by T P Sheehan
The fire-sword came down so hard that Magnus nearly lost his grip parrying the blow. The second blow was an unexpected boot to the chest and the third was an open palm to his right temple. All three happened in the same moment. Magnus stumbled back, catching himself after a single step. He cracked his head to one side and a snap of heat healed the beaten side of his head. More burning heat repaired a cracked rib.
My turn…
Magnus drove hard at the priest and dealt blow after blow, each caught or deflected as though the skilled Irucantî anticipated his every move. Magnus did not let up. If the priest made a single false move, Magnus would have him, but then—
“Slow… predictable… rigid…”
The priest shared thoughts as he critiqued Magnus’s assault. Such arrogance. Who do they think they are? Anger boiled within him. These were the priests who commanded his brethren to kill him and Catanya, failed to defend the people they were sworn to and threatened the dragons of his realm. Now he has the nerve to school me on my skills?
“Power monger, liar, coward…” Magnus shared his own views.
The priest fought back and their swords sung as fire-bronze and fleu-steel made hard contact. Lucas’s sword was strong and it would take a lot to break it, yet he was sure if there were a way, the priest would find it.
Trax shouted—“Magnus! Show Liné the mark her son gave you, let her know your mind!”
“A little busy, Trax!” Magnus shouted.
Trax spun about, pushed Magnus free of the High Priest and ignited his lance, taking over the fight.
Magnus turned to Liné. Her eyes immediately flickered to blue-green and he knew he had her attention. To his left, Brue turned to him. Magnus squatted, placed the sword on the ground and stood. “I am sorry I hurt you back in Ba’rrat, Brue. But you did try to kill me.” He looked at Liné and said nothing. He let his mental barriers ease.
Magnus recalled Eamon telling him to do the same in Ba’rrat when the fire dragons congregated to meet him. ‘Remain open,’ Eamon had said. ‘Let them see who you are.’ Magnus felt vulnerable at the time, but such doubts were a luxury he could no longer afford. To his right, Rubea turned her back on the commotion with the other High Priest and sniffed him curiously. Her mental presence was gentle compared to Liné and Brue’s palpable fury.
Magnus let his thoughts fall on his memories of Thioci once again. It gave a good reference point for the three dragons as they probed his mind, looking this way and that. Magnus’s mind then drifted to thoughts of Breona—beautiful Breona… He did not expect it and his heart heaved. The dragons drew on the memory of Thioci and the Astermeer who died alongside him. They learned all there was to know about their interaction, from Breona defending Thioci, to sharing intimate thoughts with him. From here, the three dragons branched away from one another in their respective searches through Magnus’s mind.
Magnus felt Brue’s mind transfix on every memory he had of Thioci. Brue was drawing on all Magnus had of the youngling’s physical appearance as though extracting the memories for keepsake. He was clearly not looking for reason, but trying to satisfy the emptiness he felt from losing him. To Magnus, it did not seem to be working. He sensed a great pain in Brue—the same pain he had felt for losing Breona. He could see how much worse it was for Brue losing a son. The disdain Magnus felt for the long-tailed fire dragon dissipated in the same way it had when he rediscovered Eamon’s friendship after months of hating the old man.
Rubea’s interests were different. She flittered about his mind for a while, following her older sister’s lead but then, Magnus felt her curiosity peak when she found Catanya in his memories. As Catanya predicted, Rubea was intrigued by their love, intimacy and long journey to reunite. Rubea realised she had met Magnus by the Nuyan River months ago and had watched him and Catanya at the time, never comprehending the pain caused in separating them. The fondness Rubea had for Catanya was obvious. Magnus sensed that a seed of compassion for him was born in the young dragon and that, perhaps, he had made an ally in Rubea if nothing else.
