by Peter Fane
“Can you sing for me, Stormy? Can you sing?”
57
FROM THE TOP of the Pinnacle, Kyla saw the dark war mage’s face open with surprise—and then with utter terror. And then the spell broke, and the mage pointed her staff at the Tarn’s Great Door, raw panic in her eyes.
“I see you, now,” Kyla whispered.
And then she aimed.
58
“CAN YOU SING for me, Stormy? Can you sing?”
Little Dan’s lilting question, high and true.
“Can you sing for me, Stormy? Can you sing?”
59
“IT WON’T MATTER, Ky!” Tarlen cried as Kyla readied to fire. “They’ll butcher them!”
Kyla didn’t answer, she just sighted down the barrel of her high silver carbine—her aim real and perfect and divine—and then she fired.
60
AND STORMHAMMER ANSWERED.
Stormhammer sang.
61
FOR COLJ, THE noise was catastrophic and, at the same time, accompanied by a strange, otherworldly silence, as if Stormhammer had drawn all the planet’s air into a mighty set of lungs—a strange swelling at the front of the gun, something growing in the air before it—then blasted it forth in a blinding column of pure-white dragon fire.
VOMMM!
The Pretender’s great cannon on the southwestern headlands vanished.
They were there—seven great guns on thick, timber embankments, golden-robed adepts singing their holy songs, great silver maws pointed to the sky, ready to fire, ready to destroy Anna and her dragon riders, the black-robed battle mage high behind them all—and then they were wiped away.
Gone.
Leaving nothing behind but a smoking channel in the earth, black soil instantly flecked by the white of falling snow.
62
KYLA’S BULLET DIDN’T hit anything.
There was a silver-blinding flash, a flash like the sun, a thunderous noise like the end of everything, and the Tarn shook on its foundations.
She steadied herself, recovered her aim, readied to fire again, but there was nothing to hit.
There was nothing at which to aim.
Kyla blinked and took her weapon from her shoulder.
Filip, Sledder, and Tellerman were cheering like lunatics, hugging each other, pounding each other on the backs. Bruno barked like mad, smoky fur phasing grey. Even stoic Ponj ogre-hollered, thick ogre fists raised in triumph, the whole Tarn rising in song, in glory . . . in what?
In victory?
“What happened?” Kyla asked.
One thing was clear: The dark mage, her podium, the Pretender’s great artillery placement, all were gone.
Blasted from existence.
From her vantage atop the Pinnacle, Kyla saw a scorched furrow some thirty paces wide running through the southwestern headlands, through Tarntown itself, ending in a perfectly round hole in the foothills of the Rakbern Mountains, a hole through which she could see a pinpoint of daylight.
“Tarlen.” She blinked wonderingly, pushed a lock of blond hair from her face. “Tarlen?”
Time came back into focus.
“What?” He said the word as if stunned, staring over Tarntown. Then he blinked, the full extent of the devastation dawning at last, realizing the number of homes and shops and streets and people that had been vaporized.
“What—?” he started.
Kyla swallowed.
Thousands of dead—tens of thousands—most of them civilians.
Who else has died along that path of destruction?
Tarlen blinked. “What did we do?”
Then Filip pointed. “Our dragons!”
Sledder screamed, “Burn ‘em to ash!”
63
FROM THE BRIDGE, Colj watched Anna and her Davanórians drop upon the enemy’s center, strafing dragon fire from hundreds of open jaws, the screams of the enemy rising like a wave. In moments, the center of Tarntown was an inferno of smoke and fire. Then Michael and his bear riders burst into view on the enemy’s flank, driving toward the center. And then a cloud of thousands of messenger dragons swarmed from the Tarn’s western rampart. It was Master Zar’s scourge, an army of tiny dragons led by little Gregory, a murderous flock of tiny fangs and claws, sent to finish the enemy, the wounded, and the fleet-of-foot, to dissuade the fallen angels of Tarcéron.
And then began true slaughter.
At last, after two years of siege, Michael Dallanar and Anna Dyer had been unleashed.
