by K. C. Julius
“This is nonsense,” declared Fynn. “The å Livåri fought bravely at Cardenstowe alongside Whit’s vassals.”
“And helped defeat Vetch’s army.” Borne folded his arms in disgust. “I suspect that bastard’s nursing a grudge that could cost us the realm. The man isn’t to be trusted!”
“We need Vetch,” replied Morgan. “Without Nelvorboth and Tyrrencaster, our numbers would be halved.”
“So what do we do?” asked Fynn.
Morgan sighed. “The only thing we can do. Go into battle without the å Livåri. They can man the ramparts here in the city.”
Borne was on his feet before he knew it. “Which is tantamount to saying none of us trust them. I trained these men—by the gods, I fought with them—and they’re among the best soldiers I’ve known.”
“If we leave the å Livåri out of the fight for Drinnkastel,” Fynn added, “the vow I made to ensure that the Isle will always be their home is just so many empty words. They’ll still be… other.”
A knock on the door interrupted them, and Morgan went to answer it. He returned with a silver salver and handed the message it bore to Borne. “It’s addressed to you, ser.”
“There must be some other way to resolve this,” Fynn said, while Borne scanned the message. “I won’t go along with Vetch’s demands.”
Borne crumpled the paper in his hand. “You won’t have to. The å Livåri rode out the south gate in the night. And Halla’s gone with them.”
* * *
As soon as she learned the å Livåri had left Drinnkastel, Halla set off after them. Even flying at dragon speed and with Emlyn’s keen powers of sight, it took several hours to locate her former comrades-at-arms. And when she found them, Baldo was not of a mind to listen to her arguments for returning at once to Drinnkastel. He refused to so much as call a halt to discuss the matter, so Halla was forced to borrow a horse to ride alongside him.
“Why, by Bateh’s beard,” Baldo demanded hotly, “should we risk our lives for people who revile us?”
“I don’t revile you,” Halla insisted, “nor does Fynn Konigur. Have you forgotten about him? The å Livåri finally have a High King again who champions their cause, and you’re deserting him in his hour of need! As for the Nelvorbothians and Tyrrencasters, it takes time for obdurate dogs to let go of old bones. I seem to recall that none of you wanted me in your company at first.”
“That was different.”
Halla gave a bitter laugh. “Why? You think being a woman in a man’s world is any less an obstacle to surmount than the prejudice the å Livåri have to endure?”
Baldo stared at her with disbelief. “You have options,” he said, through clenched teeth.
“You mean I can put on a pretty gown, make a good marriage, and then spend my nights yielding to my lord’s pleasure, bearing his children without cease, and whiling away the daylight hours embroidering in the company of ladies?”
He jangled his reins to urge his horse to a trot.
Halla kicked her mount to keep stride with his. “You have options too, Baldo. But the one you’ve chosen will earn you and those you lead the enduring scorn your people have fought for years to vanquish.”
Baldo kept his voice low, but it was cold with fury. “Don’t presume to know what we’ve endured, Lady Halla. Scorn? Is that what you call the near-annihilation of our folk? For centuries the å Livåri have been the scapegoats for every ill known to man. We’ve been hunted down and murdered in every terrible, conceivable way you can imagine, and a few you likely can’t. Drawn and quartered, burned, drowned, hanged, impaled—the only reason none of us have been beheaded is we’re not considered worth the cost of hiring a headsman! While our women and children have been sold into slavery on the Continent, then shipped to meet their deaths in the Lost Lands, no one on the Isle has so much as blinked an eye. Why hasn’t your King Fynn sent a fleet to rescue our people there?”
Halla swallowed hard at the memory of Bria’s torn body, but she was determined not to give up. “Once we defeat Lazdac, then we will go to Drak Icar. You know as well as I do we don’t have enough fighters to defend the Isle and go on a rescue mission at the same time.”
“And so the expedient choice was made.”
Halla grabbed hold of his horse’s bridle. “Damn your eyes, Baldo, we need you! Drinnglennin needs you. And joining the knights of the realm in this battle of all battles against our enemy is likely the best chance the å Livåri will ever get to prove their true worth to the world!”
