The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

The Strigori raised his hand, a sneer of contempt on his face. “Hold your charge!” he commanded his creatures. “I would see the fledging wren attempt to build an eyrie.”

  Ignoring his taunt, Whit raised his staff higher, and for a moment, it slipped in his clammy hand. He willed his pounding heart to slow as he drew on his magic.

  “Gwaf arnoch yn, o, Darian fawr Taran, diffyn Drinnglennin yn erbyn y drwg tywyll hwn, yn enw Fynn Konigur, Uchel Frenin yr Ynys!”

  Not a ripple stirred in the air between him and his impending death. The sweat running down his spine pooled at the small of his back.

  Lazdac gave a derisive laugh, then signaled one of his creatures. “He’s yours, Lash.” The hulking beast snorted, then stalked forward, its red eyes glowing like fiery coals.

  Whit closed his eyes against its magnetic gaze. He had to focus if he hoped to achieve the rare magic he was attempting.

  “O, Tarian fawr Taran, yn enw’r cyfiawn a’r teg, codwch er mwyn imi eich dal yn erbyn y drwg hwn!”

  Nothing happened.

  Whit could smell the sulfuric scent of the creature. “Please,” he murmured.

  At the whispered plea, a bolt of power shot through him like lightning, radiating out from his chest and coursing through his veins to resound in his very bones. The magic sprang out from his body, snatching his breath with it as it uncoiled, a wavering form spooling from his hands to take form and expand before his eyes. Higher and higher it climbed at dizzying speed, until a towering shield of shimmering light rose before him and stretched across the plain between him and his adversaries.

  Whit gazed upon the pinnacle of his magic in breathless awe, scarcely able to believe it was of his making. The illustrations he’d seen in Greyford’s tome, The Imperatives, didn’t begin to do justice to its magnificence. Standing twice the height of the largest dragon, it radiated its protective magic far across the Tor.

  As Whit recited the shining words of the runic poem from the Kvaljó, the most ancient of magical texts, he felt his power grow in strength:

  Meád éy ber ó vodul Taran, Aó rílya til sigurs styrk

  Meó öl lu skulyó þér os

  meó krafti góðs og mög däar

  Mead I bear, oh mighty Taran,

  To toast victory in the fight

  Against all evil shield us

  So we may triumph through thy might

  Distant cheers rang out from the city walls, but he didn’t dare turn; he could only hope that the last of the Konigur troops were making their way through the Havard Gate. His elation over his success was now tempered with apprehension, for he could already feel the immense toll the effort of holding the shield was taking on him.

  Through the wavering golden light of the magical barrier, Whit saw the Strigori’s expression shift from mockery to shock, and then to rage. Through twisted lips, Lazdac bellowed, “Mord avafa! Moarte foch basan hadhdri!”

  When the malevolent spell slammed into the wall, Whit felt the force of impact down to his toes, but the shield did not waver.

  “Bas aoinsti luith! Deyka aelfdi morde!”

  This spell rebounded off the shield in a burst of light. With a roar of fury, Lazdac pulled his dragon into a rear. “Burn it!” he commanded.

  Zal stretched out his long neck and released a blast of crimson fire. Although the torrent didn’t penetrate the shield, Whit’s face streamed with sweat and his knees threatened to buckle under him at the sight of the flames shooting toward him. Aed and Gryffyn added their lethal breath to their brother’s, while Lazdac unleashed one spell after another against the great shield in an attempt to wrest it from Whit. But Whit held the magic tight in his grasp, and the shield did not falter.

  “Attack!” screamed the Strigori, setting his drakdaemon army loose.

  The monsters charged the shimmering barricade en masse, only to fall back shrieking in agony, scorched like moths against the blaze of the shield’s power. Whit was struggling now to keep his feet, his breaths coming in sharp gasps and his shoulders slowly bowed, as if the shield itself was pressing down on them. He gritted his teeth and took a step backward, then another.