Liné was the most diplomatic of the three dragons and Magnus immediately became aware of how intelligent she was. She started with the facts and spared herself emotional attachment in her search for what she needed to know. Liné explored the story of Magnus meeting Thioci, how he shared his fish with him and then defended Thioci against Crugion and his men. She closely examined Magnus’s relationship with Breona and from here, his mother. Finally, she scrutinised the process of Thioci choosing Magnus as the Electus. Only when she had learned the complete story did she allow herself to explore the intimacy Magnus and Thioci shared the following day during the last moments of Thioci’s life—
‘You traded your life for mine. Why did you do that?’
‘My wounds were beyond healing. But yours I could repair. My role in this life is complete. Yours has just begun.’
‘Thank you, Thioci…’
Liné’s own mind was guarded and Magnus dared not intrude, but at the end of her exploration, a single thought whispered through his mind. It was a mother’s pride for her son who gave his blood to save another.
The three dragons withdrew from Magnus’s mind. A sense of peace came over him for as long as it took to realise the commotion was still occurring in the Nave. He spun about to find Trax defending himself against the superior strength and sorcery of the High Priest. Magnus reached for his sword but he need not have bothered.
Both Brue and Rubea came around Magnus and lunged at the High Priest. Trax leapt back out of harm’s way. This time, neither dragon used flames. Brue knocked the priest to the ground with a fistful of claws and Rubea pinned down his fallen body. Brue was furious, but Rubea refused to move. She was holding the High Priest prisoner, keeping Brue from killing him. Magnus breathed a sigh of relief once again but as before, it was short lived.
“Where is the other High Priest?” Magnus ran about the nave, searching. He was nowhere to be found. He looked to Trax who pointed to the western wall. Magnus looked to the open door—fourth from the left—that led to the chamber below. Dread washed over him.
Catanya stared at her little sister.
“Hannah?”
It was a torturous apparition. She tried to convince herself it was a trick of the mind, most likely sorcery of the High Priests cunningly designed to draw on her most vulnerable traits as a distraction. The notion of such clever sorcery was farfetched, but far less so than the alternative—Hannah is actually standing before me. Yet there was too much to the vision only Catanya could possibly know. Hannah wore her pomegranate dress and Catanya’s brown suede jacket. She could see the familiar freckle under her little sister’s left eye, the dimple in her right cheek even when she was not smiling and the way she turned her feet inward when she was nervous. It cannot be real…
“Hannah?”
Hannah’s nervous expression turned to fear. Her eyes widened. “Catanya!” Hannah shrieked, pointing to something behind her big sister. Catanya turned. A High Priest stood at the bottom of the spiral passage and swung his fire-sword cross ways at Catanya’s neck.
Catanya dropped low to the ground, avoiding the strike. Swiftly and carefully, she placed the egg on the stone ground and then, in one quick move, she sprung upward, drew and igniting her lance, and caught the priest’s second blow. With blades locked, the priest tilted his head forward and pulled back the hood of his cloak. The patchy light beams danced across his face and head that was almost completely covered in dragon markings. His eyes greyed over and Catanya knew the High Priest was making a mental assault.
“Namon penet animo meo.” The spell shielded Catanya’s mind from invasion. She knew any counter spell she could conjure would have little effect on this priest, so she would have to put all her strength into her lance. The priest, though, lowered his sword.
“You have no idea what you are meddling with, young Irucantî,” the High Priest said. “The next age of Allumbreve will not be defended by dragons, it will be fought by
men with the power of the gods.” Catanya dared not turn from him yet was desperate to look to her sister again. The High Priest kept talking. “Who would you prefer to wield such power—the most elite of your brethren, or an outsider with no training… no affiliation with our order? You need to choose wisely.”
“Thioci chose the Electus,” Catanya replied. “What you think doesn’t matter.”
“Thioci’s choice was not sanctioned by the order of the Irucantî, nor his elders.”
“Thioci’s brethren support him. Nothing you do or say will change that.”
