sit, but you'll be on your way to being a warrior the Warhawk
will want at his side."
    Mrillis nodded, not quite sure if they teased