The Mark Of Iisilée

by T P Sheehan

  “What is it, Commander?”

  “Get everyone up and armed. We’re under attack!”

  Within five minutes, all the refugees were in place. Everyone had a role to play. Forty archers with flaming arrows, two hundred armed men and women… The childish laughter had turned to high-pitched screams and parents tried their best to silence them. “Silence!” Bonstaph growled. “We need to hear… to know what is coming, how many and how fast.”

  Dawn’s frugal light offered little vision. Bonstaph pushed through the grasses to a small rise giving vantage over the plains. He raked the windswept grasses with shrewd eyes and tried to make sense of a blotchy blackness that moved closer at an alarming rate. What is that?

  “Three minutes!” Bonstaph shouted. His message was relayed again and again. Two minutes passed and the black blotches morphed into the most horrific sight Bonstaph had seen in two decades.

  “WORGRIELS!”

  But they were not normal worgriels. They were huge and… They move as though possessed!

  “ARCHERS! VOLLEY!”

  Forty flaming arrows disappeared into the tall grasses. Worgriel screams came shooting back.

  “They bleed as any other wretched creature. ATTACK!”

  War cries rose from the refugees. Bonstaph and the guard led the charge to meet the oncoming black menace. There were no Quagmen. At least… not yet. Bonstaph drew his sword as the first incoming pair of ghost-white eyes and open jaws closed in. The creature was a frenzy of frothing saliva and glistening fangs. Bonstaph drove his sword through its open maw and stabbed its throat until he was shoulder deep to the wyvern’s mouth. The creature fell limp.

  “Go for the throat!”

  Two more came at Bonstaph. The second he dispensed the same way, the third he carved across its thick neck. A fourth came, knocking him to the ground leaving the worgriel’s underbelly exposed. Bonstaph stabbed upward for a fourth kill. He leapt to his feet. Wails of pain came from the Perimetral guard, but the worgriels were yet to breach the barrier protecting the children and elderly.

  Worgriel blood was smeared across Bonstaph’s face and down his left arm. The blood turned black and wafted into the skies as a pungent black mist. Their blood is cursed… Bonstaph followed the mist’s skyward trail and dropped his arms to his sides at a second ominous sight. It was an approaching storm of another kind. As before, it was not a storm of cloud, thunder and rain. This time, it was a storm of wyverns. Bonstaph shook his head slowly. “We were so close…”

  Amidst the yelling of men and women, the screams of worgriels and the cries of scared children, a deafening roar peeled through Bonstaph’s head. He dropped to his knees and covered his ears. The worgriels became distracted and paused their advance. A looming shadow dropped from the sky and a torrent of fire erupted across the glass plains.

  “A dragon!” The call came from various directions. “Couldradt fire dragon!”

  Bonstaph looked about. The roar repeated itself. It was a fire dragon with a Ferustir riding it.

  “Thank the gods!” Bonstaph shouted. ‘Everyone! ATTACK!”

  A SINGLE CHANCE

  It was early, yet all the Romghold was awake and teeming with activity. Magnus searched through the thirty Irucantî and more than twenty dragons for Simeon or Braug but could not find them. Have they not returned from last night’s patrol?

  “Semsdër-fatel, my name is Gianna,” a priest said. A woman of about forty with the litheness of a twenty year old, Gianna stretched as she spoke. “Are you ready to train with the High Priest?” She stood tall and drew her Ferustir’s lance, checking it over, which Magnus took as a sign that the priests would be protecting him again.

  “Aye. Have you seen Simeon?” Magnus was keen to get started with the High Priest, but he needed to know that Simeon had returned. Even though he and Braug had flown a different direction to Catanya, Austagia and Rubea the previous evening, Magnus would see their safe return as a sign all was well and no Quag scouts had caused them grief.

  “No, I haven’t,” Gianna looked about. “I will see if they have returned, Semsdër.” She bowed formally and ran off toward one of the buildings.

  Magnus rolled his eyes. These formalities need to stop. Still, every time a priest showed him respect it felt like a step in the right direction. He just did not think it necessary for respect to come with a ranking title.