“You think I am arrogant, Semsame.” The High Priest pointed his sword to Catanya. She lifted her lance, fidgeting nervously with its grip. “I read it in your eyes the day of your inauguration. I thought with time and training, particularly under Joffren’s tutelage, you would tame. I was wrong.”
“Joffren’s self-righteousness has left him fighting for his life.”
“Impressive! I did not think you had it in you.”
“It wasn’t me. It was the Electus you’re so desperate to kill.”
The High Priest laughed the most condescending of laughs. “My arrogance pales next to your naivety. We gave Austagia credit for his ability to find wayward recruits after bringing Jael into the order. This time I see, his judgment was clouded.”
Catanya sneered deliberately. “Is teasing me your best comeback?”
The priest clenched his jaw—his grey eyes now a dark, dangerous glare. “There’s not a loyal Irucantî alive who will support Thioci’s choice.”
“There were three Irucantî who opposed the decision.” Catanya tilted her head to one side, keeping her gaze on the priest’s unblinking eyes. “Can you guess who killed them?” She mimicked the priest’s glare. “Brue supported them, acting under duress, then flew back here licking his wounds with his long tail between his legs.”
The High Priest shook his head slowly. “Brue would like another chance to revenge Thioci’s death. I’m sure he’s getting that chance as we speak.”
“I think Brue will be preoccupied with you once he and Liné get their egg back.” Catanya pushed the egg away from her with one foot—it gently rolled toward the centre of the chamber floor. She turned for the briefest of moments and saw that Hannah was gone. She looked back again, her eyes darting around the gloomily lit chamber, but there was no sign of Hannah anywhere, yet no open doors she could have fled through.
A sharp sound alerted Catanya to the Priest swinging his sword again. Catanya caught the blade with her lance. Both fire-bronze weapons sparked. The sparks dissipated with a whiff of smoke that was telltale of the dragon forging built into them.
“A fire-sword. You priests are full of lies.” Catanya spat her words through gritted teeth. She was sick to death of deceptions and false piety, the stuff of which had cost her enough and nearly her life and now—Hannah? Catanya dared not look for her sister again. She struck back.
Twirling her lance and drawing a throwing knife with her right hand, Catanya shifted into a series of attack combinations. The first two Joffren had taught her, the third was one she devised herself. She swung one end of the lance at the priest’s neck then stepped forward for a double thrust to his chest then abdomen, then pulled the lance back to fend a predictable, retaliatory thrust of sword. Combination one.
Catanya repeated the move, but swung the lance back handed to the face between thrusts and finished with a boot to the chest, knowing the retaliatory thrust would come slower this time—which it was. Combination two.
Catanya came again, this time stepping twice toward the priest with a backhand thrust, bringing her right elbow toward his face. The priest took the bait. He drove an upward sword thrust intended to sever her arm at the elbow, but Catanya was ready—the right-handed grip on her lance was false and instead, it held her knife blade forward. She drove the blade toward his chest. The move saw her vambrace take the blow of the priest’s sword, and her knife would now end the priest’s life as it sunk into his black robes and between his ribs. Her knife though, could not break through the priest’s robes. The priest had a knife of his own and he swung it down, driving it into flesh to the right of Catanya’s neck.
Catanya stumbled back. Her knife slipped from her hand, hitting the ground with a muffled, dull thud that was barely audible above the constant ring in Catanya’s right ear. Her left hand was still firmly gripping her lance but her balance was off. The chamber seemed to be tilting over to her left. Her feet stumbled, struggling to keep her upright.
“CATANYA!”
Catanya heard her little sister’s scream but it was not real—it was a dream of sorcery, or perhaps her own delirity. Either way, it gave her strength. Catanya swung the lance at the priest, making him pause his advance. She reached up with her spare hand and took grip of the knife handle. It was buried in the thick muscle over her shoulder blade. Catanya looked at the High Priest—one of the two leaders of the Irucantî—and screamed a long scream at him as she pulled the knife free of her muscle, dropping it to the ground. It its place was a bloody wound. She felt the warm blood cascade down her chest to her abdomen, and down her spine to the small of her back. The priest discarded his black robe, revealing his own Ferustir armour—the armour that protected his chest from Catanya’s knife.
