He swung the fighting picks in front of him, like murderous clockwork, ready to follow his master's orders, no matter what his previous misgivings had been. He was ready to kill.
The slavering grizzly barreled through the entrance with the power and destructive capacity of an avalanche. The growl shook the walls as Brownie reared back slightly and lifted his right paw, claws glinting in the torchlight.
The claws came down, ripping open Cragskull's chest. His scream was high and piercing. He stumbled back, then, with the strength of his fear, brought one of the fighting picks around to bury it with a thunk into the bear's chest.
It didn't even slow Brownie down.
With both paws, he reached out and grabbed Cragskull, lifted the filthy man above his head, and roared so loud that Cragskull could hear nothing thereafter.
Weakly, he brought the other fighting pick down and buried it in the grizzly's back. Brownie staggered, wilted, and nearly fell. He began to drop Cragskull. But he held on. The grizzly hugged Cragskull to him tightly and reached his right paw up, only to plunge it into the green fire burning in the opening in Cragskull's head. Brownie's claws caught the edge of exposed skull, and, even as Cragskull began to smell the scent of the bear's burning fur, there came a horrid tearing sound and a massive crack.
Brownie tore off the left side of Cragskull's face.
Nothing but green fire came out, save for a flash of putrid smoke.
The bear stumbled. Fell. His blood spread like oil across the damp stone floor.
Tittering like a mischievous child, Cragskull began to cry and wheeze. He looked up with his one remaining eye to see the Peanut Butter General coming through the door with The Boy, then, pushing past them, ran off into the wood. The half of his head that was missing burned higher than ever.
When Fiddlestick flew down the stairwell and banked into the entry corridor, the music from his wings reflected his mood. It was like a mad, desperate calliope tune, played in three-fourths time.
The light from outside silhouetted the Peanut Butter General where he stood in the doorway. Past him, Fiddlestick could see the lower branches of one of the Forest Rangers — probably Captain Broadbough — who was now guarding the entrance to the fortress.
Then he saw Thomas, kneeling just in front of the General. Kneeling by the huge, still, bleeding form of Fiddlestick's greatest friend in the world. Thomas had the grizzly's blood on his hands, and he was silent and cold. Numb.
Fiddlestick was not numb, though he prayed for that curse.
"Brownie!" he cried, and the music from his wings, despite its rapidity, became a dirge.
A moment later, he fluttered his wings and settled down next to the grizzly. His eyes were closed tight, but he was breathing. Shallow, yes, but breathing was breathing.
"We've got to get him out of here," Fiddlestick said.
"As soon as we have Nathan," Thomas said.
The dragon fluttered his wings, the sound more like breaking glass than music now. Tiny jets of flame spurted from his nostrils. For a moment, he wanted to scream at Thomas, to blame him for all that had happened. That would have been the simplest thing to do. But then he looked down at the badly bleeding grizzly, at the glazed, half-open eyes of his friend, and he thought of what Brownie might say.
The blame belonged to all and none. To the Jackal Lantern most of all, and those who had been seduced by him. Yet, even they could not be held solely responsible for what had happened here. Sometimes, thought Fiddlestick, the storm came whether the land needed rain or not.
He looked at Thomas. "All right," he said. "We'll get Nathan out. But then you're on your own. If Brownie dies, I don't know if I want to save what's left of Strangewood."
A look of pain and grief crossed Thomas's face, but he only nodded.
"I'll be back," the dragon whispered to his gravely wounded friend.
Then he settled on the shoulder of the Peanut Butter General, and together, the three of them moved on.
The fortress echoed hollowly around them as they wound their way up a massive stone staircase that seemed to be the heart of the structure. Thomas was amazed that the Jackal Lantern didn't have more muscle to aid him. He'd expected dozens of warriors, shanghaied from all over Strangewood. But then, the wood had never been more than sparsely populated, and Thomas had done little to change that in the years during which he had been its rather unwitting caretaker.
His breathing echoed in the winding stairwell.
He glanced over at his father, thinking that perhaps he should say something. Perhaps there was a bit of knowledge, or intimacy, that they needed to share. But then he saw the way the General moved, the manner in which the consummate soldier went about the business of being at war. And he knew that this moment, fighting together side by side, was the closest they had ever been. The closest they would ever be.
They emerged on an upper floor into an enormous chamber with windows all around, looking out at the wood, and the mountain, and the Up-River where it tumbled over into the nothing beyond. From this place, the Jackal Lantern could see everything that happened around his fortress.
On the far side of the chamber was a high arch, and beyond that, another set of stairs leading up.
"This isn't the stairwell I took before," Fiddlestick said quietly. "While I was flying through the fortress, I heard Nathan calling out, but all the rooms on that floor were locked. But we're not high enough, yet. We've got to go up still."
They started across the chamber, Thomas glancing about, watching the windows for some sign of attack. Only when he was a handful of feet away did he glance back at the stairwell and seen the glow of hellish orange light in that dank space. Then he heard the click of claws on stone.
And the Jackal Lantern sprang into the chamber. His pumpkin face was aglow with slashed eyes and a mouth that shone with horrible glee. The jackal body, lithe and muscled, slunk back and forth in front of the archway leading to the stairs.
Behind him, Bob Longtooth came into the room. He was wounded, still, from his fight with the Queen of the Wood, but he seemed to have only been made more dangerous by it.
"You'll never reach him," old Jack whispered, his candle-brain burning brightly. "Not unless I allow it. And I won't do that until you repair all the damage you've caused, and make me the king of Strangewood."
Thomas gaped at him.
He didn't even pay attention when the sound of hooves clattering on stone echoed around the room, and Feathertop came up into the chamber using the same stairs they had walked moments before.
"You fucking maniac," the General snarled. "Thomas didn't cause any of this. All the burning, all the killing, all the insanity started with you!"
Thomas nocked an arrow into his bow, held it at the ready should old Jack make a move. He glanced over his shoulder at Feathertop, whom he had once loved so greatly.
"All I want is my son."
"And I want power. You will give it to me!"
A chill ran through Thomas. "I . . . I don't know how."
"Then you'll both die," said Old Jack.
Thomas drew back the string on his bow.
* * * * *