by K. C. Julius
“Actually, I think both Grinner and Whit have a point,” said Fynn. “We would all feel easier with you and Emlyn nearby, and you definitely look in need of rest.”
“I’d take that to be a royal command,” said Whit, folding his arms across his chest. He could see she wanted to protest, but wouldn’t. He lifted the jug of ale and graciously refilled the tankard she had appropriated from him. “Have another draught before you go to bed?”
* * *
Whit woke the next morning with an uneasy feeling. It had something to do with the conversation with Halla last night, but he couldn’t put his finger on what was troubling him.
His concerns weren’t alleviated when, upon descending to the council chamber, he learned that Halla and Emlyn had gone out on patrol. But she returned safely that night to report that she’d seen no sign of Lazdac.
“His ships are all still at harbor off the northern coast of Lorendale, but there was a thick fog offshore. Maybe the Strigori is awaiting news of how the Albrenians fared.” Halla grinned. “I’d love to see his face when he learns how they ran like rabbits.”
After dinner, Whit retired to his solar to practice the latest spells he was learning from the Hud Twyll. He was surprised when Halla showed up outside his door. Her earlier animation was gone, and in the waning light her face looked ashen, with dark rings circling her eyes.
“Have you not slept yet?” he chided her as she slouched past him and dropped onto a low couch by the fire.
“I have, but not for long.” She patted the cushion next to her. “You look much the worse for wear yourself, you know. Come—take a break from your books.”
Whit sank down beside her. He was tired too, he realized. They stared in silence into the flickering flames, lulled by the crackle and pop of the burning logs.
After a while, Halla’s breaths deepened and her head came to rest on his shoulder. Whit felt his own eyes drifting closed. He must have dozed off, and when he awoke, Halla was still beside him in the same position. He kept very still, but she must have sensed his wakefulness.
“It’s hard to believe on such a peaceful night,” she murmured, “that Lazdac is somewhere out there with his monsters.”
“Do you think we can defeat them?” he asked quietly.
“We must.”
Whit wished he could feel as confident as she sounded. There was no guarantee that any of them would survive this coming storm. “Have you thought about where you’ll go… after it’s all over?”
She blew out a long breath. “Not back to Lorendale, that’s for sure. Or to Cardenstowe,” she added, digging him with her elbow.
Whit laughed, half-lifting one hand in self-defense. “I didn’t for a moment think you would.”
Halla sat forward and rested her crossed arms on her knees. “I know Alegre will have a good start in life with the å Livåri—Florian will see to that. But I have no life to go back to in Lorendale. If I live through this war, and Fynn ends up secure on the throne… I’m not sure what I want my new life to be. Being dragonfast changes things. I do know that I’ll go with Baldo and his fighters to Drak Icar to free all their people. And after that… I think I want to travel east. Nicu used to tell me stories about Tarm, a place high up in the Taraian mountains, where he said both the å Livåri and the dragons originally came from.” She gave a little laugh. “He claimed they shared a common ancestor. I wonder what he’d make of me now that I’m dragonfast… and of Alegre and her dragon-kissed eyes.”
She glanced over at Whit, and he thought he caught the glint of tears. “Anyway,” she added, straightening, “if such a place really does exist, I want to find it. Then maybe later, when Alegre is older, I’ll take her to see it too. Her father would like that, I think.”
Whit felt a surprising twinge of regret. “I’ll miss you.”
Halla cocked an eye at him. “I believe you’re serious, Cardenstowe.” She laid her hand over her heart, where Emlyn had pierced it. “But I won’t be gone forever. Don’t forget—I’m bound for life to protect my king.” She laid her head back against his arm. “What about you?”
Whit knew what lay ahead of him, and it filled him with despair: a life without magic.
“I… I killed a man a while back,” he blurted out. “With magic. It will cost me my staff, and maybe my life.”
Halla turned to look at him, her eyes wide. “What happened?”
She listened intently as he told her the details of the Nelvorbothian knights’ ambush. When he finished, she made a dismissive sound.
