by Licia Troisi
Meanwhile, as he carried out his training, Ido kept busy with the last stages of battle preparation. Spring was coming to a close and the planned day of attack was approaching. Several strategy meetings were held, and Ido, along with his group of four hundred soldiers, including the young students from the Academy, had been assigned to the front line. All those who were aspiring knights and capable of mounting a dragon were, instead, to help fend off the fire-breathing birds. In those final days before battle, mayhem seized the camp, a chaotic tangle of preparations, punctuated by the shrill cries of dragons gathered by the dozens in the stables.
When Ido informed his students of their assignment and the date of attack, he could see fear run through the line of boys.
“We’re not even true warriors,” one of them protested.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Ido replied. “The training I’ve given you is more than sufficient, and add to that your experience at the Academy.”
“That may be true, but the front line is still the front line,” another student chimed in.
“Which is why we put you through such a rigorous selection and training process. You’re no common soldiers, never forget that.” Ido ran his gaze down the line of timid faces. “Never let yourselves be conquered by fear. When you entered the Academy, you all made a choice. You chose to put your lives on the line for a cause. And right now, in this moment, you must face the reality of that choice and pay the price. Fear is a normal reaction. An authentic reaction. It proves one’s love for life. One must love life dearly in this career. But you must conquer fear. Together, all of you form a single body. Just as in life, the death of one allows the others to go on. Don’t forget that. Don’t fight in vain. When all’s said and done, each and every one of you has what it takes to stay alive out there.”
Time raced on. The chill spring faded gradually into the first hot summer afternoons, and the day of the battle arrived at last.
The camp was a swarming sea of men and weaponry. At dawn’s first light, a stir of orders and instructions rose up among the tents while dragons sped from one end of the encampment to the other.
Ido was up early, his stomach in knots. The approach of battle rarely got to him like this, or hadn’t, at least, since he was a young boy and still fighting for the Tyrant. He cast off the foolish thought and crept out of bed.
The air was electric. It was shaping up to be a massive battle, and everyone could feel it.
When Ido reached his students, they were already awake and jittery.
“I understand your anxiety, but you have to keep calm. Banish all thought of death, of anything that’s a distraction from the real task in front of you: the battle. All that exist now are your sword and the enemy, nothing else. Empty your minds and focus on your legs, your arms, the movements of your body. Don’t let fear or the high of killing overtake you. Remember why you’re stepping onto the battlefield today.”
The young men nodded—one hundred and twenty faces, hanging on the dwarf’s every word.
Ido was short a squire after Laio’s departure, so he called in one of his students for help—Caver, the blonde boy he’d picked to duel in the second round of selections. After Caver left, Ido lingered in his tent, polishing his sword. It was something he did before every battle, to settle his mind and regain his focus.
Since Soana’s enchantment, Ido’s weapon had taken on an opaque transparency. It seemed lighter than before and glowed darkly in the dim tent. He ran a cloth up and down the blade, but the steady ritual did nothing to calm his nerves. Deep in his heart, he felt a rock-hard anxiety, and in some ways, the feeling reminded him of his bloodthirsty mania for battle back during his days fighting among the Tyrant’s troops.
Even when he reached Vesa, the mood persisted. Both dragon and knight were gripped with disquietude.
“We’re getting old, aren’t we?” said Ido, running his hand over the dragon’s red scales. “There was a time when all we had to do was meet eyes and our nerves would vanish, wasn’t there old boy?”
The dragon snorted, and Ido lingered at his side for a moment, just long enough to take a deep breath and turn his concentration to the battle ahead.
It took over an hour to get the whole company in order, and Ido used the time to lift his soldiers’ spirits and arrange them according to their individual strengths. Ido recognized more than a few faces among the ranks. Soana was swaying in a trance, busy applying magic to several swords at once, with a platoon of sorcerers behind her. Farther down the line, he spotted Mavern, who’d been placed at the head of the young Dragon Knights. Nearby was Nelgar, the general in charge of the troops that day. But what Ido saw next was an unusual sight.
