by N. M. Howell
“You are no concern of hers. And do not test us, for even with your might you shall not prevail, Prince Horace.”
“What?”
“You shall not prevail!”
“Not that. What did you call me?”
“I call you by your name. Prince Horace.”
“But I’m not Horace.”
And like a mighty hurricane, Eduard takes a deep breath and with his hand to his throat blows a hundred men up into the air over the Sightless Sea. A golden sword appears in his hand and with unyielding strength he cuts through that mass of soldiers as if they were saplings. He is still weak from his battle with Horace, but no mere soldiers could ever match him. He twirls the sword over his head and whips the sand all around into a terrible storm. The men are swept up and torn apart. He swings his blade to cut through dozens more. Then he turns his back to the sea and raises his arms; behind him a wave two hundred feet high rises and as he sweeps his arms forward the wave rushes onto the shore and all the way to the tree line. When it runs back out to sea, there is not a single soldier left on the beach. Eduard kneels, exhausted yet happy to finally be free of his brother.
But just as he begins to truly rejoice, five Helkar emerge from the tree line. For a moment they watch him. Then they charge.
Chapter 19
Seventeen long, bloody days pass. Millions upon millions of men, women, and beast rage in battle from the Rock Realms and the Coast of Xalyen in Targaross to Gardenwall and the Tein in Glassenross. Fires rage in every kingdom and realm on the face of the earth, and in every teeming city or quaint village steel meets steel in terrible clashes that ring all through the day and night. Cannons are shot between great floating vessels on the sea, sending thousands plunging to their watery graves. Miles and miles of sand run red with the blood of the innocent and the evil alike. Life, for every creature with breath and dreams, has become a nightmare of anger and vengeance. Army of light. Army of darkness. Two terrible forces seeking each other’s very life. Sword, shield, bow, hatchet, axe, dagger, mor’lumière, soufflumière. Hands. Teeth. These are the tools of this time of the earth. War is now more than the bedtime story for children or the subject of historians: it is the life that all must face. It is the cruel, bright reality of a time when evil has overrun the land.
Laoren’s forces continue to advance and conquer everywhere on the planet. They are strong and full of hate. She commands the most awesome and terrible beasts known to man and she has filled them with her own rage and malice. The army of light is no mean force either and though they take heavy losses, never do they stop. Never do they retreat or die without first giving the enemy such strokes and cuts and destruction that they wish for an end to battle. Both sides will not stop until the other has been erased from the very heart of time. The Famished have proven themselves as terrible as either army. They are cruel, hard men and their invulnerability to magic makes them a force of unimaginable power. They are incredible fighters and notoriously difficult to kill. But their strongest ability lies not in any physical thing they do. It lies in their very souls, for all the Famished want is chaos. A complete and total end to all order and law and structure. They will take gold and women and kingdoms, but it is not what they want. All they truly desire is to watch the world burn and to be the ones left when the dust settles. Such madness is almost impossible to combat, and the Famished unleash unspeakable devastation to both armies.
Such is the state of life when an entire world goes to war.
In the past days I have made my way across Glassenross. Two weeks to reach the Winterlands, where I saw horrors I dare not even think of now; such death and destruction that I lost my stomach more than once. There are whole acres where one has to walk or crawl over bodies. Three days more to High Bay. The last time I was here I let Delara escape. The last time I was here Sister was murdered before my eyes. It has been a long hard journey, for my heart and spirit have hurt for the pain raging across the earth, the incalculable death and ruin. I have only survived by hiding, for I can hardly even stand. My only action of substance has been to bind myself to a wounded Meethrul this very morning. I roped the beast while it slept and I keep it obedient by always having my blade at its throat. But it is hard work. I have had little to drink and even less to eat. I sometimes went days without sleep. I am so very weary.
As we walk out onto the sand I am stunned. To my left there is a large and horrific gash in the earth where so much of the shoreline is simply gone. Just before me it looks as if a terrible flood struck the place not so very long ago. Ahead of me is the entirety of Laoren’s fleet; in her arrogance she has left it unguarded, though I cannot imagine anyone other than myself who would dare to take from her. A small exploration vessel is pulled on the sand ahead. I leave the tree line and begin shuffling for the boat, pushing the creature along in front of me.
I sense movement to the right of me. I turn, startled, afraid. It is one of Laoren’s soldiers. His eyes are open, but I see now that he is dead. By the look of him someone with great magic dispatched him. I turn from his eyes, for I cannot even look at the dead of the enemy. The soldier’s eyes seemed to be staring right at me. Such is often the horrific pose of the dying. I reach the vessel and try to push it. I command the Meethrul to help me. With one hand I hold the blade to its back and with the other I push. When we finally get it in the water I am near fainting. The Meethrul steps into the boat. I strike it in the head and it falls unconscious across the boat. The effort is too much. I collapse.
When I wake sometime later, I find myself draped half in, half out of the boat. It has begun taking water. With considerable effort I pull myself inside. I am so weak and thirsty that it takes all of my strength not to drink the water from the floor of the boat. The Meethrul is still insensate. It is night. I turn to look behind me and I can still see High Bay. Thankfully we have not drifted off course. I sit up on the bench and settle in. I have a long night ahead.