“You cast that spell to save Fynn’s life! Now that he’s the High King, no one’s going to punish you for that!”
“I’ll be judged by my peers—Master Morgan, Egydd, and Selka—not Fynn.” Whit leaned back and looked up at the star-studded sky. “But if I do somehow manage to keep my freedom, I imagine it’s back to Cardenstowe for me. Fynn’s already said he’s disbanding the Tribus, which I guess is for the best. He wants his advisors to live normal lives—have families and be known to the people. In fact, he’s asked me to be one of them, but under the circumstances…”
He picked at a loose thread on his cloak and tossed it away. “On the other hand, I suspect my return to Cardenstowe would be a disappointment to my people. It’s clear Nidden wants to fill my father’s boots. Everyone knows I never could.”
Halla’s green eyes flashed. “What a load of poppycock! Your father may have been a legendary fighter, but he was a colder fish than ever swam the White Sea. You’re a bloody brilliant virtuos—your magic and brains trump my uncle’s brawn and holier-than-thou nonsense any day!”
Whit’s eyes widened. “Why, cousin, I believe you’ve just paid me a compliment.” Despite his mocking tone, he felt a flush of pleasure.
Halla dropped back against his arm. “I just hope the two of us get a go at Lazdac.”
“You’re not serious. Halla, he’s a—”
“I know what he is. He’s a Strigori. But according to Master Morgan, you’re a match for him. And I’m dragonfast.” As if that settled the matter, she sprang to her feet and stretched her arms over her head. “Dawn can’t be far off. I want to go out again with Emlyn once it’s light.”
Whit rolled his eyes as her stubbornness. He went to the window and threw it open, inhaling deeply. “There’s snow coming.”
As if at his bidding, wet flakes began to fall.
“A neat feat of magic, that,” said Halla. “Now—can you conjure us up something hot to eat?”
* * *
Lord Ennius led the Konigur army through the Havard Gates to much fanfare, then came directly to speak with Fynn and his advisors.
“I can happily report that those Albrenians who made the coast have sailed off to the Continent with their tails between their legs,” the Lord of Valeland declared proudly. “Those that didn’t are now captives, whose ransom will enrich Drinnglennin’s coffers. Most of them threw down their arms readily, claiming they followed Palan de Grathiz out of fear rather than loyalty. Still, Albrenia has violated the terms of alliance between us, and they should be made to pay the heaviest price.”
Whit knew there was logic in Lord Ennius’s thinking, but now space had to be found in the dungeons of Drinnkastel to hold not only the Nelvor’s Albrenian kin and supporters but all those taken as prisoners of war. More mouths to feed, and all around more trouble. If Lazdac were to lay siege to the capital, their resources would be greatly strained.
There was still no sign of the Strigori. The dragonfast went out every day on patrol, and every time they returned with nothing to report, other than that heavy fog still lay along the coast of Lorendale. Whit found this concerning, and with each passing day, the sinking feeling in his stomach grew heavier.
The next morning, he woke in a cold sweat. He’d been dreaming about the black vortex of feathers again, with the same impending sense of doom. He dressed an
d went down to breakfast, only to encounter Halla in the main hall. She was on her way out with the other dragonfast for their daily rounds.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “You’re pale as a shroud.”
Whit’s stomach flipped, and a queer uneasiness washed over him in a sudden wave. “I… I didn’t sleep well, is all.”
But there was clearly something wrong, and he wondered if perhaps he was falling ill. Hoping fresh air might bring him some relief from his disquiet, he excused himself and made his way to the southern ramparts.
Bitter cold air greeted him as he climbed to the tower, from which he could see a feeble sun cresting the horizon off to the east. But the stillness only weighed upon him further—no bird called, no breeze ruffled the standards lining the walls. He tried to shake off his sense of foreboding, but it lingered insistently, the thread of his bad dream still weaving itself through his mind.
A shadow fell over him, and he looked up to see Halla and Emlyn circling overhead. His cousin raised a hand, and he waved back.