It was a warrior he didn’t recognize, seated atop an imposing, copper-colored horse. He wore finely wrought, light-blue armor and carried a long, lavishly decorated sword. When the soldier lifted his visor, Ido was pained by the sight of a familiar face. Thick, brown curls, a candid, boyish expression: It was Galla.
He thought the issue had long been resolved. During one of the last meetings, Galla had stood and asked to fight alongside the troops.
“My wife died for this kingdom, and what have I done but strategize from the safety of my royal palace? Meanwhile, the people of my land are dying. I won’t just stand here with my hands at my side,” he’d protested.
Everyone knew that Galla hadn’t been the same since the death of his wife. He loved her deeply, and to have seen her vanish like that, zapped out of thin air by Deinforo’s lance on the day they’d first battled the army of the dead—the sight had wrecked him.
“Your Majesty, I beg your pardon, but you’re no warrior, and your people are counting on your leadership. It’s not right to take such a risk,” Mavern had argued, trying to talk some sense into him.
“And if my land falls? Then what happens? I must stand by my people.”
The meeting drew to an end and still no one had been able to dissuade him. But Ido was under the impression that in the following days, Theris, the nymph who represented the Land of Water on the Council of Sorcerers, had been able to make him see reason.
“Believe me, we tried.”
Ido spun to his right. Nelgar was standing beside him.
“He was adamant,” the base commander added.
Ido sighed. “In certain ways, I understand his decision. It’s a noble gesture, to want to share the fate of your people, but an idiotic one, too. He’s just asking to die.”
“There’s nothing to do at this point but let him live out his fate. There’s no question he will fight in today’s battle. Let’s just hope he survives; we’ll do everything we can to protect him.”
As dawn faded, the army was fully arrayed. A leaden sky loomed above them, rain trickling from the dark clouds. The tap of raindrops against canvas and metal echoed through the encampment.
Ido breathed in deeply. Stretched before them, the enemy was a sea of gray, dotted here and there with the black of Dragon Knights. One, two … three. Three knights. At least the battle would be even in that respect. From where they stood, the dwarf could still recognize Deinforo, his armor gleaming fire red. He stood at the fore, in command of the enemy forces.
Ido gazed farther into the distance: hundreds of jostling Fammin, and behind them the fire-breathing birds, their shrill caws splitting the gray morning sky. Finally, the ghosts brought up the rear. Hordes of them, as usual. Ido averted his eyes quickly. There would never be enough time to grow accustomed to the sight. Such horror was incomprehensible.
He shouted a ready command and drew his sword. As the blade slipped from its sheath, a sudden calm took hold of his limbs.
Finally.
The Fammin raised their war cry. A few of the young soldiers behind Ido fidgeted in their heavy armor.
“It’s all an act. Don’t let it fool you,” he called back, trying to ease their nerves.
A dense silence took hold. It was always that way—an infinite silence, and with it a thousand swarming thoughts. Of life, of death, of friends, of lovers … though in Ido’s mind there was room only for a glare of fire red.
Then came the order to attack, and the battle was on.
22
Duels
The two armies met in a violent clash, and the battle proved bloody from the outset. As planned, Ido kept busy with the fire-breathing birds while simultaneously shouting out orders. At first, his young troops advanced warily across the battlefield, hesitant before the swarm of approaching Fammin, and the dwarf was forced to stay back and protect them during the enemy’s initial strike.
“I can’t play babysitter for ever! Come on, now!” he roared.
A stream of fire burst forth from Vesa’s mouth, clearing a path for the soldiers, and Ido reared back up into the clouds.
He hated fighting in the rain. It cost Vesa more energy to stay afloat and the water impaired visibility. But such petty considerations fled quickly from the dwarf’s mind as he concentrated on the battle at hand. His attention was now fully focused, and he could feel the reassuring weight of his sword’s handle beneath his fingers, his palm pressing into its coarse surface where his oath to the Tyrant had long ago been scratched away.
