The Complete Duology

by M H Woodscourt

  Two hours trickled away before Gwyn crested Dorshen Heights. Thick fog hung in the air as he peered down into the shadowed city of Bayton. Not a single candle lit the streets; a pall seemed to hover over it, despite the full moon.

  “Behold Bayton,” Gwyn whispered, “the city whose soul has been decimated by an ancient tyrant.”

  The first twenty men of the contingent heaped up earth along the heights under the cover of the fog, while a second group set up a series of miniature catapults Gwyn had commissioned from a sympathetic blacksmith. Crafted for fast disassembly to make transportation from location to location easier, Gwyn had been itching to try them out for weeks now. He only risked bringing three catapults up the cliffs tonight, but three would be more than enough to insight nervousness in the enemy. Volleys of loose rock were impossible to block from such a vantage point if Gwyn could suppress the magery of the Order of Corvus.

  If Nox fails, it’s all we can hope for.

  The fog persisted as the soldiers took shifts to build their dirt battlements. The listless sun rose and burned the fog away at a slithering pace. Noon approached as the last of the shroud vanished under the sun’s rays, revealing the new formation atop Dorshen Heights.

  Gwyn ordered his banner raised. Under the bright sun, whipping and streaming in a breeze, a gold-threaded unicorn galloped and glistened across a white field. A cry swelled up from the Crow King’s army positioned around the walls of Bayton. The city guard dashed along the battlements below.

  Gwyn glanced at the blue sky. No sign of Nox. He padded to Lawen’s side at the nearest catapult. “Give them a warning. Make it clear.”

  “As Your Majesty commands.”

  With a crack, a single craggy stone pitched over the ledge. It soared through the air, pebbles breaking from the mass. Throbbing magic rippled across the air as Corvus mages snared the wind to halt the projectile’s progress. Gwyn seized his chance. Adesta’s magic pulsed on the far side of the dirt fortification, following his lead.

  Every mage borrowed from the Weave, the core of life, to manipulate nature. The Crow King’s mage order had claimed the Weave within a certain radius of Bayton and blocked it from anyone beyond those who had harnessed it. Only those granted access could wield the Weave inside that border—but there was a single way around that rule. Gwyn and Adesta could travel the same path, the one granted by the Order, tracing it to its source, as they might follow a single hole in a funnel traveling backward. There, they could block the Weave at the one access point that the Order must keep open to use their own magic.

  A weak mage, one who housed no magic within himself, who only manipulated beyond his frame, would have no chance. But Gwyn had been using magic within himself, rather than beyond, since he’d first learned to wield magery. While that was just two-and-a-half years ago, a dam of magic had been building inside him since his infancy. Within Gwyn dwelt an access point no mage could bar. All the Order of Corvus could do against him was block nature itself.

  In open warfare, Gwyn’s inner magic made little difference, for his body weakened quickly in combat. He must rely on the surrounding elements to sustain his defenses against multiple on-comers. But this coordinated defense was different. Against Lawen and Adesta, Gwyn had practiced over and over, igniting his defensive magic in a unique offensive strike; stoppering his opponents at their magic’s access point, like a shield used to cut off a man’s limbs. Adesta—strong in magery as well—became adept at following Gwyn’s trail and using his own core magic to fortify Gwyn’s, turning that shield into a battering ram.

  They traveled now across that inner funnel, threads of magic weaving into an attack strong enough to shatter Corvus’s defenses. The battering ram struck and the mage barrier surrounding Bayton tumbled like water bursting from a dam.

  The wind howled and rippled out in all directions, shuddering through the forest near the Crow King’s armies.

  Silence thundered through the sky following the shock wave.

  Let us win the day, Afallon. Let us rescue Bayton.

  A savage roar cut across the heavens and fire blossomed above.

  Shrieks sounded from the army below, from Bayton itself, even from Gwyn’s forces. Gwyn turned his eyes upward with a wide grin, heart soaring.

  Glistening like emeralds and sapphires, wheeling across the wide blue expanse, sailed a dragon. Small, nearly imperceptible upon its back, rode two common, unassuming figures.

  Lawen let out a hearty laugh. “By Afallon, he’s done it! He’s really done it!”