Then he shifted his gaze to the Tor. There had been no more snow since the night they’d spent together drowsing by the fire, but a fine, white powder still dusted the landscape on this side of the Argens. On the other side of the river, it looked much the same. Except farther south…
Every fiber of Whit’s body snapped taut as a drum’s skin. “Halla!” he shouted, waving his arms wildly at her. “Halla! I need to go up with you!”
Emlyn swooped down and alit on the north tower. “What is it?” his cousin called.
Whit, familiar now with the required formalities, bowed to the dragoness. “Can you take me up, Emlyn? I need to see something from above.”
“Seriously?” Halla said. “I thought you hated to fly.”
A stream of blue smoke issued from Emlyn’s nostrils. “Come, then,” the dragoness said, dipping her wing.
“What is it, Whit?” Halla asked as he scrambled up behind her. “What are we looking for?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. But his apprehension deepened as they climbed the sky. When the dragon leveled out and slowly wheeled into a long turn, Whit blinked away the water streaming from his eyes and scanned the Tor. From this vantage point, it spread out below them like a vast tabletop, and what he’d seen from the ramparts was even clearer: the terrain farther south on the far side of the Argens looked… wrong. It was featureless, without boulders or tussocks of grass. Just a uniform matte grey.
Whit was seized by a cold dread. “Emlyn! Back to the ramparts, as fast as you can!”
The urgency in his voice must have conveyed itself to the dragon, and she banked and beat her powerful wings harder.
“What is it, Whit?” Halla shouted over her shoulder. “What did you see?”
“It’s what I didn’t see.” He pointed toward the river. “Look at that whole stretch of land to the south.”
Halla shaded her eyes. “There’s nothing there.”
“There is,” Whit replied, his voice tight in his throat, “but it’s hidden in shadow.”
His cousin lifted her gaze. “Without a cloud in the sky?” Then she whipped her head around to face him, her eyes wide with alarm. “You mean a cast shadow?”
As soon as she uttered the words, the grey cloak lying across the land began to ripple, then roll like smoke barreling away from a vast fire.
“Bones and blood!” Halla gasped, and Emlyn gave a tortured roar.
Beneath the receding shadow, a huge army of monsters, thousands strong, stood revealed, their fierce snouts raised as they fixed Emlyn in their sights. And at their fore stood three huge dragons. The grey and redwing were riderless, but a man sat upon the back of the black dragon, who reared and raged against the cruel bit that had been forced into his maw.
Lazdac had arrived.
Chapter 55
“We ride to battle at dawn.”
Looking out over the ramparts at Fynn’s side, Maura felt a shiver run down her spine as the young king made this pronouncement. Her first battle as a dragonfast was still painfully fresh in her mind, and she’d barely slept since. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the burning bodies and smelled the reek of charred flesh. Now she was about to face an army of monsters. The thought made her blood run cold.
Beside her, Borne tugged up his collar against the gusting wind, wincing a bit as he raised his arm. Although he hadn’t yet fully recovered, he was determined to join the fight. “Does anyone know what we’re up against?” he asked, looking out over the Tor.
“More than we’d bargained for,” Master Morgan replied. “Halla said she thought Lazdac would bring a force of five thousand beasts. There are at least twice that number out there.”
Borne nodded. “He might have some Jagar in the mix as well. He used them to invade Olquaria.”
“And what are our numbers?” Whit asked.
Borne’s brow furrowed. “Eight thousand foot soldiers and half as many cavalry. Not knowing for sure what these creatures are capable of, I don’t like the odds.”
Maura felt his troubled gaze rest on her, but her eyes were trained on the huge drakes chained before Lazdac’s force. The dark wizard was nowhere to be seen, but he’d left his captive dragons— Zal, Aed, and Gryffyn—on the plain to roar out his fury. Even though Maura had witnessed the murder and mayhem these three dragons had wrought on the miners of Szendre, their anguished cries were difficult for her to bear. And for llyria, Rhiandra, and Emlyn, it was harder still. They reviled these rogue dragons for their treachery, but they were still their brothers—and now the dragonfast would have to meet them in battle.