Colj looked to the Great Door. There was Daniel. He stood at Stormhammer’s side, one hand on the big gun, the mighty weapon floating, the cannon’s great dragon maw seeming to pant like an enormous dog, loyal beside its little master. Daniel’s eyes were wide open, unseeing. His knees wobbled. He was breathing hard, his other hand held out, palm up, turning, searching for enemies, the great gun turning freely, as if it weighed nothing, effortlessly joined to the little boy’s gesture.
“We need to get back,” Lady Katherine said.
Colj nodded. They moved toward the Great Door and the little warrior who protected it.
64
“THEY’RE COMING IN,” Tarlen said. He pointed down at the Long Bridge. “Let’s go.”
Kyla nodded, then she looked to Filip, Sledder, and Tellerman. “Stay on station. Apply fire as needed.”
But there was no need. For all practical purposes, the battle was over—the siege was over. And if she couldn’t understand that fact from the scouts’ beaming faces, then all she had to do was look out over the war field from whence the enemy ran. The enemy host—all of it—was fleeing Tarntown in headlong terror, the battle standards from a dozen duchies thrown to the ground and trampled, lines of men streaming away from the city. For Kyla, the enemy’s terror was entirely justified; they were mercilessly pursued by Michael and Anna’s forces, the two legendary warriors finally free to release their rage. And with no air support to defend them, with Daniel Eadle standing watch on the bridge ready to obliterate any threat, with Master Zar’s army of tiny dragons swarming the headlands, there was nothing for the enemy to do but run like hell and pray.
But Kyla didn’t think it would matter.
They wouldn’t escape.
They couldn’t escape.
None of them.
Michael and Anna would show no mercy. Already, most of Tarntown burned, smoke and screams rising while Michael and Anna sowed their carnage, the cries of the dying matched only by the howls of triumph from the Tarn, the great iron batteries ceaseless as they pounded the retreating armies, a constant accompaniment to the savage roars of war bears, the blasts of vengeful dragon fire.
Kyla paused, took a breath, and forced herself to examine her own feelings. She was relieved, she was horrified, she was elated—all at once. But behind it all, one burning question:
What does this day mean for peace?
“Come on,” Tarlen said. “Let’s go, Ky. What’re you looking at? It’s over. It’s totally over.”
Kyla nodded. “The battle, yes.”
65
COLJ AND HIS squad of ogres approached Daniel. As he did, the boy turned toward them, one hand on Stormhammer, the great weapon swinging toward them, its dragon lips quivering around the vast hole that was its mouth. A low hum filled the air, the sound of barely restrained wrath. Daniel’s eyes were open, but they were blank, like silver pearls. As he neared, Colj realized that the boy shook with effort, barely able to stand. Something was wrong with him. It was as if his muscles and tissue had been consumed by the effort. His little legs were skeletal sticks, even thinner than before. His arms were nothing but skin and bone. His neck was reed thin, as if it could barely support the weight of his head. Behind Daniel, Master Falmon helped Lord Doldon to his feet. Both men were shaken, barely able to stand; their noses were bloody, their eyes glazed. Stormhammer and Oblivion’s lead adepts were dead, eyes burnt from their skulls, black scalps smoking ruins. Several of the flanking adepts had been crushed when the cannon fell,
others did not stir.
Master Falmon coughed, then grunted when he saw Colj approach. “Gotta get some carriages out here.” He adjusted his eye patch, touched the scar in his forehead, and leaned against Lord Doldon. Master Falmon looked from Daniel to Colj. “Right away, Captain. Carriages. He can’t hold it but a few moments more. We’re gonna need your boys to help lift Oblivion.”
“Yes, Master Falmon,” Colj said.
“Aye.” Lord Doldon winced, then he grinned. “Get the carriages.” Both their faces were dark with smoke, teeth white in wrinkled black faces. “Then Colj, if you can, maybe you can tell me what the blazes just happened.”
66
KYLA, TARLEN, PONJ, and Bruno had made their way down to the High Square just as Colj was bringing Garen back into the Square from the Great Door. Kyla had been sure to retrieve Susan on the way down; she’d sent Quine back up to the Pinnacle with his mates. And she’d kept Filip’s high silver carbine. The ancient weapon was hers now, not received as a gift, but taken as a right.