  Magnus fastened the buckles of his chest armour and unsheathed Lucas’s sword, pausing to take in its detail. He had always thought of Ganister whenever he looked at it, but this morning he looked past that, beyond its tainted history, and admired the detail of the fleu-steel that bonded seamlessly with the bronze-steel pommel and cross guard. He thought of his own sword. It was the same, yet different—pure Icerealmish steel from pommel to tip. Both swords had dark red leather wrapping the grip and the same dark red leather scabbard. Magnus remembered the rocks west of Overpell at Realms End where he hid his sword in a crevice. Simeon said I needed a second sword. Marsala’s instructions about his sword came to him—‘Reconcile them… sooner rather than later.’ He looked forward to doing so.

  “Semsdër-fatel.” It was Gianna again. “Simeon and Braug did not return. A second patrol left several hours ago to find them. We should know soon enough—”

  A great roar from the west interrupted the priest. Everyone ran to the training field. Magnus followed. A dragon was approaching so fast Magnus thought it would never be able to stop. It bellowed its roar again.

  “That’s the second patrol now,” Gianna said, startled.

  The dragon drew to a halt a hundred feet beyond the training field with a Ferustir in its saddle, gripping fast to the saddle horn.

  “BATTLE ON THE SOUTHERN PLAINS!” The dragon’s thoughts ripped through Magnus’s mind. “SIMEON AND BRAUG FIGHT FOR THE LIVES OF HUNDREDS. WE MUST GO NOW!”

  A hand gripped Magnus’s shoulder. It was Jael. “We ride with Brue. Come!”

  “I’ll ride with Färgd!” Eamon shouted as he ran by. Gianna sprinted toward the training field and leapt into a dragon’s saddle with unnatural deftness.

  The Romghold was action in fast motion. Priests armed themselves to the teeth. Those wearing black robes discarded them to reveal sculpted Ferustir armour while dragons formed rank across the training field and down the common. Within minutes, Jael had a saddle on Brue. Magnus seated himself at the front of the saddle with Jael behind him. He followed her orders.

  “You’ve not flown before?”

  “No!”

  “Fasten your legs into the stirrups.”

  Magnus fumbled with the stirrup straps.

  “Lace them up to the knees.”

  “Aye.” Magnus watched Jael lacing her own straps then fasten the buckles. He did the same.

  “Tighten the buckles some more.”

  Magnus did so.

  “Tighter! They’re all that’s holding you in.”

  Magnus yanked at the leather straps, pulling them through the buckle frames an extra hole and fastening the prongs in place.”

  “Grip the horn like your life depends on it!”

  Magnus’s heart was racing.

  “READY?” It was Brue.

  “We’re ready.” Jael’s thoughts swam through Magnus’s head. He did not know that was possible. He turned and looked at her. She squinted at him. “Face forward, Magnus. Brace yourself. I’ll be holding on to you.”

  Magnus faced forward. Jael’s hands rested on his shoulders as Brue rose to his hind legs. Magnus felt the dragon’s muscular haunches roll and flex beneath scales as he walked to the training field’s precipice. Magnus swallowed hard—his mouth was parched. The sky was already filled with dragons and the beating drums of wings. To his left, Eamon sat in Färgd’s saddle. He nodded to Magnus who nodded in return. He was sure Eamon could see he was wracked with nerves.

  Jael pulled on Magnus’s shoulders, bringing their heads closer together. “You’ll be fine.” Her tone was comforting.

  “You never f
orget your first ride, Magnus!” Eamon shouted. Moments later, Färgd leapt up and dropped over the cliff. Magnus cursed to himself.

  Brue stood with his claws overhanging the cliff edge. Jael’s arms clenched tight about Magnus’s torso. This is it… Magnus took deep breaths. Brue squatted, jumped into the air, and tilted forward. Magnus gripped the saddle horn with all his strength. He was staring straight at the clouds a mile below.

  Brue dropped over the cliff edge, tucked his wings and plunged down, down, down and through the clouds. The wind pulled Magnus’s hair, the clouds whipped his face and everything tried to prise his hands from the saddle horn. Brue punched through the base of the clouds into clear sky where he tilted up again, nearly driving Magnus’s head into his own clenched fists. Their speed seemed to double with every thrust of Brue’s wings. Magnus’s vision blurred and his eyes stung from the wind and wet clouds. Jael was gripping his waist like a vice and began speaking quickly in Fireisgh.

  “What did you say?” Magnus shouted. Suddenly his vision cleared and the wind no longer battered his eardrums.

  “I’m placing enchantments to help you,” Jael shared thoughts.

  “How is it I can hear your thoughts?” Magnus did not understand.