Footsteps rang out on the stone stairs, and Grinner hove into view, his narrow chest heaving. “Nothin’ t’ report,” he panted, “’ceptin’ Roth’s mum’s pleadin’ all ’nd sundry t’ save ’er son.”
“Roth’s safe enough with Audric, wherever they are,” the wizard said gruffly, “at least for the time being. And I feel certain we haven’t seen the last of them.”
“What of the elves?” Fynn asked, his brow furrowed with concern.
“Elvinor has vowed to ride with us when the time comes,” Master Morgan replied, “but for now they keep to the woods. They can’t abide close places, especially after their recent incarceration.”
Grinner exchanged a glance with Fynn and muttered, “I ken that.”
Whit stepped back from the parapet and began to pace. “I wish Egydd had come south with us.”
“So do I,” said Master Morgan. “But Elvinor charged him with the care of the young elves.” He lowered his voice. “Should Drinnglennin fall to Lazdac, they’ll take ship over the Vast Sea.”
Maura wondered if the dragons, too, would soon be driven over the uncharted waters to the west.
Fynn clapped Borne on the shoulder. “We should go to the lords of the realms, Commander, and make sure everyone is clear with regard to their orders.”
The two of them set off, trailed by Grinner and Whit, and Maura was left alone with Master Morgan. The wizard stood beside her in silence, the skittish wind tugging at his cloak, then said softly, “It’s common for even the most seasoned knight to feel… troubled before a battle.”
Maura felt her cheeks flush. “Is it so obvious?”
“Not at all. But I’d like to believe after all this time that I know something of your mind, as well as your spirit.”
“I’m not frightened—not when I’m with Ilyria, anyway. But… the killing in the battle against the Albrenians was horrible.”
“I understand. But you know that the creatures you’ll be facing tomorrow, while they do possess some human elements, are an evil conjured up by the darkest magic.”
“I’m trying to remember that.” Maura faced into the rising wind. “When I said I’m not frightened, I mean for myself. But if Borne should fall… or Halla or Whit… or you…” Her voice cau
ght in her throat as the drakes roared again. “And I cannot help but pity the captive dragons. They’re suffering terribly, and Ilyria says they would never have made this binding with Lazdac willingly.”
Morgan nodded. “Yes. Somehow Lazdac rediscovered the spell Rendyl used to force Chaos to bind with him.”
“I fear for the wild dragons, too,” Maura said. “What if he forces them into bindings as well?” She bit her lip as a chilling thought occurred to her. “Is Lazdac one of us now, master—one of the dragonfast?”
“He is not,” Morgan said sternly. “A dragonfast bond is forged upon mutual consent. Ilyria’s talon pierced your heart, but had you refused the trial, that would have been the end of it, and her marking over your heart would have faded in time. The only dragonfast I know of who became so without undergoing a trial was Glói of Delnogoth. But that’s because he was an elf, and of a magical nature.”
“But then—” Maura drew a sharp breath as she was struck by a thought. “That’s it!” She lifted Master Morgan’s hand and kissed it, then raced for the stairs.
“My dear child—wait! Where are you going?”
“I’ll explain later!” she called back. “But you truly are the wisest wizard ever, master!”
* * *
“You can’t be serious!” Borne shifted his gaze between Fynn and Morgan in the flickering candlelight of the Tribus chamber, which had become their counsel room now. “Which of the lords of the realms devised this ridiculous condition?”
Fynn looked as angry as Borne felt. “So much for their oaths of fealty.” He paced the short length of the chamber and back again. It was an hour before sunrise, but here in the windowless chamber, it might as well have been midnight.
“I don’t like it any more than you do, gentlemen,” Morgan said, “but the Nelvorbothians and DuBleres’s men have lodged a formal protest. They refuse to ride into battle with the å Livåri. Apparently there were heated words exchanged between the two factions last night. I’ve tried to reason with both Vetch and Baldo, but to no avail. And the å Livåri have decided it’s suicide to ride against drakdaemons if they can’t count on support from their own side.”