“Not fair,” Catanya mumbled as she stumbled back a few steps.
The priest came at Catanya again. His bronze sword danced through the dim chamber and Catanya fended blow after blow. She winced from pain and frowned with frustration, for even with the dizziness dissipating, she could not find a weakness in the priest’s attack—until she did.
At one stage the priest shifted his sword into his right hand, freeing his left hand to crack each knuckle of his fingers against his chest plate. Was it an old injury? Had age seized his joints, making endurance his weakness? Whatever the cause, the priest was fallible. Where there was one ailment, there was likely more, and the thought gave her hope. Catanya knew she was losing a lot of blood, but she was not bested yet. She attacked hard and fast.
Her lance seemed to lighten in her hand with her renewed determination. She parried the High Priest’s blows and struck out with her own, making contact several times across his armour, but never his flesh. Nevertheless she came again and again. At one stage Catanya coiled her lance about, making the sharp side of the blade score the priest across his brow, cutting him deep. The priest paused and so Catanya backed down. He touching his red stained face with a finger and examining the blood. It occurred to her it was likely the first time the High Priest had been injured in a generation and perhaps the shock would unbalance him. Catanya was wrong.
The priest retaliated. He swung high and Catanya fended it off. A kick to the chest threw Catanya off balance. She was standing in a puddle of her own blood and slipped. Her legs came away from under her and she landed hard on her back. The priest was quick to stand on her left arm, forcing her lance from her grip. It rolled away and extinguished itself. The priest held his fire-sword to her armour-plated chest.
“A weak spot in all Ferustir suits is off centre to the breastbone.” The priest pushed his blade angled to Catanya’s chest. She heard it tear through the fibres of her armour and felt the cold bronze against her skin. Catanya stared at the priests darkening eyes—the eyes of a hunter about to kill his prey. In her peripheral sight, she saw a dark shadow flying down the corridor toward the chamber where she lay beside Liné’s egg.
“Drive a good blade at the correct angle…” the priest pushed the blade harder and Catanya felt its tip pierce her skin. She grunted. The priest continued—“And you’ve found the heart of the Ferustir.”
The dark shadow was then at the priest’s back. It was Trax. He drew back what appeared to be the other High Priest’s fire-sword. Catanya concentrated on the High Priest’s eyes, not wanting to give away Trax’s presence.
With a violent jolt, the High Priest stumbled forward over his sword. Catanya grunted as the priest’s body weight drove
his sword deeper into her chest. She gripped the sharp blade with her free hand to halt its progress. The High Priest fell to the ground beside her—a sword protruding from his back.
“There’s a weak spot off centre to the spine as well, Semsame.” Trax squatted at Catanya’s head and drew the sword from her chest.
“I know about that one,” Catanya mumbled. She looked to her right and saw Liné’s egg. Reaching to it, she drew the egg closer, hugging it into her wounded chest. Catanya took a deep breath, released it and smiled at Trax who smiled back to her.
“Hannah?” Catanya mumbled. The ceiling began to spin and so she shut her eyes, letting herself drift into dreams of her sister.
Hannah…
REUNION
Färgd flew from Ba'rrat to Thwax. “When we arrive, make haste with your visit, Eamon. I'm more concerned with the wellbeing of the Electus than with Joffren’s demise.”
Eamon agreed with the great dragon and yet, haste made him anxious. It did not help to be riding a dragon for the first time in two decades. Had he forgotten the power of the great beast? The height gained with each beat of scaled wings? The strength needed to hold the saddle horn and the awkwardness of his legs strapped fast in stirrups? No, Eamon mused. One never forgets the experience of riding a dragon. It was the phenomenal speed Färgd flew at that frazzled Eamon.
