by T P Sheehan
With war ever present south of the Nuyan River, together with dwindling resources, mealtimes had become a communal affair. Rather than gatherings around large bonfires with music and merriment, they were limited to small fires reserved for cooking. Once cooking was done, quiet discussions would ensue around the dwindling embers. Spells gave the embers an occasional nudge to keep them glowing and the Nuyan folk warm. Everything about life in Nuyan had dwindled down to nothing more than was necessary. Catanya’s people were surviving—nothing more.
In the evening, Catanya found Austagia seated cross-legged beside one of the fires. There were other townsfolk around the fire, but they were leaving one by one to retire for the night or join Xavier for the war council meeting. Catanya watched Austagia from behind as he stared into the flames as though lost in thought. Catanya wondered if he was thinking of her, or perhaps her mother. Is he still in love with her? Did he wish things could have been different? Catanya approached and sat beside him. “Good evening.”
“Good evening,” Austagia replied.
The fire gave Catanya an excuse to avoid awkward eye contact. Austagia, who had been feeling the warmth of the fire with long, outstretched hands, drew them in and held them in his lap. Catanya did the same.
“Catanya. I need to apologise.” Austagia paused, perhaps to gather words or find a way through the uncomfortableness. Catanya waited. “I wanted you to hear it first from your father… from Xavier, I mean or,” Austagia was quick to add, “or your mother.” He sighed softly. “I am sorry. Things have been so difficult for you.”
Catanya wanted to tell him off, or tell him it was okay. Anything would have done, but she did not know what to say. Tears began to brim her eyes, which was ridiculous, because her thoughts were conflicted and she was unsure how to feel about them. She sniffed them back then winced at the sobbing sound it made. She quietly cursed to herself. There was no right thing to say. She closed her eyes and squeezed them—the salty sting of tears felt deserved. When she opened them again, she was surprised to see Austagia extending a hand to her. She drew a breath and softly rested her hand in his. They watched the fire together in silence and Catanya yearned to sit just a little closer and lean her head against his shoulder.
Two of Xavier’s knights stood either side of the large canvas marquee. They stepped aside, pulling the two flaps back, letting Catanya and Austagia walk through the entrance. Over a hundred men and women stood and listened as Xavier spoke. His commands were both precise and finite. Catanya felt sorry for him. For all the months of battle, each day for Xavier would have been the same with war meetings at dawn and dusk. Battle plans forged, resources allocated, defences reinforced and, most importantly, the collective morale sustained. As Knight Commander, Xavier was responsible for all of this. It made Catanya all the more frustrated that the Irucantî had not intervened.
Austagia told Catanya he had sent word via an Ahrona swallow to Simeon. He gave instructions that they should find their way to Nuyan via Froughton Forest as they had done, with ten dragons and their riders. “It will be discrete and destructive.” Austagia had whispered to Catanya before they entered the marquee. “They can retreat to the Romghold afterward before Delvion can form an ambush from the Caves of Cuvee.”
“Stelvak, your men need to keep the catapults at the Nuyan River bifurcation facing east and southeast,” Xavier shouted. “It’s up to you to stop the bastards crossing.”
Catanya smiled. At least time had not waned Xavier’s manner.
“Pallo, for the love of all the gods… two sets of volleys in tight formation, progress through to three after the counter offence.”
“What if the wyverns—” Pallo started.
“If the wyverns approach from overhead,” Xavier sighed, “by all means, unleash everything in their direction. Remember though, all airborne arrows are to be tar dipped and ignited. The black mongrels seem to have an aversion to them. Can’t possibly see why…”
The gathered warriors laughed at Xavier’s dry humour. It was then that Xavier spotted Catanya and Austagia at the back of the marquee. Xavier crossed his muscular arms over his chest. His jaw muscles flexed. “Daughter… Brother… Have you anything to offer the war meeting?”
Catanya looked at Austagia. “Go ahead,” he whispered.
“I do,” Catanya announced to the room. Xavier raised eyebrows and the room divided, making a path for Catanya to the raised platform where Xavier stood. She stood beside him. “Thank you.”