“Dallanar! Dallanar!” The High Square thundered, the place swarming with men, women, children, soldiers, ogres, bears, everyone. Dallanar banners streamed high blue against the clean falling snow. The High Gate blazed with silver light. Every so often, a dragon squad would blast overhead, and the crowd would cheer and clap, crying, laughing, exultant. Coming in behind Colj, through the passages from the Great Door, Doldon, Falmon, Kate, and several big ogres rolled the mighty Stormhammer and Oblivion on carriages into the center of the Square. Soldiers kept dragging in the spoils from the Long Bridge, dead Legionnaires and Guardsmen clad in priceless high silver.
It had been an incredible victory, but the price had been high. In Colj’s arms, Garen did not look well. Falmon carried Daniel; the little boy was unconscious and looked starved, near dead. And that did not count the innumerable corpses of soldiers, bears, ogres, and dragons outside the Tarn’s walls, a body count that could only climb.
“Dallanar!” the High Square roared. “Dallanar!”
Everywhere around them, the mighty star trees seemed to sway with a kind of celebratory rhythm, their coppery leaves like tinkling bells. Kyla watched Garen open his eyes, touch at his spectacles, then say something to Colj. Colj frowned, set him down, and looked him over, top to bottom, as if inspecting a young athlete back from his first wrestling match. Garen looked up at Colj, said something, then steadied himself against the great ogre’s arm. Colj gave Garen another long look, summoned a servant with some water, and shook his head. Kate was staying close to her brother, her high silver armor covered in blood. Then Kate looked around, saw Kyla and the rest, and waved them over. They didn’t need encouragement. Susan and Bruno ran to them, straight through the crowd; Kyla, Tarlen, and Ponj followed.
“You’re alive.” Susan patted Garen’s side. Then she paused, looked up at Colj. “Good job.”
The soldiers around them laughed and shouted and lifted their weapons, slapping each other on the back, gathering around the High Family, the whole Tarn cheering with one voice, the citadel’s mighty batteries still firing in the distance, the roar of dragons echoing the walls. “Dallanar! Dallanar!”
Once again, Kyla was confused by her own feelings. She was beyond relieved that Garen was safe, that the enemy had been driven from their gates. But, in the very same moment, she was haunted by the knowledge of the wholesale slaughter that continued as the celebration ensued. The strange joy she had felt as she’d fired from the Pinnacle had been replaced by a cold hollow at her center. The mighty batteries of the Tarn still thundered, pounding their own city to dust; the distant roar of dragon fire was unmistakable, even over the closer cries of jubilation. Above her, on the towers, she could see her family’s soldiers and artillerymen watch and point and cheer, no doubt as Michael and Anna continued their pitiless hunt. It was a bizarre mix of sounds and emotions and thoughts. Did it make her weak to pity the men and women whom Anna and Michael now butchered? Or did it make her strong? Had she herself not taken part in the battle with righteous zeal? Were these questions themselves not a luxury? She blinked and looked at her family. The soul-searching would have to wait. She hurried to Garen.
“You alright, Garen?” Kyla asked. Clearly, he was not. His eyes looked out of focus, and he kept trying to fix his spectacles, even though they were on perfectly straight. From the tower tops, from every window, high blue pennants and scarves and flags waved and swung, the Dallanar Sun flashing silver in winter’s light.
“Dallanar! Dallanar!”
Garen looked at her. His eyes cleared. “The Cup.”
Kyla frowned, shifted her new carbine from one elbow to the other. “Ruge had it. He must still have it, I think. I saw him take it with him.”
Garen shook his head and seemed to go dizzy with the gesture. “No. You don’t understand. Michael, he . . . .” He frowned. Doldon came up, gave Kate a sideways hug, winked at Tarlen and Ponj, then pounded Garen on the shoulder, nearly knocking him down. Doldon’s face was black with smoke and grime, his eyes and teeth pure white. There was dried blood beneath his nose and ears, a slightly mad expression on his face. He shouted and smiled and pointed all around. Kyla couldn’t hear half of what he said over the noise of the crowd, and she doubted whether Doldon could hear himself either. Even so, it was impossible not to smile at those crazy white teeth grinning in Doldon’s dirty face. He said something about getting a drink, then laughed when three sloshing cups appeared before him, as if by magic.
