Free ZYGRADON by Michelle L. Levigne Page A

him, threatened him, or promised
something wonderful. Perhaps all three. Lyon gestured ahead as they broke out of the
trees and a rolling plain sprawled before them, leading down to a river white with rapids
and tiny falls.
    "We'll stop there. First man there gets to fish, not collect wood or tend to the
horses. On three."
    Mrillis barely realized a race had been declared by the time Lyon reached three.
The other two mounts leaped out ahead, but his horse understood and raced to catch
up. The boy leaned low over the neck of his horse, its mane whipping his face until tears
stung his eyes. Thunder from three sets of hooves deafened him. He nearly got tossed
from the saddle before he learned to roll with the rocking, swift gait. This was nothing
like riding the hunting horses Kathal and Tathal favored. He let out a whoop of
exhilaration and dug his heels in, urging his mount to greater speed.
    He didn't win the race, but he didn't care. Mrillis gathered a pile of wood as
high as his waist, and in that time, Lyon had only caught two fish for their noon meal.
Without asking, the boy fashioned a spear and moved upstream a few paces. He speared
three fish by the time Lyon told him to leave off and come back to their camp. The
Warlord tossed him the fish he had caught, and Mrillis understood that he had to clean
the fish, also.
    Neither man said anything about his skill with spear and knife, but Norum
nodded and belched when they finished eating, and patted his stomach
appreciatively.
    "Hope you know some field healing," the battlemaster said, when the three
climbed back into the saddle. "You'll be sore by nightfall, but you'll not see your blankets
until we see what you know about swordplay."
    "I know some," Mrillis said, and tried not to gulp too loudly. He only knew
what any boy his age knew about swordplay--what he had heard and seen. The games
he had played with Nixtan and other boys on Wynystrys, using crooked sticks for
swords, certainly couldn't count as training. Except for that midnight visit to the armory,
he had never held a real sword.
    Maybe Norum and Lyon hadn't been teasing or threatening, but warning him.
He was going to be sore and exhausted by the time Lyon was sure they were beyond the
Nameless One's reach. He would have to ride all day, and then take warrior lessons in
the evening instead of relaxing in front of the fire. If they even had fires when they made
camp.
    "Even the worst storm tosses up usable driftwood on the beach," Theana always
said, when the younger women in the Stronghold complained about circumstances that
went wrong. Mrillis wondered if she would say that to him right now.
    It was up to him, he knew, to turn this embarrassing time into an adventure he
could tell Ceera about without her scolding, or tell the boys on Wynystrys without being
mocked.
    * * * *
    The time had come to shatter the might of the Encindi and the Nameless One.
This battle had endured through four generations.
    Rey'kil scholars had searched the histories and fables for some means to defeat
blood magic. Rey'kil warriors, male and female, worked side-by-side with the Noveni as
scouts, spies and couriers. Rey'kil artisans turned their hammers and forges to making
light, impermeable armor and turned their looms to making clothes that didn't tear or
burn. Rey'kil healers took students from the Noveni and shared everything they knew
about every healing plant, every salve and potion that would preserve life and fight
wounds gone bad, so that healing would reach every warrior no matter where they fell
in the battlefield.
    Because all of Lygroes had become a battlefield.
    Noveni and Rey'kil spies brought back stories that supported cruel rumors. The
evidence grew stronger as the shores of Flintan became visible in the distance. For every
enemy warrior killed by the allied Noveni and Rey'kil forces, the Nameless One in turn
killed two prisoners, to use their blood and pain to fuel his magic. When he ran out of
prisoners, he used his