Baldo made a rude noise. “We’re done trying to prove ourselves to you.”
Lumping her in with all those who shunned his people cut Halla deeper than any knife. Burning with angry frustration, she pulled her horse out of the line of riders and let Baldo ride on. He didn’t look back.
Those who followed him didn’t meet her eyes either as they passed, but when she spied Guaril, an old comrade from the rebel corps, she slipped from her saddle and wordlessly tossed him the reins.
Then she gave a piercing whistle and called for her dragon.
Chapter 56
As he waited for the Havard Gate to open, Fynn tried to ignore the heaving dread in his gut. In the hours leading up to this most important battle, everything that could have gone wrong, had. First there was the sudden departure of the å Livåri and Lady Halla, and then when the dawn broke and they organized all the troops, the elves, who were desperately needed to swell their ranks, were not among them. Fynn feared that Elvinor, after seeing what they were up against with Lazdac’s terrible monsters, had had a change of heart about involving his folk in what was sure to be a costly battle.
As for the dragons, there was no sign of the wild ones. They must have decided that this was to be a war mankind must wage without them. And Maura had still not returned from her mysterious errand, leaving only Leif and Rhiandra as his dragonfast defenders. Fynn knew that one small bluewing would prove no match against Lazdac’s three massive drakes.
But all of that, dire as it was, changed nothing. The enemy was on his doorstep, and Fynn would defend against their assault with whatever forces he had. He settled his helm on his head, then accepted the shield and sword from a young squire.
To Fynn’s right, Borne sat astride a grey horse, awaiting his signal. Fynn raised his hand to his commander, and Borne called to the war drummers. They set off, and as they trotted out through the gates and along the road to the Tor, the pounding of their drums raised Fynn’s spirits. He steeled his nerves, then raised his gaze to the hatchet-headed creatures arrayed across the plain, their crude snouts jutting up as if scenting for prey. Behind the beasts and perched on higher ground, the dark wizard Lazdac sat astride his enthralled dragon.
Fynn cast a look over his shoulder. On the ramparts stood Whit and Lady Selka, who would wield their magic from that vantage point. Master Morgan stood a bit apart from them. The old wizard was likely still furious over Fynn’s decision not to let him ride onto the field of battle, but if Fynn fell, Drinnglennin would need Master Morgan’s guidance more than ever. Grinner stood beside the mage, no doubt scowling as well. Two days before, he’d broken his sword arm in a fall while sparring with one of the Nelvor vassals, whom he swore had deliberately tripped him.
For the first time, Fynn would go into battle without either of these brave men at his side. He drew a deep breath, attempting to quell the pounding of his heart, then drew his sword and pressed his heels into Dewr’s sides. The horse surged forward, and the blare of trumpets signaled the king was at the charge.
The flat, barren land rolled before him. The icy wind burned his face. And as he galloped onward, he had a brief memory of riding in Restaria on a winter’s day.
Then the drakdaemons’ earsplitting roar thundered across the plain, and that thought and all others were driven from his head. The creatures marched on foot, and the earth trembled under their weight. Although Born
e had chosen the higher ground to Drinnkastel’s advantage, Lazdac’s army was ten thousand beasts strong, sweeping over the land toward them like a roiling, churning sea.
The drakdaemons picked up speed, wave after wave of them advancing until the Tor was teeming with the creatures. Fynn heard trumpets blare, signaling for the shield wall to assemble, and he reined in to let these men pass. A hail of arrows from his longbowmen whined overhead as the men aligned their wall and braced themselves for the horde racing straight at them. Many of these arrows found their marks, but it didn’t seem to hinder the beasts in the least. They just kept coming, the ground shaking as they pounded forward.
And then they hurled themselves against the wooden shields of the defenders.
To Fynn’s horror, the wall buckled.
The drakdaemons roared in triumph and swung their jagged swords, scything through the ranks of Drinnglennians and their mounts like harvesters mowing ripe wheat. Screams and frenzied whinnies rent the air as men were cut down and horses plunged into their own entrails.