  Lazdac’s harsh laughter pursued him, and the source of the Strigori’s amusement was clear. The shield was sinking, and there was no way Whit could hold it long enough to get himself all the way back to the gates. But if he could keep the magic flowing just a while longer, at least those who had fought so bravely for Drinnglennin would make it to safety and live to fight this dark wizard another day.

  He dared a look over his shoulder. Several hundred foot soldiers were still swarming across the Tor within the protected realm. He retreated one more step. Then another. The muscles in his limbs were strained to their limits, trembling under the shield’s pressing weight.

  Suddenly Halla spoke behind him, and his laboring heart skipped a beat.

  “I’ve brought someone to help you.”

  “Halla?” The effort of speaking made Whit feel faint, and his voice came out in a hoarse whisper. “What… are you…? Get… get back. I can’t… hold…”

  “I can help you.” Whit recognized Selka’s voice. “I’ve never before raised the Shield of Taran, but if I lend my magic to yours, then together we might be able to hold it. But first, you must let me in.”

  One of the first lessons Whit had learned about magic was that to share it with another mage could prove fatal. But as Lazdac sent another barrage of spells at the shield, Whit felt his hold on it draining away.

  “You must release the spell,” Selka said urgently, “then we’ll cast it again—together.”

  Whit doubted he had the strength to cast his own shadow at this point, let alone raise the shield once more. And he didn’t trust Selka, even if Master Morgan had forgiven her. For all he knew, the sorceress’s offer was a ploy to afford Lazdac an opening to destroy them all.

  But as his vision began to darken, Whit knew the shield was about to fall anyway.

  “All… all right,” he said. “But Halla… you must… go.”

  ”I’m not going anywhere, cousin. Emlyn and I can provide some cover while you two do whatever it is you need to do.”

  Whit had no breath to spare for argument. “Are… you ready, Lady Selka?”

  “I am. On the count of three. One, two—now!”

  With a groan of relief, Whit released the spell.

  As the shield faded, Zal lunged at the two mages, but a tremendous blast of fire from Emlyn forced the drake to reel back and take to the sky. Although the drakdaemons were immune to dragonfire, the Strigori wasn’t. Aed and Gryffyn were thrown off guard by their master’s sudden flight, and before they could attack Emlyn, she fired a streaming blaze that drove them into the air as well. Whit began to intone the spell a second time, this time with Selka lending her voice to his.

  “O, Tarian fawr Taran. Yn enw’r cyfiawn a’r teg, codwch er mwyn imi eich dal yn erbyn y drwg hwn!”

  Joined with the sorceress in the magic, Whit felt some of his strength return. But the shield did not.

  The horde of drakdaemons now thundered toward them, the air around them reeking of sulfur. And the drakes were circling around for an attack. Whit knew they had only seconds to save themselves and those who were still outside the castle walls. What had he done differently before?

  “Os gwelwch yn dda!” This time his plea was in the Old Tongue.

  The shield sprang up in a burst of light, and the drakdaemons, mere paces away, crashed against it, the stench of their charred flesh singeing the air.

  “Halla!” Whit cried. “Get back to the city!”

  “I will! You did it, Whit! The last of the army is through!” Her shout was followed by the beating of Emlyn’s wings.

  “We must go as well,” Selka said, her voice hoarse with strain. “Step by step—with me, my lord virtuos.”

  In unison, they backed
slowly toward Drinnkastel. Whit knew his power was nearly spent, and Selka’s harsh breaths told him the sorceress was reaching her limit as well.

  “I can’t… hold it any longer,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Then we must release the spell.”

  “We… will go… to our doom…”

  “You asked me to trust you. Now you must trust me. Let go!”

  As the magic fled, Selka swooned. Hearing the crack of Lazdac’s spell hurtling their way, Whit caught the sorceress and spun away, casting his shadow over both them, darting and dodging the lethal spells striking all around them. Under cover of his magic, he called up the wind, then whirled and twisted with the buffeting air as it propelled them ever closer, not to the Havard Gate, where the Strigori would expect him to go, but toward the river on the city’s eastern border.

  By the time they reached the Argens’s banks, Whit’s heart was hammering in his chest, and he knew he’d have to reach deep inside himself if he was going to get them inside the city walls before his power was completely spent. With one last burst of effort, he spun toward the smaller gate leading into the east turret of Drinnkastel.