  “Through me,” Brue said.

  Jael gripped Magnus’s waist harder still.

  Brue tracked his way down the Red River, Froughton Forest’s tall pines and oaks whizzing past below. A short way downstream, Brue banked to the right, away from the river and over the treetops. Magnus was dazzled by what he was experiencing. The world was so different all of a sudden. Anything and everything seemed possible. He was glad Jael was with him—her embrace was reassuring in this ludicrous world of dragon riding. He looked over Froughton Forest to the west and back to the north. It seemed to go on forever and it was forever ago he was riding Breona through the Outer Rim, the Valley of Shadows, meeting Eamon, facing the Authoritarium, Thioci, Ba’rrat, Sarah, Delvion, Lucas, his father, Ganister… All his experiences came back to him, but this magical moment seemed beyond all of that. It was a dream. Catanya was out there somewhere with Rubea, riding as he was. He knew she was safe. How could she not be, riding a dragon as he was?

  Magnificent.

  As the sun showed itself above the Romanian Mountains, Brue flew beyond the southern border of Froughton Forest and was over a wide lake whose cerulean waters reflected the hulking formation of dragons. Just above the lake’s surface, a hundred white cranes, fishing for breakfast, suddenly lost their appetites and dispersed. Magnus grinned at the spectacle. The sight beyond, however, was like a surreal incarnation of terror. The grasslands of the Southern Plains were ablaze with dragon fire, its oily residue wafting into a sky full of wyverns dog-fighting with dragons. The ground was peppered with black carcases and fighting bodies. By the banks of the lake, elderly people and frantic parents made a desperate attempt to protect children against manic worgriels and black-blade wielding Quag warriors.

  Magnus felt a rumble begin to grow within the beast beneath his legs.

  “Brace tight, Magnus,” Jael said. She spoke another spell. It was one Magnus recognised. It was the spell Catanya used to protect against fire—“Namon hama fara meo…”

  Brue dove toward the ground and banked hard to his left, releasing a vicious torrent of crimson fire along the lake’s bank, narrowly missing the children but consuming a group of Quag warriors. Wind blew flames back across Magnus’s face yet he felt no pain. Never slowing, Brue gained height again and came about for another offence. Some Quagmen fled but the worgriels were still focused on destruction.

  “Let’s go!” Jael shouted. She released her hold on Magnus and reached to her legs, releasing the stirrup buckles. Magnus did the same. Jael jumped to her feet on the back of the saddle as Brue fanned wings, breaking his speed near ground level. She then leapt from the dragon’s back, rolled across the ground and flew into the chaos of fighting. Magnus hoisted onto Brue’s saddle and jumped in the same manner, hitting the ground hard. A worgriel was on him in seconds.

  Sword drawn, Magnus fought back, slashing at the worgriel’s thick neck until it stopped its hysterical attack. A Quagman came next, but an arrow pierced his neck armour, bringing him down. Magnus didn’t bother to look for the arrow’s source. He ran for a group of four screaming children, putting himself in front of them and the elderly couple struggling to protect them against a worgriel with bloodstained fangs and a demonic disposition.

  What is wrong with these creatures?

  Magnus’s sword severed the wyvern’s front left leg, yet still it came, stumbling to one side. Magnus sunk his sword into its head, finally ending it. The elderly couple breathed a sign of relief.

  “Magnus!”

  It was Jael, pointing further down the bank. Magnus looked. Fifty yards away was his father, shielding more children at the water’s edge as three Quagmen advanced on him. Magnus looked to the children next to him.

  “All of you hold hands and come with me!” Magnus took the hand of the closest child then led them and the elderly couple toward his father. “Everyone stick together.”

  Jael came from behind and guarded the children. “I’ve got them… Go!”

  Magnus threw himself toward the Quagmen. Sprinting, Magnus sheathed his sword and clenched his fists. Heat became fire and the usual eddies of flames that wrapped his arms took on a new level of intensity, spinning toward his hands like tempests of fury. One of the Quagmen turned, his terror filled eyes reflecting the flames. Magnus barrelled toward the three men throwing bulbs of fire, one after the other, until all three Quagmen writhed about in abject terror as tendrils of flame weaved about their bodies until they each lay, charred to black.

  Magnus stood his ground, flames still leaping about his arms. Nearby Quagmen ran back up the embankment. “Electus!” one of them shouted.