Somehow the Konigur army managed to stand strong against this punishing assault, even fighting back valiantly as the drakdaemons swept over them, felling men left, right, and center. A few of the beasts also died in the melee, but as Fynn took in the sea of oncoming enemy foaming over the plain, he knew his army had no hope of stemming this tide.
Borne spurred his horse slightly ahead of Fynn, clearly trying to keep himself between the monsters and his king, but Fynn had other ideas. This was his fight.
He dug in his heels and charged into the fray. The sound of his breath was raw in his ears as he slashed and hacked at the first drakdaemon in his path, sparks flying from his blade. The creature’s sword point grated across Fynn’s breastplate, and he pulled on the reins to swerve aside, only to take the flat of his assailant’s blade against his helm. Stars burst in Fynn’s vision and his head rang from the blow, but he charged on, his army streaming up the field around him.
One drakdaemon after another tried to halt his advance, but he was possessed of a fury that would not be stemmed. With each swing of his sword, he claimed revenge for the countless å Livåri who had been sacrificed in Drak Icar. With each cut and thrust, he fought for his newly discovered homeland, so that these people, his people, would not suffer the devastation he had witnessed in Restaria, the land of his past.
It wasn’t until he suddenly found himself in an odd pocket of space, surrounded by corpses, that Fynn realized he was weeping. He wiped the tears from his face and darted a look behind him to see Borne slicing through the leather breastplate of a pale man swinging a curved blade. Borne had been right about the Jagar making up some of Lazdac’s numbers.
A young knight swept past Fynn on a black stallion, boldly waving the Cardenstowe banner. Fynn’s encouraging smile died on his lips as a drakdaemon lunged up from a pile of bodies and grabbed hold of the bannerman’s leg. The creature pulled the knight off his mount, and as Fynn raced to the flagbearer’s aid, the beast drove his pike into the fallen man with a savage thrust, pinioning him to the ground.
Another drakdaemon hove up on Fynn’s right, its blade crashing down on his shield with such power that his arm went numb. And as Fynn wheeled Dewr to gain time to recover, he swept his gaze over the Tor. It still seethed with Lazdac’s creatures, under whose taloned feet lay too many brave men. The Drinnglennin army was on the verge of falling to the enemy. What remained of it would have to retreat, before they all were overwhelmed.
Fynn sought Borne again in the fray, but without success. The fire that had fueled him had drained from his veins, and as a throng of drakdaemons rushed toward him, he lifted his sword with an effort and gathered his reins. But before he could ride out for what he felt sure would be his last battle of this day, the pure clarion call of a horn sounded from the west, and its silver voice made his heart leap with renewed hope.
The drakdaemons slowed, stumbling over one another, as they, like Fynn, turned toward the sound. Elves—a legion of them astride their great golden elks—were streaming onto the field of battle. And streaking above the antlered beasts were not two or three, but seven dragons, all of them carrying riders on their backs.
Fynn gave a whoop of joy before realizing that if the dragons were to successfully attack the drakdaemons, his own men needed to get out of the way of their fiery breath.
“Fall back!” he shouted. “Back to the city!”
Someone must have heard his cry, for a horn sounded the retreat. As the battle shifted, the dragons circled overhead, preparing to take aim at the drakdaemons, who were now pounding after the withdrawing army.
Borne appeared at Fynn’s side, his armor slick with blood. “Gods help us if we ever have to do battle with Helgrin-raised warriors like you! You fight like Gauter Ironbreast of the old legends! This way, my lord!”
Fynn felt a flush of pride as they wheeled their horses, then drew in a sharp breath. Not all the fighters in the Strigori’s army were still advancing. At the sight of the dragons, the pale men among them had broken ranks and were running back to the river. But as the first of them reached its banks, they were set upon—by the drakdaemons themselves. The Strigori’s army had turned on itself, sending human limbs spiraling through the air, with bodies cartwheeling after them.
“I don’t believe it!” Borne declared. “Lazdac has ordered his creatures to cut down the retreating Jagar!”