All night and into the next morning I steer the vessel and the Meethrul sleeps. As afternoon arrives, I kick the beast. It wakes with a start and snarls at me. It is moments from attacking when I raise the blade; it shivers in my hand. I am almost ready to faint again. The blade has never been so heavy in my hand. But I manage to convince the beast. I command it to turn. I mount its back and look up to the sky above us. They say it is always cloudy over this part of the Sightless Sea. I can only hope it hides what I seek. I give the beast a kick and we soar upwards. Higher and higher we go, me hanging on for dear life and the wounded beast breathing in great gasps. We breach the clouds.
It was a terrible battle Eduard waged against the five Helkar. As Laoren’s preferred killers they had a special hate for him. And they tried with all their might and evil to lay him low that day. All manner of beasts and creatures they became: things that fly, things that slink, things that creep and crawl on the earth. Black stars nearly blotted out the sky, so terrible was their wrath. But weak and fragile as he was he managed to overcome them.
But he was so exhausted after the battle that he collapsed in the sand. For several days he lay unconscious. When he woke he dragged himself over to an old log and placed his back against it. He used his magic to carve a canal in the earth leading to a nearby stream. He had no food, but the clear water of the stream kept him alive. He lay there for days. He knew not when or if he would be strong enough to move, so with his last remaining strength he cast a spell disguising himself as one of Laoren’s soldiers. He slept.
Then he heard footsteps at the tree line. He had not even the strength to turn his head, but the person soon came within his vision. It was Nevena. She was leading a Meethrul. He tried to speak, but all he could do was open his mouth. She turned. She looked right at him. And as he stared back at her—near fainting, mostly incoherent, dying of starvation, and too weak to shut his mouth or move his eyes—she took his stillness for death and moved on.
All I can see is white. Beautiful, luminous white all around.
I am very near to fain
ting again. My grip is slipping on the Meethrul and the beast itself is growing weak. We still fly up, but slower now. I close my eyes and try to focus, to concentrate on the blade in one hand and the beast’s shoulder in the other. I cannot even imagine how high we are now, but as I open my eyes all I see is clouds, thick and close like a white film on my eyes. Now I begin to fear, for the beast is growing weaker and weaker. We shall fall soon. Did I sail out far enough? Did I stray from the course? In his dying moments was Dameron too near his own doom to tell me truth?
I cannot fight it. I drop the blade, for I am so weary. Now I cling to the Meethrul with both hands, but with the blade fallen the creature knows it is not beholden to me. With a mighty shake of its shoulders it flings me off. I fall backwards through the sky, the clouds soft and moist against my face. Above me the Meethrul turns and dives for me. I open my arms, for after all my trouble it will be such joy to rest. I do not allow myself to think of all those I am failing.
This is not the worst of deaths. This burial in the beautiful whisper-thin clouds is not so terrible. For a servant girl, dying in the sky is an end to be proud of.
But as I stare up, something cuts across the sky and swallows the Meethrul whole. Something else catches me in its feet and carries me up so swiftly it is hard to breathe. The thing carrying me is a dragon. Beautiful, colossal, and muscles like a thing carved of marble. It seems made of every color imaginable, brilliant and stunning like a living sun. The clouds rush around me and then they clear.
We have emerged into a floating world of vines so thick and so green I hardly believe they are real. Here and there the vines are knotted to form nests where dragons sleep, and bowls where water gathers. There are great stones among the vines and massive, ancient trees whose roots must be fifty feet long, dangling in the air as the trees themselves drift among the vines. Waterfalls cascade from the gargantuan stones, crashing and spraying like an ethereal laughter. Wherever sunlight touches stone, a thousand colors gleam. I reach out to brush the vines and they are lush and warm. The whole beautiful world is floating, revolving, and hundreds of dragons soar around me. This is my vision. The Lost Paradise.
My bearer sets me down in a trap of vines. The great creature stares down at me. I do not know if I should speak or wait to be addressed. I do not know if it can even understand my tongue.
“I am honored to be your rescue, Winter Queen,” it says. “My name is Roasha. Welcome to Paradise.”
“I thank you, Roasha,” I say, too weak to stand. “But I am no Queen.”
“Then who are you?”
“I am the princess, daughter of Corinnalwyn, the current Queen.”
“Then you are still royalty. Food and drink are being procured now, but we have something for you first.”
“We?”
As I say the word, another gorgeous dragon flies in from behind me. It is carrying a great stone slab.
“I am Kalsha, husband of Roasha. Welcome.”
I thank him, but my eyes are on the stone in his hand.
“It is precisely what you imagine it to be, princess,” says Roasha.
I am still speechless. Kalsha brings the tablet to me and softly deposits it in my lap.
“When we heard of the war we took it from the place where it has rested for so many centuries,” Roasha continues. “It has been cleaned for you and Kalsha can read the tongue, though I know the first word: Salvation. I wish there were time for a proper introduction to our people and this city, but the world is tearing itself apart and your people need this. You need it most of all. You seem less than yourself, princess. Touch your birthright.”