  Just outside the castle walls, he dared to look back at the place where the shield had stood. The drakdaemons had fallen still, standing at rigid attention, although this didn’t make them any less ominous. But the Strigori and his dragons were gone, leaving behind the blackened scores of the dark lord’s spellwork scarring the earth.

  Whit didn’t linger; he released his shadow and shouted for the gate to be opened. That he and Selka yet lived was a small victory, but it had come at great cost. Whit was shattered, and he would need time to recover from his magical feats. Time Lazdac wouldn’t allow him, for the dark lord would be well aware of the toll that raising the Shield of Taran had taken. The Strigori would seize his advantage and strike again without delay.

  And the likely outcome of his next assault would be the fall of the Isle.

  Chapter 57

  The night torches were still burning when Morgan made his way to the council chamber. Finding himself the first to arrive, the wizard sank heavily into a chair, then lowered his face into his hands. He had not been to bed that night, but instead had spent the long, solitary hours fruitlessly seeking some way out of their grave predicament. In a few moments, Fynn would be looking to him for advice, and he had none to give.

  Lazdac and his army were still at their gates, and all through the night, huge engines of war—siege towers, battering rams, trebuchets—had rolled over the Tor. The enthralled dragons had flown them here from the ships in Lazdac’s armada, and now the drakdaemons moved them into position for their assault on Drinnkastel. Only in the last hour had silence fallen over the plain, for the drakdaemons needed sleep, just like any other being, although they remained on their feet even at rest.

  It was a cruel irony that all the time and tireless travel Morgan had invested in serving the realm—tracking down possible heirs to the Einhorn Throne, seeking the reason for Urlion’s illness and the whereabouts of the disappearing å Livåri—would now very likely result in the death of the son the wizard had sworn to protect, along with so many others. If Lazdac claimed victory in Drinnkastel, all Morgan’s work would be for naught.

  Maura’s stroke of genius—convincing Syrene and the other wild dragons to make bindings with Elvinor, his queen Ystira, Aenissa, and Frandelas—had provided a brief ray of hope. Together, the dragons and elves had not only helped forestall defeat, they’d prevented Lazdac from enthralling more of these magnificent creatures with his dark magic.

  But victory over the Strigori had not been achieved, nor did now it seem possible. The drakdaemons, with their prodigious strength and endurance, would fight tirelessly to the death under their dark lord’s command. And because Lazdac had used the remnants of Chaos’s brood in their creation, the bound dragons’ fire could not harm them.

  The Isle had lost, and Lazdac had won.

  Morgan raised his eyes to the dark portraits lining the walls. Owain Konigur, Urlion’s father, on whose Tribus Morgan had served, stared back at him with the same wise expression he’d worn in life. The two men had fought together against the Helgrins, an enemy whose new yarl had, like Palan, chosen to align his people with Lazdac, though Morgan suspected Aksel would come to rue this decision. Lazdac was not one to share power, and his insatiable hunger for dominance promised turmoil that would stretch to the Known World’s farthest borders.

  “Master Morgan?”

  Fynn stepped through the door and settled beside him before Morgan could rise. “Are you unwell, master?”

  The wizard shook his head. “Just tired, Your Majesty.”

  Elvinor came after the young king, followed by the nobles of the lower realms, then Leif, Maura, and Borne, with Grinner the last to cross the threshold.

  Fynn didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “We’re here to discuss our next move against the invaders. Who would speak first?”

  In the heavy silence that followed, a frown pinched Whit’s brow. “Where’s Lady Halla?”

  “She’s been burning the candle at both ends,” Maura said. “Perhaps she’s still sleeping.”

  “I seen ’er—saddlin’ up Rowlan before sunrise,” Grinner said. He blinked as startled looks were directed at him. “In a right hurry she were, too, callin’ fer ’em t’ open th’ south gate.”

  “To open the—” Whit shot to his feet. “Are you saying she rode out?” He bolted for the door, with Borne on his heels.