He fought with his usual ferocity, wreaking havoc among the fire-breathing birds. Beside him, Mavern was equally ruthless. Below, the battle raged on. Nevertheless, the dwarf couldn’t refrain from looking beyond the enemy lines now and then, in search of a flash of red metal. At long last, he caught sight of Deinforo, distant and distinct. The red knight had yet to enter the fray. Stationed at the rear, he watched over the scene, dispensing orders.
Ido would have liked to take a stab at him right away, but he suppressed the impulse. He wasn’t about to leave his men in the lurch just to satisfy a personal grudge. For a long while, he supported the air raid, until he decided it was time to descend and allow Vesa to do some damage of his own. With a powerful leap, he was on the ground. He took a rapid survey of the area, located his troops, and immediately led them in a ruthless charge, his sword stretched out before him. In a fury, the dwarf launched himself at the mass of advancing ghosts, pale gray in the misty rain.
The soldiers fought head-to-head for hours while the knights above fended off the fire-breathing birds and the infantrymen below gained ground one inch at a time. The sun was setting fast.
Things were going better than expected and Ido was ecstatic. As far as he could tell, his regiment had suffered only minor losses. Deinforo, meanwhile, had crept closer to the action, hovering above on his black dragon. At regular intervals, a torrent of bright red flames spewed from the beast’s flaring nostrils, but the knight himself remained immobile, staring coldly into the distance.
Don’t feel like coming down? Then I guess I’ll just have to come up. Hardly had he finished the thought when a stream of flames flashed by, missing him by a hairsbreadth. He glanced up. One of the enemy Dragon Knights was giving the young trainees from the Academy a lesson in aerial combat.
“Vesa!” he cried. As his dragon swept by, Ido hopped on and rushed to support Mavern against the enemy knight.
Perhaps everyone was too busy defending his own skin, or perhaps, in the midst of such clamorous fighting, keeping constant watch over a frail king driven mad by grief was just too much to ask, but Galla was left to his own devices—and was fighting expertly. In the beginning, the generals tried to protect him, but the man was a raging whirlwind.
He’d never had any real military training, and he certainly couldn’t be called an experienced soldier, but what he did have behind him was the force of despair. He’d assaulted the enemy without a moment’s hesitation and quickly proven himself worthy, downing one Fammin after another. He’d pushed himself as far forward as it was possible to go and even then, charging on his copper horse, he’d emerged victorious. So invincible did he seem that soon the generals stopped shadowing him. After all, he’d chosen his own destiny the very moment he set foot on the battlefield. It was only right that he be allowed to meet his fate.
But no one knew what Galla was looking for, what he was truly after. It wasn’t hard to imagine, and yet no one had thought of it—except the enemy.
Galla’s eyes were fixed on Deinforo. When the knight came near enough, he galloped forward to meet him.
“I challenge you and you alone, you filthy worm!” he shouted, hurling at him a spear he’d seized on his forward gallop. The weapon missed wide and Galla slowed his horse.
“As you wish,” the knight answered, with an air of grace and formality. He leaped to the ground, leaving his dragon to aid the airborne troops. “This is about your wife,” he sneered, unsheathing his scarlet sword.
Galla said nothing. He was seething with anger and the burning need to avenge Astrea.
“You’re doing the right thing,” Deinforo continued. “After all, isn’t it revenge that moves us all to fight?”
He raised his sword in salute and Galla returned the gesture.
They exchanged the first few jabs. Galla must have thought himself well matched against his opponent, but in reality Deinforo was merely flicking his sword back and forth, playing cat and mouse with the king. Moving gracefully, he fended Galla off, parrying one strike after another, never once expending his energy on an attack. Galla, meanwhile, lunged forward ceaselessly, tears of rage streaming down his fair cheeks. Astrea’s face; the day of her death; the thousand joyous moments they’d passed together; the Land of Water, still rich with vegetation—images of delight and suffering stirred in Galla’s mind, spurring him on to fight to the bitter end. Perhaps then he could lie down in peace and join the woman he loved.
