Bailey Baz's Arc

Chapter 17 of 44

Bailey knew how to break the King. But knowing the rite meant nothing here, deep in the swamp. The capital lay a hundred miles off, past open water and dry roads he could not cross on foot. He stood at the forge with the sword in his hand and no way to use it. "I can name his power," he told Cora. "But I can't reach him. Not from here." Cora pulled her cracked wand from her robe. "Then we find something that can carry you." She had followed Bailey through every trap in this swamp, his sister who once died searching for him. She would not stop now. "The reeds hide more than children. Old things live back in the deep fog. Big things." Bram set down his hammer. Iron scars still marked his wrists where the manacles had bit for a lifetime. He knew the swamp's far corners better than anyone. "There's one beast that crosses the whole marsh," he said. "An elk. Three heads. It walks water like it's road. I've seen its tracks. Never a hunter who caught it." He wiped his hands. "It won't come for force. It picks who it carries." They went out past the last reeds, where the fog swallowed sound. Bailey wore the purple cloak, the crest bright on his chest. He carried the sword loose in one hand. For an hour they saw nothing. Then the mist parted, and the elk stood in the shallows. Three solemn heads. A crown of antlers wide as a doorframe. Water ran off its layered fur in silver threads. Bailey stepped toward it slow. The beast did not run. It lowered its middle head and studied him, then the crest on the cloak. Bram stayed back. "It's looking at the lions," he murmured. "It knows royal blood." Bailey held out his hand. The elk pressed its nose against the golden crest, once, and went still. "Climb," Cora whispered. Bailey gripped the antlers and pulled himself onto its back. The elk held steady. Cora grabbed his arm before he could go. "You can't ride into a thousand-year King alone." Her eyes were wet. "I'm coming." She climbed up behind him. Bram handed the sword up and stepped back into the fog. "Fair roads, boy," he said. "End him for all of us. I’ll meet you there when I find my own ride.” The elk turned toward the deep fog and moved. Its hooves struck the water and did not sink. It walked the marsh like a paved road, faster than any boat, carrying them out of the swamp that had held Bailey a hundred years. Bailey looked back once. The forge light shrank and vanished. Ahead lay open water, then dry land, then the capital and the throne that was stolen from him. The swamp could no longer hold him. But the King was waiting at the end of the road, and now Bailey was riding straight toward him.