A furious roar broke through the screaming. The black drake, with his Strigori master on his back, spread his wings and took flight, unleashing a stream of fire into the roiling massacre. Screams of agony rent the air, and the smell of burning flesh drifted over the field.
“Is he mad?” Fynn cried. “He’s setting the dragon on his own troops!”
Borne’s face was dark. “Not all of them.”
Fynn saw then what he meant. The charred remains of the Jagar lay smoking on the ground, but the drakdaemons were unscathed.
As the drake reeled away from his kills, the drakdaemons resumed their pursuit of the retreating Drinnglennians with a renewed frenzy. The elves were striving to hold the monsters on the right flank, but the greater part of Lazdac’s army continued to gain on Drinnkastel’s protectors.
Fynn saw their doom in Borne’s eyes. “What do we do now?”
“We make a run for the gates!” Borne shouted over the nearing roars. “And if the devils catch us, we take as many of them as we can with us into the Abyss. Ride!”
* * *
Whit ordered the portcullis raised as the Konigur army raced toward the shelter of the city walls, their cries of terror preceding them. But as he looked out over the Tor, it was clear to him that the defenders had no chance of outrunning the horde on their heels.
He signaled to the soldiers manning the cannons, and they fired off another formidable volley, but when the billowing smoke cleared, his heart sank. The barrage had made barely a dent in the drakdaemons’ ranks.
The elven archers were still harrying the monsters, their mighty elks bounding along on either flank of the invaders as arrows flew into their midst. But still the daemons came relentlessly on.
In the skies above, the dragons bellowed, but they were no longer shooting their fiery breath. Instead, one by one, the great winged creatures peeled off to the east—all, that is, except Emlyn and Halla, who now swooped toward Whit.
“Why aren’t the dragons attacking Lazdac’s beasts?” he demanded as they alit on the ramparts beside him.
“Emlyn tried,” Halla called, “but the drakdaemons are resistant to dragonfire.”
Whit swore, the taste of dread upon his tongue. His orders were to defend the capital and save his magical strength for the coming confrontation with Lazdac himself—but if the dragons couldn’t stop the daemons, there would be no Drinnglennin left to duel for.
He bowed to Emlyn. “Can you set me down between Lazdac’s beasts and our men?
And then take yourselves swiftly to safety?”
“Are you mad?” Halla cried. “We can’t leave you alone out there!”
“Yes, you can, Halla. I’m bloody clever, remember? You said so yourself. I think I can stop them, and if you stay, it could distract me and put us all at greater risk.”
“Blearc’s balls!” Halla growled, but she reached out and pulled Whit onto Emlyn’s back. He barely had time to settle himself before the dragon shot out over the fleeing defenders.
As she came in for a landing, Whit prepared to slide from her back, but Halla caught hold of his arm. “Don’t go getting yourself killed, Cardenstowe.”
He gave her a half-smile as he dropped to the ground. “You either, Lorendale,” he replied, receiving a grudging grin in return. “Now go!”
The green dragon lifted off again and wheeled toward the east after her siblings. Whit closed his eyes against the dust lifted by her wingbeats, his cloak swirling around him. When he opened them again, a trickle of cold sweat ran down his back.
The black drake Zal and his dark master loomed in his path, with Aed and Gryffyn to either side of them. A host of drakdaemons ranged behind them.
Whit dragged his staff from over his shoulder and thrust it forward. Although he no longer needed it to work his magic, the heft of the wood in his hand lent him some desperately needed courage.
The drakdaemons emanated brute strength from their massive chest muscles to the bold sinews standing out from their powerful arms and legs. One rake from the talons on their feet would rip a man to shreds.
Not this man, though, Whit silently vowed. But to keep this promise to himself he’d need to pull off a feat of magic that less than a handful of sorceresses and wizards throughout time had achieved.
He lifted his chin and looked Lazdac full in the eyes.
“Gwaf arnoch yn! O, Darian fawr Taran, yn amst yr angen os trigwn yn y deyrnas hon!”
