“Go ahead.” Everard gestured with a hand. “When you tire, I can push them back until you catch your breath.”
The Dragon Heir gathered her yanaa again, but this time she did not bother with a flamboyant column of fire. She spread her hands before her and created a man-sized fireball in each. With a whoosh of flame, she created two beams of fire that cut across the field and into the line in front of her. Steadily she drew her hands apart until the flames reached the edge of the line of Lost. Their shrieking cries pierced the air.
She let the rays of fire fade and paused to catch her breath. Her skin already prickled with sweat. She scanned the army for any sign of Klaus weaving his way to the leaders—heads mysteriously falling off bodies, a random path appearing in the crowd—but saw nothing.
Part of her was glad. She knew the clever Shadow Heir would never betray his movements, but she wished she could know that he was well. The din of battle rattled her nerves and overwhelmed her senses. The cacophony of cries, shouts, and grunts from both living and dead, the ringing of steel on steel and clashing of armor, the whinnies, snorts and hoof beats of frantic horses. Deafened and disoriented, Kaia could not perceive any order to the madness, much less determine the tide of the battle.
Everard’s sorrel Dalteek pawed the ground and tossed its expansive rack of antlers “Again, Kaia!” the magi shouted.
Once again, fire flew out of Kaia’s palms like a boiling river, halting the advancing dead in their tracks. Beads of sweat trickled down her temples, and it took her a moment to catch her breath. “How many do you think I’ve torched so far, Everard?”
“Three hundred, perhaps.” The magi’s sharp eyes scanned the battlefield. “You are doing well.”
Despite Everard’s reassurance, Kaia’s heart fluttered. Seventeen hundred seemed like a lot left when the intense exertion had already depleted her yanaa supply significantly.
“Another!” Everard urged.
Mechanically, Kaia repeated the process while trying to watch the right flank. The Dracours had already made short work of the hundred or so would-be human warriors and were pressing in on the ranks of the Lost. Everard had strictly instructed them to keep their formation tight and clear and attack only the middle ranks of dead to avoid being seared by Kaia’s blaze. Even so, she kept a sharp eye on them. Injuring or killing even one of her friends with her fire would be a thousand times worse than losing one of them to the enemy.
She could already see wounded and dead of all kinds: Maldibor, Dracour, beast, and man lay crumpled on the field in the wake of the charge. As she replenished another flame wall, she saw something moving quickly out of the corner of her eye. Her eyes widened as she realized it was Granny Fiola and Mackie leading mules burdened with injured warriors back to the safety of the sick tents.
I thought they would stay in the rear. Odriel protect them, Kaia thought. Biting her lip, she turned her eyes back to the dead. She couldn’t afford to get distracted.
Kaia burned wave after endless wave—the never-ending cry of the Lost echoing in her ears. The howl of the Maldibor, the shouts of man and Dracour, and even the roars of bears and wildcats faded as she gradually became less aware of anything outside her immediate line of sight. Her vision narrowed to the line of Lost directly ahead of her, and her ears attuned only to Everard’s commands. She still held the line well ahead of them, but her arms grew heavier with each barrage. She lost count of her fire blasts at ten, and they began to take longer to conjure. A few more volleys and she fell to her knees, gasping for air. Sweat dripped from her chin and nose and soaked her clothes, while the dusty ground greedily drank up the moisture.
“Everard,” she panted, “How… many… more?”
Both flanks had defeated the human portions of the army and now sandwiched the dead on the right and left, but the friendly ranks seemed much smaller than Kaia remembered. Wounded trickled back to the camp—limping, crawling, or carried by one of Mackie’s mules. Granny Fiola must be busy in her tent.
Everard looked at her, his dark eyes unreadable. “At least a thousand.”
Kaia balked. She had estimated perhaps six hundred and had hoped for less.
“Rest for a moment.” The magus dismounted. “I can relieve you for a time.” He took a step forward and faced the army. Kaia watched him intently, the secretive magi rarely exposed their yanaa to outsiders, much less revealed it in battle. He laced his hands in front of his chest with his index fingers pointing at the sky. His body tensed as if laden with a sudden load and he shook with effort, a vein bulging in his forehead. At first, nothing happened, and Kaia got to her feet, expecting to be called on again to throw back the dead approaching through her dying flames.