“Need some help here,” Master Falmon said hoarsely. His voice was soft, but everything seemed to go quiet. “Need some help.”
He held Daniel to his chest. The little boy had become a strange, withered thing, like a skeleton, his large skull prominent, blue veins bright under translucent skin. He barely breathed.
Garen stepped toward them, steadying himself as he went, and knelt beside Daniel. He touched the boy’s thin neck and wrists, looking for a heartbeat, peeling the boy’s eyelids back to expose sightless silver orbs.
Garen looked at Doldon, then steadied himself against Falmon. “I have something that may stabilize him. But we must get him to the infirmary.”
With a blast of wind, Moondagger landed above the High Square on a dragon perch. Everyone looked up and cheered. Michael sat behind Anna in her dragon saddle, the blind dragon’s white wings wide, folding down as he settled. Michael leapt from the saddle, jumped to the perch’s walkway, and slid down the brass pole into the Square. When he ran to the family, the crowd opened before him. He held the Vordan sheathed beneath its cross guard, the black blade singing sweetly, as if sated at last.
Kyla blinked.
As Michael approached, it was if a strange silence descended in her own mind. It was as if the sounds of victory had been suddenly muffled, while the dark sword’s song became clearer. Michael didn’t smile, but his eyes were wild and terribly bright. His black armor was covered in ash and blood. As he came to where Garen and Falmon knelt with Daniel, Michael nudged Kate aside, not noticing her, everyone pounding him on the back, all decorum forgotten. Michael knelt, touched Garen on the shoulder, and looked at Daniel.
“He did it,” Michael said.
Garen nodded, still a bit groggy, and reached for his belt pouch, fishing for one of the countless vials he kept there. “It cost him.”
“Never seen anything like it,” Michael said. “It came right in front of us, about five hundred paces or so. You could feel the heat from where we were, even at that distance, it pushed us back.” His eyes were bright. “This changes everything, you know.”
Garen frowned and said nothing. He pulled a small vial from his pouch. The liquid within was thick and silvery-gold. He unstopped it and held it to Daniel’s lips, tilting the contents gently into his mouth. The effect was immediate. The little boy took a deep breath. His eyes were still shut, but new color came into his cheeks.
And still, through all of this, the black sword sang in Kyla’s mind.
Doldon tousled Tarlen’s
hair, called for more drink, and lifted Susan up so that she could see. Ponj was there next to Colj and the rest of the ogres. Bruno paced around Garen, sniffing at Daniel’s feet.
“The Cup,” Kyla asked. “What happened to the High Cup, Michael?”
Michael looked at her. His eyes went dark. The cheering seemed louder, but somehow—bizarrely—harder to hear. In Kyla’s ears, her own voice was more muffled than ever, farther away. Every sound was muted, save the Vordan’s low, satisfied song. It sang there under the cheering, a dark melody, hauntingly familiar, an ancient tune long forgotten, just remembered, as if the sword sang for her and her alone.
“The Cup, Michael!” Kyla said again, louder. Garen looked from Daniel to Michael, and frowned. Falmon adjusted his eye patch, a strange expression on his smoke-covered face. Kate watched closely, as did Tarlen.
Michael ignored Kyla’s question, instead looking up to the perch where Moondagger had landed, where Anna now dismounted. Doldon lifted his goblet and drank, clearly deafened, that crazy white smile beaming from his smoky face. He leaned down, put his hand to Garen’s ear, and said something. Garen nodded but kept his attention on Kyla and Michael. In Falmon’s arms, Daniel had started to open his eyes. Falmon cradled the boy’s head in the crook of his elbow. Michael looked back at Kyla, then looked again toward Anna who was just sliding down the pole from Moondagger’s perch. The crowd opened and Michael went to her. The sword’s song rose. When Anna reached him in the Square’s center, Michael lifted Anna’s fist in victory, and the crowd went crazy. Moondagger roared his triumph to the sky. Michael and Anna walked back to the family, the Vordan’s song going quiet. Michael took a saddle bag from Anna.
