This stopped the Gilarabrywn from killing Hadrian, but the beast did not cry out as it had when Hadrian had stabbed it. Instead, it turned and laughed. Theron struck the blade with the rock again, forcing the metal deep, but still the beast did not cry out. It spoke to him, but Theron could not understand the words. Then, having little trouble guessing where the farmer stood, the Gilarabrywn swiped at him with his claw.
Theron did not have the speed or agility that Hadrian had. Strong as he was for his age, his old body could not move clear of the blow in time, and the great nails of the beast stabbed into him like four swords.
“Daddy!” Thrace screamed, running to him. She scrambled up the slope, crying as she came.
From their blind, Tobis and the dwarf fired a rock at the Gilarabrywn and managed to hit its tail. The beast spun and charged furiously in their direction.
Falling to her hands and knees, Thrace crawled to Theron’s side and found her father lying broken on the hill. His left arm lay twisted backward, his foot facing the wrong direction. His chest was soaked in dark blood and his breath hitched as his body convulsed.
“Thrace,” he managed to say weakly.
“Daddy,” she cried as she cradled him in her arms.
“Thrace,” he said again, gripping her with his remaining hand and pulling her close. “I’m so—” His eyes closed tightly in pain. “I’m so—pr—proud of you.”
“Oh god, Daddy. No. No. No!” she cried, shaking her head.
She held him, squeezing as hard as she could, trying by the force of her arms to keep him with her. She would not let him go. She could not; he was all there was. She sobbed and wailed, clutching his shirt, kissing his cheek and forehead, and as she held him, she felt her father pass away into the night.
Theron Wood died on the scorched ground in a pool of blood and dirt. As he did, the last tiny remnant of hope Thrace had held on to—the last foothold she had in the world—died with him.
There was a darkness of night, a darkness of senses, and a darkness of spirit. Thrace felt herself drowning in all three. Her father was dead. Her light, her hope, her last dream, they had all died with his last breath. Nothing remained upon the world that it had not taken from her.
It had killed her mother.
It had killed her brother, his wife, and her nephew.
It had killed Daniel Hall and Jessie Caswell.
It had burned her village.
It had killed her father.
Thrace raised her head and looked across the hill at it.
No one who had been attacked had ever lived. There were never any survivors.
She stood and began to walk forward slowly. She reached into the robe and pulled out the sword that had remained hidden there.
The beast found the catapult and shattered it. It turned and blindly began to search its way back down the hillside, sniffing. It did not notice the young girl.
The thick layer of ash that it had created quieted her steps.
“No, Thrace!” Tomas shouted at her. “Run away!”
The Gilarabrywn paused and sniffed at the sound of the shout, sensing danger but unable to determine its source. It tried to look in the direction of the voice.
“No, Thrace—don’t!”
Thrace ignored the cleric. She had passed beyond hearing, beyond seeing, beyond thinking. She was no longer on the hill. She was no longer in Dahlgren, but rather in a tunnel, a narrow tunnel that led inescapably to only one destination … it.
It kills people. That’s what it does.
The beast sniffed the air. She could tell it was trying to find her; it was searching for the smell of fear it created in its victims.
She had no fear. It had destroyed that too.
Now she was invisible.
Without hesitation, fear, question, or regret, Thrace quietly walked up to the towering monster. She gripped the elven sword in both hands and raised it above her head. Putting the full weight of her small body into it, she thrust the broken sword into the Gilarabrywn’s body. She did not have to put so much effort into it; the blade slipped in easily.
The beast shrieked in mortal fear and confusion.
It turned, recoiling, but it was already too late. The sword penetrated all the way to the hilt. The essence that was the Gilarabrywn and the forces that bound it shattered. With the snapping of the bonds that held it fast, the world reclaimed the energy in a sudden violent outburst. The eruption of force threw Thrace and Tomas to the ground. The shock wave continued down the hill, radiating out in all directions, beyond the burnt desolation to the forest, launching flocks of birds into the night.
Dazed, Tomas staggered to his feet and approached the small slender figure of Thrace Wood at the center of a cleared depression, where the great Gilarabrywn had once been. He walked forward in awe and fell prostrate on his knees before the girl.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” was all he said.
CHAPTER 15
THE HEIR OF NOVRON
The sun rose brightly over the Nidwalden River. The clouds had moved off and by midmorning the sky was clear and the air cooler than it had been. A light wind skimmed across the surface of the river, raising ripples, while the sun cast a brilliant gold face upon the water. A fish jumped above the surface and fell back with a plop. Overhead, birds sang morning songs and cicadas droned.