But as she looked at her enemies, she noticed a small ball of light hovering in the air just above their heads, as if the sun had been moved out of its place high in the sky and lowered down to the battle. Suddenly, streaks of silent light burst out of the ball to strike the bodies below. Instead of screaming, the dead gurgled as they convulsed under the rays. They folded in on themselves as if a great weight threatened to crush them. Arms, heads, and legs bent towards their torsos as they jerked and gagged in pain. The process progressed with agonizing deliberation, each limb curling individually. Ten minutes, an eternity in the midst of battle, elapsed before the bodies finally collapsed to the ground.
When their spasms finally ceased, they lay on their backs with their limbs curled at odd angles, like spiders that had been swatted in the kitchen. The ball of light had struck almost two complete lines of dead. Kaia’s jaw dropped, and her heart filled with hope. With Everard’s powerful yanaa, they could take care of the remaining dead in no time.
The thought had scarcely crossed her mind when the light faded, and Everard staggered against his Dalteek.
Kaia reached out to steady him.
“I am fine, girl.” He waved her away. “I am simply not made to send the dead back to their graves.” He turned a sharp eye to her. “Have you recovered?”
Kaia’s heart fell. She had expected more stamina from a legendary magus.
But with the dead still coming, she didn’t have the time to humor disappointment. Her joints creaked as she turned away, stiff from the yanaa’s toll. She licked her salty lips and raised her leaden arms in front of her once again, muscles burning. She decimated another two lines before her legs jellied with exhaustion. The fire sapped strength from every muscle in her body. Everything hurt. Her back, her abdomen, neck, legs, and arms all screamed at her to stop. Yet, she saw no end to the relentless onslaught of dead.
“Everard!” she cried over the clamor of the battle. “Didn’t you say there were only two thousand?!”
The magus didn’t look at her. “I estimated.”
She sat on the dusty ground, trying to regain some strength just as a shadow fell over her from behind. She leapt up with wild eyes, startled and ready to fight, but it was only Mackie, looking dusty and tired. Something about his dark chocolate eyes looked different, then Kaia realized what it was—he looked older than he had that morning.
“Sorry!” He bobbed his head. “Granny sent me with this.” He held up a flask. “Figured yours was empty.”
“Thanks, Mack.” She took the drink, and Mackie nodded once more before running off again. She emptied the flask in seconds. The cool, tangy liquid seemed to linger on her tongue, and she imagined she could feel its reinvigorating juices flowing through her veins. The next flame came easier to her palms. Instead of a continuous wave, she pulsed the blasts throughout the line now, willing it to spread from shoulder to shoulder to close the gaps and save her a little yanaa.
As she worked, she stole a quick glance at the wider battle spread wide across the field. Their left flank had spread precariously thin, and she imagined their warriors must be as weary as she was. The Dracours still rode in tight, agile pods, but even so, it didn't seem like they were making much of a dent in the corpse army. There were just too many, and the dead never tired. While their
Okarrian’s strength faded, the Lost only grew more frantic in their attacks, as if they could smell weakness like blood in the water.
After another two waves of flame, Kaia’s exhaustion returned, and she noticed that the frontline of Lost had slowly but steadily shrank the distance between them. The rotting stench of the dead combined with the drain from the flame blitz threatened to overwhelm her with nausea. She bent over with her hands on her knees as she tried to catch her breath. Sweat slicked every inch of her.
“Do you think you could throw another one of those light balls for me, Everard?” She said between heaving breaths—her lungs fit to burst. She didn’t even feel like she had enough energy to lift her head.
“Take heart girl, I can see the army’s rear.”
She jerked herself up to scan the battlefield, and her heart jumped. Behind the last four lines of Lost, she saw warriors in gleaming armor atop horses, perhaps a hundred spread across the field, engaged in fierce battle with their own riders. Everard never mentioned trained soldiers, Kaia thought distantly. Behind that line of cavalry, Kaia saw something that made her heart stop.
