Douglas Niles - The Coral Kingdom

Hanrald's wound stopped bleeding finally, and as Brigit and Tavish affixed a bandage, the knight smiled wanly, too weak to talk. Yet when he took the sister knight's hand, the pressure of his grip spoke volumes of words.

Brandon came to kneel beside the Ffolkman who had proved such a stalwart companion. For a moment, the two proud warriors clasped hands.

"Your diversion," the prince told the two knights sincerely. "That's what cleared the path to the palace. Without it, we could never have made it."

Then the Prince of Gnarhelm rose to his feet, stepping to the charred body of the sailor, Luge. The pouch of the man's tunic lay open, a flap torn away from the inside lining of the crude garment. Several silvery objects had fallen out, scattering on the deck. Brandon picked one of them up, hearing it tinkle slightly, and Keane leaned over to examine another of the tiny balls.

"It's magical," said Keane, after casting a quick detection spell. "I'd wager these are how they kept locating us out in the middle of the ocean."

"Poor devil," observed the captain. "I don't think he ever knew what it was that had hold of him."

Closer to the stern, the High King of the Ffolk rested in the arms of his wife. Deirdre had fallen into an exhausted slumber. The princess seemed almost comatose, though they could see no sign of any wounds on her skin. Nevertheless, the sight of those sharp slivers of glass piercing her skin remained with them all, leaving a blanket of grave concern.

Alicia sat beside them, dazedly remembering the events of the past day. Too exhausted to move for the time being, she felt weak and dizzy-a delayed reaction, she knew, to the tension of the battle and rescue.

"My love," Tristan said, gently touching Robyn's cheek. His voice choked, blocking further words.

A shower of spray cascaded into the hull as Marqillor rose from the water, resting his elbows easily on the longship's gunwale, his tail splashing lazily in the water below.

"Glad you made it up here," said the merman with a grin. "If it hadn't been for you, Tristan, I'd still be drying out in that cell."

"I, for one, will welcome the chance to dry out!" sighed the king, reaching out to clasp the merman's hand. "But thank you, too, my friend."

"We did it together," replied the Prince of Deepvale. "It took rare courage for you to win my freedom. My people have tried to return the favor."

"How many did you lose?" asked the king, his tone dropping in concern. The carnage among the mermen, he feared, had been horrendous, yet without them, the longship's crew certainly would have been overwhelmed in the depths.

"Too many," came the sad reply. "But not without some gain. I think it will be many years before the scrags decide to make war against Deepvale again."

"And the Moonshaes, too-we can hope," replied the king.

"Farewell, Tristan Kendrick!" offered the merman then. He pushed himself from the hull, arcing his back and splitting the water in a clean backward dive.

Keane came to Alicia as she rose and leaned against the gunwale, looking across the sun-dappled expanse of sea. For once, he found his voice when he needed to.

"When you were in the water," he began seriously, "it seemed as though my own life was hanging by a mere shred. I understood something then, Princess. Without you, my life would have no meaning; I would have no reason to exist." The tall magic-user cleared his throat, the familiar awkwardness returning.

"I guess what I'm trying to say," he continued hesitantly, "is that if you want me, I'll be-"

"Ho? What a ride!" boomed Brandon, coming up between the pair and wrapping a brawny arm around each. Keane squirmed uncomfortably while Alicia laughingly disengaged herself.

"Yes. . yes, it was that and more," she agreed softly. She looked at Brandon, and then back to Keane, offering each a warm smile. Then she slipped between them and walked by herself to the bow.

A fresh breeze rose from the south, bulging the longship's sail and propelling her smoothly northward, across seas that lay smooth and inviting, a clear path beckoning them toward the Moonshaes.

Toward home.

Talos and Malar had no mirror now to observe the progress of their mortal servants. That artifact had been a necessary sacrifice in order to conclude the transformation they desired. But that fact bothered the Destructor little. Most of those servants, after all, had perished violently within the last day.

The loss of Sinioth seemed a minor thing to him now, and the deaths of Sythissal and Krell-Bane mattered even less, given the way things had been resolved. After all, the power of the avatar was not gone … it had merely been converted into a new form. That form would rest for a while, of course. Even the chaotic Talos knew the value of conserving his assets. Yet sometime not too far in the future, his new servant would be ready to serve.

All in all, Talos the Destructor and Malar the Beastlord were not displeased.