Xavier bowed respectfully, but without condescension, which Catanya appreciated. He stepped back and Catanya turned to address the gathering.
“After months of fighting, you’ve likely gathered that the Quag are not here to completely annihilate us.”
“What are they here for, priest?” A voice called out.
“They are here as ‘bait’.”
“What?” the crowd repeated, confusion written on every face.
“Delvion made this attack, with the support and alliance of the Authoritarium, to lure the Irucantî and our dragons from the Romgnian Mountains.”
“Well, that didn’t work, did it?” a bearded man yelled out.
“It was supposed to be a trap. Delvion has a far greater army hidden within the Caves of Cuvee. They were to attack us when we were most vulnerable—defending the Fire Realm. The Irucantî learned of this plan and so devised a different approach.”
“What approach?”
“We have destroyed Ba’rrat and freed its prisoners, hundreds of whom are our people.” Catanya knew she spoke half-truths, but it served a purpose. She was hardly keen to say the Irucantî followed the order of the High Priests who sought to kill the Electus and that Ba’rrat’s destruction was a convenient coincidence.
The room was filled with surprised faces, including Xavier’s. Voices rose in volume as the warriors spoke among themselves.
“What you hear next should not leave this company,” Austagia called in a commanding voice. The room fell to immediate silence. All eyes turned back to Catanya.
“There will be a clandestine attack on the Quag, here, within twenty four hours. But we will need your full support.”
“What kind of attack?” the bearded man asked.
“Take a look at her,” Xavier shouted back. “She’s a Ferustir, by gods. What kind of attack do you think?” Xavier winked at Catanya. Excitement rose in the room. “Silence, please,” Xavier continued. “Let my daughter finish. This is clearly important.”
Catanya looked at Austagia at the back of the room, standing tall over all but a few of the warriors present. He looked pleased that his brother had set aside his animosity. Catanya continued—“When the attack comes, we need all warriors ready to support us. Hold nothing in reserve. This attack is about complete annihilation. No stone unturned, no Quagmen or wyvern left to flee home and tell tale of it. When all is done, all that shall remain is ash, dust and silence. By the time Delvion learns of the attack, it will be over.”
Cheers rose in the marquee. Xavier hushed them to silence.
“It’s been a long time coming,” said the bearded man. “But when you Irucantî go to war, you don’t muck about, do you?”
‘They’re of the Fire Realm. We expect no less,” Xavier said.
“One more question, if I may.” It was a clean-cut elderly man with a quiet voice.
“Of course,” Catanya said.
“There are rumours the Fire Realm Electus has been chosen. Are they true?”
Catanya stared at the man for a long moment. She felt a buzz of excitement in her chest and recalled her repeated dream of Magnus riding Balgur through the setting sun.
“It is true, yes.”
The marquee was elevated with chatter. Questions fired at Catanya from everywhere.
“Who is it?”
“Is it a priest?”
“Will they show themselves?”
“When will we meet the Electus?”
Xavier raised a hand, bringing the room to silence
once again. Catanya knew for certain that when the dragons and riders arrived at the battlefield, Magnus would be among them. He would not be riding with Balgur as she had dreamed, but would most certainly be riding with Brue. She spoke once again to the war council—“You will meet our Electus on the battlefield tomorrow.”
JAEL’S TALE
It had been a long day on the Southern Plains. The green sheets of grass were charred black with burnt grass, stained red with blood, and for many, plagued with haunting memories of a much larger battle waged east of here twenty one years ago.
The fight was over by mid-afternoon. Bonstaph had seen to the capture of two Quagmen and Magnus watched on as he interrogated them. Once he learned all he could, Bonstaph set them free and presented his findings to a collective of Ferustirs, the Perimetral guard as well as Magnus and Eamon.