“Everard,” she gasped, “Those are giants!”
“No,” Everard shook his head. “Those are the corpses of giants. Conrad’s personal retinue.”
The giants fought with their backs to the steep ravine, cornered by the Dracours’ ruthless flanking actions. Even as the Dracour bombarded them with spears and arrows, the tree-sized monsters looked elsewhere, swinging their arms and stomping their legs wildly, as if trying to squash a biting ant. Only one thing could draw them that way.
“They must be looking for Klaus!” Kaia yelled.
Her panic gave her renewed energy. Even in her fervor, the flames took some time to build, and when she threw them, the frontline of dead were almost within distance for a quick dashing attack. Their army matched the trained warriors well enough, but three hundred Lost still stood between her and Klaus, only a quarter mile away.
“Kaia,” Everard warned, “They are getting too close.”
Exhaustion and growing desperation strained her voice. “I’m trying, Everard!”
She directed another blaze at the howling Lost, but it burned much too weak. It encompassed only fifty at most, and still they stumbled on.
Everard brought his hands to his chest again, and a tiny dot of light appeared above them. Twenty of the nearest dead began to curl, but more marched closer.
“Kaia!” Everard grunted through gritted teeth.
Kaia panted too heavily to answer, but she was already trying to build more fire in her palms. The bulk of their army, less than two hundred souls now, clashed against the tangle of soldiers and giants dispersed across the field. Kaia and Everard were on their own.
The young Dragon Heir discharged another arc of fire into the Lost, then looked across the field to the giants. She thought she could see Klaus blinking in and out of sight, too drained to maintain his invisibility. One of the giants brought a foot crashing down on the edge of the gorge. His great arms windmilled as the dry earth crumbled beneath his feet. In a blink, the edge of the canyon gave way, and the giant crashed down into the river far below. Kaia felt a surge of triumph. Klaus purposely lured the huge creatures to the canyon edge—the shrewd Shadow Heir certainly lived up to his reputation.
Kaia directed another long streak of fire against the advancing line and glimpsed Klaus halfway across the field, drawing four shiny soldiers away from the dangerous limbs of the three remaining giants. She could see him whirling and dodging, blinking out of sight for only seconds at a time, while the trained soldiers pressed their attacks with relentless professionalism. That doesn’t look good. He can only take so many. Then, Kaia saw an odd-looking corpse making for the small circular battle. It’s too fast to be dead, Kaia thought, but it doesn’t look like a man either….
A cold knife of ice pierced Kaia’s heart. Mogens.
By this time, the dead had encircled Kaia and Everard, pressing in ever tighter. She whirled and cast a weak arc of fire to keep them back. Although her own position grew increasingly dire, her eyes stuck to Klaus as he moved slower and slower, desperately parrying the attacking soldiers with a blade broken just a hand’s length from the hilt.
Then, everything in Kaia’s world seemed to still. In her mind, at that moment, the battle stopped—the howling, the clanging, the yelling, Everard’s warning of the encroaching circle—all of it silenced in her mind’s eye. Although Klaus battled half a battlefield away, it seemed to her as if she was not ten feet from him, watching him desperately claw for his life.
The Shadow Heir dove out of the way as the unexpected, oversized foot of one of the giants stomped down. Rolling to his feet, he parried the blade of one of the soldiers while he kicked another that stood behind him. Then he winked out of sight for just a second, reappeared to slash at a third soldier, and grabbed the forearm of the fourth to protect himself from his strike.
Lurking unseen behind him, Mogens rushed, his sword raised. Sensing danger, Klaus released the soldier and whirled to parry the blade whistling down on his head. He flickered ever so slightly in an exhausted attempt to disappear, while the soldier behind grabbed Klaus around the chest, holding him steady. A wicked dagger flashed in Mogens’ off hand as he thrust the blade forward into Klaus’ unprotected gut.
The Shadow Heir crumpled to the ground.