  Morgan looked down at his hands to discover they were clenched into fists.

  Oh, Halla, he thought, what have you done?

  * * *

  Halla had awakened in the night to the sound of beating wings. Rising from her bed, she went to the casement to see a dark hulk perched on the nearest turret.

  “Emlyn?” she called softly. “Is there more trouble?”

  “For a change, I think not,” came the dragon’s answer. “I flew southward tonight and saw the å Livåri army, a host of thousands, riding hard toward Drinnkastel. It appears Baldo has gathered every one of his kinsmen who can wield a stave or throw a knife.”

  Halla received this news with mixed emotions. On the one hand, there might still be time for Baldo and his men to redeem themselves in the eyes of all Drinnglennians. But after seeing the drakdaemons in action, it was madness to think that the å Livåri, even with a much larger force, could hope to turn the tide of the next battle with the beasts. And once Baldo’s army was sighted, the monsters would not let them reach the capital.

  She would have to warn them—though knowing these proud folk, it was likely they would not back down from this fight no matter the odds, now that they were committed to it. And if this was the case… well then, she would join them. She knew it would likely be her last battle, but if she was about to make the Leap, she’d rather go down fighting on the field than cowering like a cornered rat behind Drinnkastel’s walls.

  Still, she didn’t intend for Emlyn to die with her. If Lazdac overran the Isle, as it seemed certain he would, the dragons could still flee with the elves over the Vast Sea. And Emlyn had promised to take Alegre with her.

  So with firm resolve, Halla called softly, “You’re not safe lurking around here on the turrets. Please go to your siblings with Elvinor’s folk now, under cover of darkness, and I’ll come to you after Fynn’s council.”

  Halla’s heart ached as the dragon winged off, knowing that her last words were a lie, but if Emlyn knew what she was planning, she would insist on going with her.

  It was not yet daybreak when Halla rode Rowlan through the south gate. Outside the city walls she gave the destrier his head, and they raced over the mist-threaded Tor as dawn’s advent paled the sky. To the east, row upon row of drakdaemons stood motionless, awaiting their orders, their ominous stillness making them seem all the more threate
ning.

  When the first rays of the sun appeared, flooding over the land like molten gold, Halla cast around, seeking Lazdac and his dragons, but they were nowhere to be seen. She urged Rowlan to a gallop, her muscles tensing, waiting for the moment when the drakes would appear. To calm herself, she turned her thoughts to Alegre. Perhaps at this very moment her daughter was snuggled warm against Nuri’s breast, her nursing brother Padrain beside her. Or maybe Vesel or Florian had come to carry her out to see the day break, cradling her in furs against the morning chill. The likelihood that Halla

  would never see her child again pierced her heart with as much pain as any dragon’s talon could.

  But it seemed that, at least for now, fortune had deigned to smile on Halla. A host of riders was streaming out of the forest on the southern road unfurling before her. They flew no standards, but it could only be Baldo and the å Livåri army.

  Halla spurred Rowlan to meet them. As she closed the gap, she could make out Baldo in the lead.

  He reined in before her, a wide grin splitting his face. “How did you know we were coming?”

  “That’s the advantage of having a dragon for a friend.” Halla’s smile faded. “I’m glad you decided to come back. But you and your people should know that if you wish to live to see another dawn, you should turn back and seek some secluded shelter. Our army went against the dark wizard’s drakdaemons yesterday, and we were driven back behind Drinnkastel’s walls. The beasts are far stronger than even I imagined, and worse, they’re immune to dragonfire. Even with an impressive force such as you’ve gathered, I fear the beasts can’t be defeated. And now Lazdac has brought in siege engines too numerous to count, and of such a scale that the capital can’t hope to withstand the coming assault.”

  Baldo lifted his chin. “We didn’t come back to huddle behind Drinnkastel’s walls. We came to do battle for her, and for the realm. So fight we will, for the Isle, to the last man and woman!”

  Halla’s spirit leapt at his bold words, and when she swept her eyes over the men and women behind him, armed and ready for battle, her heart swelled. She knew that if they went down, they would do so with unflinching courage.