“The Quag knew of our migration from Brindle but only after leaving Thwax. Delvion also knew that I was involved. It would appear this strike was, to some extent, aimed at me as revenge for killing Delvion’s sons. I believe it was also a test, if you will, to see if the Romghold would react to a threat closer to home, after not reacting to the six month ordeal in the Uydferlands.” The bitterness in Bonstaph’s words was obvious, though Magnus sensed he was trying to move past his old resentments. “A much larger army spawns within the Caves of Cuvee. With Ba’rrat fallen, the Authoritarium’s rule ended and Crugion dead, Delvion may be somewhat disorientated. He waits for reinforcements from beyond the Neverseas. This is when the real war will begin.”
With Austagia absent, Simeon spoke for the Irucantî—“We believe it is time,” he surmised. “The alleged ‘trap’ that is the war in the Fire Realm shall draw its catch tomorrow.”
“With Delvion at an impasse, it would indeed be wise to end it now,” Bonstaph said.
It was decided. At dawn, the refugees would leave for their homes as planned. Those returning to the Fire Realm would hopefully meet with a war at its end, for most of the fire dragons and Ferustirs in attendance would fly for the Uydferlands to achieve that end.
As darkness fell, the refugees settled once again around the warmth of fires along the southern bank of the Plains Lake. They were fifty-nine less than they were the night before. The Perimetral guard would keep watch all night, only this time supported by thirteen fire dragons whose collective fiery eyes overlooked the Corville Mountains from the ground. Three more patrolled the skies.
Magnus warmed his hands at one of the fires. A young girl, three years old, sat on his knee. Her long, curly blonde hair traced down to the waist of her tattered lavender dress. Her gypsy parents were taken prisoner four years before and used for labour in Ba’rrat. The young girl was born soon after they arrived and had never known the warmth of a fire, a glistening lake or laughter. The girl’s mother survived, but her father had died here on the Southern Plains, protecting his family. A funeral for those who died was taking place, but the mother did not want her daughter present. Magnus had taken care of the girl in the afternoon and she had refused to leave his side.
The little girl stretched her arms toward the fire, trying to reach as far as Magnus could. He took a hold of her little arms and pretended to stretch them without success. “You will have to wait until you grow and then you can reach for the stars!” The girl giggled and reached up to the stars above. “That’s it.”
Magnus looked to the stars then returned his gaze to the warm fire. He thought of Catanya and hoped she had found Hannah and was enjoying her company. It was then that he saw Jael standing on the far side of the fire. She was looking through it, studying Magnus. She smiled and walked over to him.
“May I?” Jael gestured to the log Magnus sat on.
“Please.” Magnus shifted slightly to make more room. Jael sat beside him.
The little girl looked wide-eyed at Jael as if waiting for her acknowledgment.
“Hello,” Jael said. The girl smiled then buried her face in Magnus’s side. “It suits you,” Jael added. Magnus looked at her, unsure of what she meant. Jael nodded at the girl. “You’ll have a family of your own someday.”
‘Oh.” Magnus smiled, realising what Jael was saying.
“I have something I think belongs to you.” Jael lifted a sword and handed it to Magnus. It was Lucas’s sword. “I found it on the plains. Did you drop it?”
Magnus took the sword, remembering Lucas standing on the plains. “He was holding it,” Magnus whispered to himself.
“The sorcerer?”
Magnus looked at Jael. Her fine, dark eyes sparkled the fire’s reflection and Magnus thought of Lucas, walking through the flames. Jael blinked and looked at Magnus who looked away, aware he had been staring.
“I want to thank you,” Magnus said, changing the subject.
“For what?”
“For today. For helping me with Brue, telling me what to do when we rode him, protecting me with spells.”
“It’s something you never forget.” Magnus looked at her again. “Your first ride on a dragon.” Jael’s eyes seemed to sharpen at the thought.
“I can’t imagine I’ll ever forget. Tell me about your first time riding a dragon.” Magnus was curious about Jael, but his question unsettled her. Her eyes hardened into a frown. She crossed her arms and stood.
“Are you okay, Jael?”
Jael sucked her lips inwards and turned away, took a few steps and stopped. “Some other time, Magnus.”