Kaia screamed, a tortured, hideous sound as all sensation left her body. The Lost had closed to within five feet of her, and one of them slashed at her arm, but she did not feel it, nor did she care. The Lost were no longer her concern. Her body filled with an uncontrollable primal heat, a heat that she could not and did not want to control. A cyclone of flame whipped around the Dragon Heir’s body, and her rage grew with exponential speed, as did the pressure of the howling heat within her.
And Kaia exploded.
The whirling flames encasing her body burst from her in a deafening blast that incinerated the ring of dead surrounding her and knocked the living into the dirt. With no ragehound to stop her, Kaia propelled herself on a column of fire at incredible speed across the field.
Tasting the enormous surge of yanaa, the Lost giants stepped forward to cut short her rampage. With a snap of her arm, she dispatched a slashing flame at the creatures. The ground shook as the aberrations collapsed to their knees, their deep voices lamenting their end. Mogens darted towards the canyon’s brink as Kaia, cloaked in flame, sped towards him. In a desperate attempt to escape, he leapt from the canyon wall, his lipless mouth sneering as he fell. Kaia's body flared to engulf the living demon but closed on nothing as he splashed into the roiling river.
Her revenge stymied, Kaia howled, her rage only burning hotter. In a fury, her blazing eyes whipped around, spying her next target—a flashy armored figure flanked by guards and fleeing on an immaculate white horse that Kaia recognized instantly. With a rush of fire, Kaia knocked the rider from his mount. In another beat, her flaming hand burned at Lord Conrad’s throat.
He screamed as the star-hot flame that had incinerated his army of Lost and visions of glory devoured him, as well. His cries echoed across the stunned plain as Ariston, the would-be savior of Okarria, burned alive at the hands of a seventeen-year-old girl.
PART THREE
A LEGEND REMEMBERED
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Burned Out
The Dragon Heir reluctantly woke to the chaotic clamor of the sick tent: groans of pain, calls for bandages, and the soft roar of many trying to keep their voices down all at once. A lantern flickered next to her, casting a small glow around her bed in the dimness. She felt a heavy weight lying on her stomach and, seized with a desperate hope that Klaus’ sleeping head rested on her once again, she craned her neck to look down.
But she found only her shaggy red shepherd looking anxiously back at her. With a choked sob of disappointment, she let her aching head drop back to the pallet.
Her body throbbed as she tried to piece together th
e battle's end. She remembered her rage as one remembers a vivid nightmare; as if she had merely been a spectator of the events that had taken place, and yet the memories filled her with relentless grief. She had lost control. How many of their own had been unintentionally caught in her inferno? Her eyes widened in horror as she recalled the sounds of Conrad's bloodcurdling shrieks as he burned to ash at her hand. Kaia jammed a fist into her mouth to stifle her own cry. Now, I'm truly a monster. The people of Arimoke were right to fear me.
Gus whined and scratched at her with a paw. No. You are my girl. Always my girl.
Kaia closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing. She could not rest before she discovered how many living had been consumed in her blaze.
She strained to sit up, biting down on her lip to choke back a cry of pain. Her muscles cramped with an agony that squeezed her bones, but only her left arm was wrapped in bandages—a memento of the Lost’s final attack. The needles of pain that coursed through her body paid testimony to the fact that the Dragon Rage had taken more from her than she had to give. Gus gave her right hand a sympathetic lick, and Kaia patted him absently as she looked around.
Sheets hung neatly on a line around her corner of the tent, creating a semblance of privacy. She looked to the mat beside her and the resolve holding her tears at bay dissolved. Dimly illuminated by the glow of the lantern, Klaus’ still, pale body lay next to her. Frantically, she shifted Gus’ head from her stomach and crawled on throbbing hands and knees to Klaus’ rigid form. She gazed for only a moment before she jerked her eyes away. Gone.
“Klaus, you idiot! You can’t just tell me to be safe and then get yourself killed. You’re supposed to be smarter than that.” She huddled on her knees, choking on her sobs as they wracked her tender muscles. Her head sank to the floor and her body caved in on itself. Neither her spirit nor her muscles could support her anymore. Her pain morphed into a flood of surging grief. “I’ll hate you for leaving me here alone.”
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