I do as I am told. It is instantaneous: the cold power floods my veins and dances through my body like a light stretching over the earth. My wounds heal, my mind clears, my body fills out again. The rage and darkness leave, and I want for life and love. I am not hungry. I am not tired. I am not weak. I am filled with the might of legend and force and winter.
My magic has returned.
Chapter 20
The world is rushing by me. Roasha’s great wings beat the wind and sky as she dives for the earth. I clutch her neck, a new blade against my leg and something burning in my chest. Hope. A full day and night I rested and grew strong in the Lost Paradise and now Roasha and I cut through the sky like some shaft of muscle and color from heaven itself. We are swift and strong and brave, and I fear for the army of dark, for they know not what comes for them. Behind us is Kalsha and seven hundred other dragons, fiercest and most beautiful of all the creatures that live upon the earth. Heaven help the fool that stands against us.
I can sense Laoren now. Her power. Her black spirit. I will obliterate her.
“Have you ever watched the Amber?” Legion asks.
As the words leave his mouth he cleaves the head from one of the twelve men kneeling before him. He smiles, obviously pleased by the reaction of fear from the others.
“The Amber is the fire of my people. It burns gold instead of red. Ours is the fire of anarchy, for that is what we bring you: freedom from the fetters of law and morality. I bring you chaos, unbiased and the logical expression of our nature. You live in a world of walls and limits and men with shiny scepters telling you “No” or “Not without my permission.” You worship a being in the sky who will not even save you from my blade. You live and die by the weight of your purse and I offer you the freedom to choose. I took from you a king who lied, cheated, and brought mercenaries into this very castle. Then I killed the mercenaries. I even sent my men through the uncharted lands hunting these so-called ghost mercenaries. We killed them and their families. They’ve been totally eradicated. Don’t you want to thank me?”
The remaining men are too afraid to speak. Legion does not like this. He takes two more heads.
“I suppose you can’t be happy to know that I intend to erase everything. Who could be expected to smile when they hear a strange man wants to pull down all they know and love. My friends, the way to your salvation runs through the Amber. It is a strange fire to be sure. Hotter and wilder than any furnace or fire you’ve known before. Notoriously difficult to extinguish or control. Can you imagine? The secret lies in how we kindle the flame, but of course I can’t tell you that. Enough of this talk. I ask one thing of you now. As you kneel here, kiss my boots and pronounce me your god.”
The men stare at Legion for a moment, then they stare at each other. He begins to walk a line in front of them and without hesitation they kiss his boots and pronounce him their god. When the last one finishes, Legion smiles down at them. Then he draws his blade and begins to kill them each in turn. As he reaches the last one, the man falls against the ground begging for mercy.
“Compassion, sir!” he cries. “Compassion for pity’s sake! We did as you asked!”
“No, you did not,” Legions says. “I said I brought you chaos, anarchy, and freedom. But at the first threat of the blade you ran back to the safety of submission and worship. You kissed my boots. You called me god. You do not want freedom and so I cannot offer it.”
And with that he plunges his blade down. The man goes still. Legion turns to the girl cowering on the floor in the corner. He walks over to her and cleans the blood from his sword on her skirt.
“Having fun yet?” he asks.
“You are a monster. There is no hell I could wish upon you that would suffice for your crimes.”
“Now, Ciraa, that’s a poor way to speak to your betrothed. And there are no such things as ‘crimes.’ There is only the world.”
“I shall never marry you.”
Legion strikes Ciraa so violently that her head rebounds from the wall. Somehow she manages to smile.
“You may do that as often as you like,” she says. “My family will come for me and when she gets here you will forget that you ever lusted for disorder. All your thoughts will be of the salvation that no one on the face of the earth will be able to give you. She will end you.”
“Your Winter Queen fell from the sky and drowne
d, Ciraa. You’ll never see her again.”
“My name is Jasslwyn and nothing in the cosmos can kill my cousin.”
Legion leaves Ciraa to her corner, smiling as he walks out to the parapet. The city of Golrend spreads out around him, consumed by the gold fire of the Amber. Even now the screams of people trapped in their homes can be heard rising over the city and the bodies of the soldiers are strewn about the streets like garbage. The Famished arrived that very morning and swept through the city and its defenses like a flood. So few of the red-haired people who resided in the city are left. Most are dead, and those who managed to flee are being hunted by the Famished like dirty game. The city fell so easily, as if it were not the main hub of Yunger’s army, as if it never stood a chance. The Famished still walk the streets in some places, throwing the gold and jewels and land deeds into the fire. All they want is to watch the world burn.
Legion watches it all. In her corner, Ciraa cries quietly.
Eduard has not moved from his log. By this time he has fallen unconscious and has begun to swim in the trap of his dying thoughts. It will not be long now.
The death of a person possessed of magic is different from the death of regular people. The magical mind does not die easily and even unto the closing of the light will collapse in on itself in a desperate attempt for salvation. Eduard’s mind is drifting back through the four hundred years he has walked the earth: the places he has called home, the friends he has lost, the times he has loved and hated and felt nothing at all. One day in particular stands out. The day he first faced Horace in Targaross. The day he first saw Laoren.
“I am in pain and I need help,” said Eduard.