Yet another of his strikes missed the mark. The duel halted momentarily. Galla was gasping for air, Deinforo before him, utterly at ease.
“Alright then. I’ve let you have your fun. But it’s my turn now. Enough toying around,” said the knight.
The rest happened in an instant. Deinforo’s sword swirled, sending flashes of blood-red light through the dusk, and Galla put up a hopeless defense. The knight’s final jab tore through the king’s stomach. He had no time even to cry out in pain. He collapsed to his knees at his enemy’s feet.
“You deserve to be honored, for you’ve fallen at the hand of the strongest warrior on the battlefield,” Deinforo announced before walking off, leaving Galla in a pool of his own blood.
The black dragon landed at Deinforo’s side. The red knight mounted the immense creature and flew toward Nelgar. “The sun will set any minute now; I see no reason to keep this up,” he said, his sword tucked away in its sheath.
Nelgar hovered in place, unable to utter a word.
“Your king is breathing his last, and night is approaching. I give you leave to remove his body. We’ll continue this battle tomorrow.”
Then, as quickly as he’d come, he disappeared, his troops retreating silently behind him, back to the very line they’d held that morning. A deathly silence fell over the camp, as the last rays of sunlight slid from view.
They transported Galla to his tent. His heart was still beating when they picked him up off the battlefield. They summoned a pair of high-ranking sorcerers, along with Soana, to treat him, but anyone who laid eyes on the open wound in Galla’s stomach responded with a look of dread.
Through the night, the king tossed and turned in delirium, howling with pain.
“Kill him! Somebody must kill him and avenge Astrea!” he shouted during brief moments of lucidity.
Then came immobility and the final stages of agony. His breathing thinned and coarsened to a death rattle until, at last, there was only cold and silence.
Ido waited outside the tent. The rain had ceased and the field was covered in mud.
“The Land of Water is without a king,” Nelgar muttered as he exited Galla’s tent.
Ido put his face in his hands. First Astrea, now Galla.
There was no one left to govern their shrinking kingdom, pushed back by now into the shade of the Sun Mountains. They’d given the king their word, they’d promised to protect him, and instead they’d left him to fend for himself, at the mercy of his own madness.
There’s no stopping a desperate man.
Maybe it was true, after all, but they hadn’t even made an attempt. Ido never suspected that he and Galla shared the same objective, that they were both after the same man. And yet now it seemed so obvious.
The dwarf clenched his fists, repeating Galla’s last words in his mind.
I’ll kill him for you, tomorrow, and you and your wife can finally rest in peace.
Before he turned in for the night, Ido took stock of his troops. No more than twenty soldiers had been lost, most of them boys from the Academy.
There wasn’t much to say to his men. He praised them for their efforts, but he was exhausted, and even less inclined than usual to idle chatter. When he reached his tent he lay down. The battle would begin first thing in the morning, and he needed his rest.
But sleep wouldn’t come. He thought of Deinforo, of his ridiculous code of honor. The man had gone to Nelgar with his sword sheathed and requested a truce on behalf of an enemy soldier. An unexpected display of mercy. The king’s dying moans echoed in his brain, and deep in his heart, he felt an affinity with the young ruler. They were linked by hate. They’d sought the very same enemy in the midst of the battle. Galla had found him first, and had paid for the honor with his life. Yet another innocent soul erased from the world.
“Kill him! Somebody must kill him and avenge Astrea!” Those words had been directed at him. He’d been wrong not to attack Deinforo, to have wasted so much time on phantoms and Fammin. He should have assaulted the Scarlet Knight immediately, without hesitation. Tomorrow, he wouldn’t make the same mistake. With this thought fixed in his mind, he drifted off to sleep at last. Outside, the rain started up again and soaked the field anew.