  Not a drop of blood spilled. From Dorshen Heights, Gwyn watched the armies of the Crow King retreat en masse from within and around Bayton. The dragon circled overhead, streaming smoke from its great maw as though to encourage the enemy to move along a little quicker.

  After the initial shock, Gwyn’s band of men had whooped and cheered. Someone shouted, “It’s our dragon. Ours!”

  Even with the winged beast in view, Gwyn refused to loosen his grip on the enemy’s magic. A handful of powerful mages might risk standing against the dragon. Gwyn mustn’t let that happen.

  Evening fell before the retreating forces vanished from view in the south. General Haratin must have been watching, for his troops flooded the city at once, tore the Crow King’s banner from the watchtower, and raised Gwyn’s galloping unicorn.

  ‘Shall we go down?’ asked Aluem, pawing the ground with one hoof. ‘I am eager to greet yon dragon.’

  Gwyn nodded, stomach knotting. Bayton would need food and other supplies he couldn’t provide straight away. He would also need to fortify the city’s defenses while he made ready to use the dragon again to push toward Crowwell, where the Crow King sheltered in his castle for the winter.

  Gwyn must press his newfound advantage, but he lacked the tools to do so.

  He swung up onto Aluem’s back and released his control on the Weave. A weight fell away as his body trembled and his vision wobbled. Motion caught his attention. He glanced left and found Adesta Gilhan approaching. The young man always looked pale, with long fair hair and large blue eyes, but in this moment, he appeared like a wisp of cloud that might fade away to nothing.

  “Difficult to believe we succeeded,” said Adesta in his heavy Fraeli accent. He bowed his head as he reached Gwyn’s side. “The little dreaming fool came through with his dragon. It appears I’ve lost a few wagers.”

  Gwyn smiled. “And I have won a few.”

  Adesta chuckled. “I shall pay you soon. The result is well worth the loss of a little gold.” He wavered on his feet. “Are you heading down?”

  Gwyn nodded. “Do you want a ride?”

  The Fraeli nobleman shook his head. “No, no. I shall find my own way. Unicorns are not for petty soldiers to ride. Go on, Your Majesty. I will be along.”

  “You aren’t a petty soldier, Master Mage. I honor you for your work today.”

  Adesta laughed. “You, sire, would honor a cow for its milk, or a chicken for its eggs, or a bee for its honey.”

  Gwyn frowned. “That I would, Lord Gilhan. Perhaps if we honored such achievements more highly than we do lesser things like gold or sport, we would finally find that ever elusive state called peace.”

  Adesta’s smile faded. “I was in jest only, sire.”

  Gwyn sighed and nodded as he scrubbed a hand over his face. “And I well know it. Forgive me, Adesta. I’m exhausted and out of humor.”

  The Fraeli mage nodded, a smile twitching at his lips again. “I think you can be forgiven a slight defect of character now and then, my royal friend. It is a pleasant reminder that you are merely human, like the rest of us.”

  Gwyn managed a grim smile. “Perhaps royalty is the most human of any line. Except for those descended from crows. And if being un-human requires such a state as his, I welcome my defects—countless though they be.”

  Adesta snorted. “Your greatest shortcoming, my lord, is your self-depreciation. You’re a good man. Someday the entire world will know it and shall laud your name for cent
uries to come.”

  Heat climbed Gwyn’s cheeks. He swallowed down the urge to bolt and shook his head. “Enough of your flattery, you serpent.” He patted Aluem’s neck. “Let’s go, Aluem, before this creature ruins me with his lies.”

  The unicorn trotted off, but Adesta’s laughter rang in Gwyn’s ears, welcome in its sound, but heavy against his shoulders. While the flattery of his friends warmed his heart, his gut wrenched. The Crow King had been of the Ilidreth once; a fae being, fair as sunshine and gentle as moonlight. Something had changed him.

  Gwyn could recite the names of countless kings and queens throughout history whose benevolent reigns became tinged with the blood of warfare and the greed of the power-hungry. Tales of once-noble kings turned tyrant sang out a warning to any who might hearken.

  What stained a man’s character so? Where had he taken his first misstep? What had been his first whispered temptation, or the last before he fell?

  How might Gwyn avoid such a fate, where so many other great souls had not?