  Magnus calmed his breathing and the flames subsided. He looked about. All the children were staring at him, wide eyed and open mouthed. Someone grabbed him from behind and held him tight. It was his father.

  “Magnus!” Bonstaph broke away and looked Magnus over then held his son’s face between his palms. “It’s as if the gods themselves blessed us with their presence, and now you!”

  “Father!” Magnus embraced him. A thousand questions flooded his thoughts, but they could wait.

  “Commander, is your son the Electus?” a child asked.

  “Aye, child. He is!”

  “‘Commander’?” Magnus was most curious.

  “A long story.”

  “We’d best get back into it.”

  ‘Aye.”

  With no immediate threat to the children, Magnus, Bonstaph and Jael climbed the embankment. The Southern Plains were a patchwork of orange flames, dead worgriels, scorched wyverns and fallen warriors. The skies held another battle not dissimilar to Ba’rrat little more than a fortnight past. Fire dragons battled wyverns with the dragons outnumbered three to one. The dragons, though, had the monopoly with size, strength and Ferustirs.

  Brue landed heavily in front of Magnus.

  “I think you’d better come with me, Magnus.”

  “What is it, Brue?”

  “An enemy that will take the both of us to bring down.”

  Magnus leapt onto Brue’s back. He strapped one leg into its stirrup. Jael strapped in the other.

  “The wards I placed will still protect you. Remember—hold tight,” Jael said.

  Magnus nodded in thanks and Brue took flight.

  Half a mile through smoky skies, a large wyvern came into view.

  “Is that it?” Magnus asked Brue.

  “The rider is the problem.”

  The wyvern banked left, then right as if searching for something. On it’s back was a tall figure of a man wearing a black, hooded cloak whose long sides flowed behind the wyvern’s saddle.

  “No! It can’t be.” Magnus stared at the hooded rider.

  The rider pointed an arm to a man on the ground. A familiar, black su
bstance leached from his splayed fingers and engulfed the swordsman. The black matter turned to coils that twisted and contorted about the swordsman’s face and body. He collapsed, choking to death. Strangely, the rider withdrew his arm and doubled over as though in pain. He seemed to be suffering as he watched the swordsman suffer and recovering only once the man was dead.

  “A sorcerer,” Brue said.

  The sorcerer spotted Magnus and sat tall again—apparently forgetting the pain. With long, bony fingers, the sorcerer drew back its hood revealing a pasty white face and sunken grey eyes.

  “Lucas…” Magnus found the sight of him even more confronting than in Ba’rrat. His sunken eyes were ringed in shadows and his face was as thin as his reedy frame. Lucas looked thrice his age.

  “MAGNUS…” Lucas’s voice entered his mind like a sickening dream. Magnus tried to shake the repugnant feeling. Heat began to bathe at the temples and soaked inward, his dragon blood worked hard to fight the malevolence of Lucas’s presence.

  “Do not let him into your head,” Brue warned.

  Brue and the large wyvern circled around each other. Magnus knew things were about to get violent and when it did, he was pretty sure sitting in the saddle of a dragon was not the place to be. Lucas did not take his eyes of Magnus. The wyvern did not take its eyes of Brue. Everything about Lucas came flooding back to mind—

  The wyvern attacking Lucas…

  Kriser the healer drawing poison from Lucas’s body…

  Lucas’s hostility toward Csilla’s soldiers before fleeing the Uydferlands…

  Lucas with Crugion in Delvion’s chamber…

  Then finally—Ganister…

  “You killed your father!” Magnus shouted. “With the sword he made for you—our bond of brotherhood!”

  Magnus drew Lucas’s sword. Its white blade shone bright, reflecting the sun into the wyvern’s yellow, crescent eyes. The black creature reacted. With a snap of leathery wings and a whip of its barbed tail, it catapulted toward Brue. Brue arched back, bracing for the impact. The wyvern slammed into Brue’s underbelly, sending the four of them tumbling about one another in the sky. Magnus struggled with his one-handed grip of the saddle horn. Hurtling toward the ground, Brue wrapped his powerful hind legs around the wyvern and scratched at its face with his front claws. Flailing about, Magnus lost his grip on Lucas’s sword and it flew away from him. He gripped the saddle horn with both hands. A hundred feet from the ground and still falling, Brue released fire from his open jaws, striking the wyvern’s chest with cobalt flames that turned amber on impact. The wyvern, though, was unfazed.