Magnus opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted. It was the little girls mother.
“I’ll take her, Magnus. Thank you.” She gently picked up her daughter who was drifting off to sleep.
Magnus smiled, feeling a deep pang of sympathy for their loss. “If you need me to take care of her later, let me know.”
The mother smiled weakly. Deep sorrow was carved across her tired, gypsy face. She walked off to her camping spot a little distance away—the first lonely night of sleep without her husband. Magnus knew it was not for him to do any more and so turned back toward Jael, but she had moved on.
As the night progressed, Magnus talked more with his father and learned of Sarah’s fate in the Caves of Cuvee. Magnus recalled Lucas saying—‘She is dead. I killed her in the caves.’ With agonising sorrow, he tried to fathom what Lucas had done.
Magnus needed to know if his father knew about his mother. Does he know she is a grandchild of the Ice Realm Electus? He kept the question in his mouth, knowing the time would come.
Midnight approached. One of the refugees kindly donated Magnus a blanket that he wrapped himself in. He laid down, staring into the fire once again. An hour or so passed and Magnus heard approaching footsteps.
“Magnus.”
“Walt!” Magnus sat up on his elbows. He could hardly believe his eyes. “I can’t believe it!”
“It’s so good to see you again,” Walt said.
Magnus recalled them saying their farewells back in Ba’rrat when they were both being sold into slavery. At the time it seemed Walt was destined for a life beyond the shores of Allumbreve. “You never left Ba’rrat?”
“Nay. Just as well.” Walt seemed a little agitated.
Magnus got to his feet. “Everything ok?”
“I think so. Your father asked me to fetch you. Can you come?”
“Of course.”
Magnus followed Walt a short way along the river’s edge past dozens of sleeping bodies, then up the embankment again to where the wounded were being treated. His father was there, holding the hand of a woman on a crudely made stretcher. Magnus stepped closer. He recognised the woman. It was Sarah.
“Magnus,” Bonstaph spoke softly. “One of the priests found her stumbling across the plains.”
“She just appeared out of nowhere.” It was Gianna, standing nearby with a dragon right behind her. “We combed the Southern Plains twice over and were returning when she appeared out of nowhere, less than a mile from the Plains Lake.”
Magnus went to Sarah, kneeling beside her. He was
taken aback by her condition—she looked an inch from death. “What happened to her?”
“She’s been through a living nightmare, I’d say,” Bonstaph said. Magnus could see relief in his father’s eyes. He felt the same way. They were both present when Lucas said he had killed his mother. Had she survived his attempt on her life?
“She’ll recover. She just needs rest.” It was Walt. He was grinding powder in a stone mortar—just as he did when he treated Lucas long ago.
“Has she been beaten? Poisoned?” Magnus studies his father’s face.
“Walt thinks otherwise,” Bonstaph said.
“I believe this is self-inflicted.” Walt poured liquid from a small clear bottle into his mortar and continued stirring. “I’m no sorcerer, but I’d say she’s suffering the after effects of some powerful magic. She’s not altogether there, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Walt.” Magnus was confused.
Walt sampled his mortar mixture with a spoon and licked his lips, then added more fluid. “The spell cloaked her somehow. It’s wearing off, but look—she has no shadow.”
Magnus, Bonstaph and even Gianna looked closer as Walt removed a torch from its picket and held it over Sarah. Sure enough, her body cast no shadow.
“It will return as the spell fades. This mixture should help with that.” Walt looked at Gianna. “That’s why you didn’t see her crossing the Southern Plains until she was a mile from the lake. I’m guessing she was invisible before then.”
“That’s powerful magic,” Gianna said.
“Aye. But as the magic fades, her strength should return.”
Bonstaph took the mortar from Walt and spooned some of the mixture, pouring it over Sarah’s parted lips. To Magnus, she looked like a corpse, for her skin was grey and her hair even greyer.
“What was she trying to do?” Magnus whispered to himself.
“She was trying to find her son,” Bonstaph answered.