  Chapter 4

  Straw and rubbish littered the streets of Bayton. Buildings of commerce stood scorched from fire, slumped open, plundered, and desecrated. A pall of despair hovered over the citizens of the once-thriving port city; hungry eyes peered between curtains in the townhouses Gwyn passed as he rode to Bayton’s square, a handful of mounted men at his back. General Haratin remained at the main gates, awaiting his return. Before Gwyn discussed their next strategy, he’d wanted to take in Bayton’s condition for himself.

  A smell wafted from ahead, growing stronger. The twin odors of death: iron and urine, mingling with smoke. Gwyn braced himself as he reached the square.

  Aluem’s hooves faltered. The unicorn’s ears flicked back, and his nostrils flared. ‘Dark magic, Gwynter.’

  Gwyn sensed it too. The tint of corrupt magic dusted the square, invisible to the common eye, but writhing like myriad ants to a mage’s view. The dissident dead had been drawn and quartered. Four bloody heads jutted on spikes above the charred remains of dismembered limbs upon a pyre. Someone had nailed a slab of wood to a separate spike, its message painted in blood: Beware ye who look on this sight, for this is the fate of all who defy Divine Afallon and His Crow King’s will.

  Insides churning, Gwyn tasted bile on his tongue as he turned away. Tears burned his eyes, but he blinked them back. Lawen trotted to his side upon his dappled mount and rested a hand on Gwyn’s arm.

  “Find out who they were,” whispered Gwyn, when he found his voice. “I would honor their sacrifice.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  Gwyn turned from the square, searching the surrounding buildings. “What now, Lawen? What hope can I give them? I haven’t even the food they require.”

  “We’ll get it,” Lawen murmured. “Your council is striving every day to obtain the promised goods from your backers.”

  Gwyn grunted. His council. His backers. Towwen Brym, Brioc Ffyr, and even Gwyn’s childhood friend, Towwen Stone—or as Lawen called them: “the Towwens’ Brymstone and their friendly Ffyr”—had formed a council, inviting into their circle all who supported Gwyn’s claim to the throne. A claim he had yet to make. The council was twenty strong now and growing by Brioc’s reports. They had settled in Charquae, the single high-profile city in open defiance against the Crow King. There, the council put out the word: The line of Wintervale hasn’t failed. Daily, the council labored to gather backers to support Gwyn’s army. Merchants and tradesmen and even plantation owners had come forth to pledge their goods and service in Gwyn’s name—but most had yet to make good on that pledge. Meanwhile, Gwyn’s army starved. It lacked weapons and decent armor. Horses were scarce.

  Perhaps the dragon might encourage them to come through a little faster.

  A gust of wind snared Gwyn’s gaze. The dragon circled low, long, and lithe, bright even in the dusk.

  Aluem raised his head and bayed a sound. A rumble like thunder descended in answer, and the dragon circled lower. Nox waved from his place where the dragon’s neck joined the rest of his graceful body. Behind him rode Nox’s quiet friend Nathael.

  “Tell them to land outside Bayton’s gates,” Gwyn said. “We’ll meet them there.”

  Aluem bayed again, relaying the message. The dragon changed course, and wind rushed by Gwyn again, hurling his ponytail thumping against his back.

  “Come, my friend,” Gwyn said, stroking Aluem’s neck. “Time to meet the dragon. There’s little else to see here.”

  Perhaps with the dawn, Bayton would stir. Fear had been too faithful a companion for the past year to withdraw in a single day.

  Aluem carried Gwyn from the square and its gruesome display. As they reached its edge and entered the main thoroughfare leading to the gates, a breeze stirred on Gwyn’s left. An arrow whistled as a bowstring whirred. He turned his head toward the sound, magic stirring in his veins. The arrow missed him by half an inch, whispering past his ear. Gwyn’s gaze settled on the man peeking from the broken doorway of a sagging townhouse, a bow clutched in his hands. Wrath and panic burned in the man’s eyes. His cheeks were sunken; his skin appeared gray as ash in the pallid dusk.

  “Down with the Winter Traitor!” the man shouted, voice cracking.

  “Gwyn?” asked Lawen, arrow nocked and aimed at the man.

  “Feed him,” Gwyn said. “Then take him prisoner. Don’t let him harm my men, nor let them harm him. He’s done me no injury.”

  Lawen nodded. “As you wish.” At a signal, two of Gwyn’s entourage dismounted from their horses and seized the man, dragged him from the house, and tied his wrists behind his back. The man made no sound, but as his eyes collided with Gwyn’s, he spat on the ground.

  “Bloody traitor. You’ll burn for treason and heresy!”

  Gwyn turned away. “Feed him well. He’s thin as a reed.”

  “As you wish, sire,” replied a soldier.

  The prisoner scoffed. “I’ll not take food from rebel scum! Better to kill me now. I want none of your so-called benevolence.”

  Gwyn glanced at the prisoner. “You might not take from rebel scum, but what of the fields of Afallon? He grows the crops. Take from Him and give thanks for the sustenance.” He urged Aluem on. The contingent followed. Gwyn’s hands trembled as he gripped Aluem’s mane.

  ‘Are you well, Gwynter? Did the man frighten you?’

  Gwyn shook his head. How could he describe the feelings roiling in his core? Not fear, not anger. Determination, yes. His very soul yearned to overthrow the tyrant who had inflicted so much harm on Simaerin and its people. But could Gwyn succeed? Had he the skill and the fortitude to see this war through? Long gone were the days of his youth when he’d dreamt of leading armies to distinguish himself in combat. Now, there was little choice and little chance, yet the cause mattered far more than past squabbles with the Fraeli or the Ilidreth.

  I must find a way.

  Only by Afallon’s will could he win. Afallon, and those sent by His will to guide Gwyn true.

  The gates loomed closer. Gwyn allowed himself a grim smile. Beyond that barrier stood a mighty fire-breathing chance, thanks to Nox and his friend. It was far more than Gwyn had before. Even the Crow King must acknowledge that much.

  But what might the tyrant send in reply?

  The gates parted as Gwyn approached. He glanced overhead to find his banner flapping in the night breeze, then he crossed under the portcullis and stepped out onto the plains sprawling before Bayton. There, in terrible majesty, stretched Nox’s dread dragon, glistening with green and blue scales as vibrant as the Vaymeer Ocean.

  The heavy-set youth stood before the dragon, waving a hand over his head. “Your Majesty, you see? We came in time! Just as I promised, I tamed a dragon!”

  As Aluem cantered toward the youth, Gwyn found himself laughing. “So you did, Nox. Very well done!”

  Nox beamed so bright, his eyes looked like the stars appearing above. He gestured to his friend as Gwyn flung himself from Aluem’s back. “You recall
Nathael, my friend and accomplice on my mad quest?”

  “But of course.” Gwyn nodded to Nathael as he took Nox’s hand and shook it heartily. “My thanks and congratulations to you both, Nox. You’ve won the day for us, just when we needed such a victory.” He grinned. “Your feat will go down in history, no matter how this war ends, and you shall likely be hailed as the maddest adventurer who ever lived to tame a dragon.”

  Nox laughed, face flushed. “I’m only glad I could help, sire. Truly, it’s a wondrous day for our cause.” He turned toward the dragon. “His name is Parsha of the Azure Isle of Wayfaring Dreams. In short, sire, he’s quite a poetic soul. Not at all fearsome—unless provoked.”

  “Noted.” Gwyn took a step toward the dragon called Parsha and bowed low. “Greetings, Friend Dragon. I thank you warmly for your aid this day.”

  The dragon fixed his white-blue eyes on him, slitted pupils shrinking to narrowest slivers. Parsha inclined his head, and the mane of hair that draped down his long neck shimmered like it held tiny gems, while smoke streamed from his nostrils. His voice poured into Gwyn’s mind like a torrent of rain in a thunderstorm. ‘Greetings, tiny king of the mundane world. You rather resemble your late great-great-great-great-grandfather. A bit taller, though, for something so tiny.’

  Gwyn caught the glint in the dragon’s eye. “My thanks for such lofty praise, mighty one.”

  The dragon bared his fangs in a grin. ‘It is good to know you are not without humor, Wintervale.’ His eyes slid to Aluem. ‘Mighty prince of unicorns, what brings you out in these turbulent times? Does the mundane lad carry promise enough that you would brave such woes as war brings?’

  Aluem tossed his head. ‘Do not worry so for me, Parsha the Poet. This lad is a mage, and not mundane at all.’

  Parsha’s eyes returned to Gwyn. ‘Aye, so it seems.’

  ‘Besides,’ Aluem continued, ‘You are here. What compels you to slither from your dank cave?’