by ML Spencer
This was not the first battlefield he had ever walked across, and the sight of severed limbs and spilled guts didn’t bother him. But his nose was filled with the stench of blood, and the odor made him ill. Even Obriem seemed affected, for the young man kept hawking up mouthfuls of either bile or phlegm, which he spat upon the ground.
The soldiers of Lazair’s army went about their business with admirable efficiency, as though mopping up after a battle was just part of their daily routine. They were an ugly, brutish mob, armored only in furs and boiled leather, their lard-greased braids and beards clinking with rings and ornaments. Yet they were damn good at what they did, so Sergan applauded them. He had never seen better fighters, for each had the spirit and strength of an ogre, born and bred for the purpose of war. They waded through piles of corpses, scavenging weapons and armor and slitting the throats of those unfortunates still alive. Even their own were not spared, if they were too injured to continue the fight.
Sergan took a quick look around, checking his location. He was trying to find Lazair, but the last he had seen of the woman, she was streaking across the sky on her dragon in pursuit of another that had apparently eluded her.
He waded on through the carnage before at last giving up and returning to the hill where her officers had gathered and were engaged in conversation, no doubt planning their next massacre. There, he found a wagon loaded with provisions and helped himself to some wine that had mostly gone to vinegar.
He lowered the tailgate of the wagon and climbed aboard, leaning back against a crate. He closed his eyes and relaxed, covering his nose with a kerchief in an attempt to ward off the smell. Obriem lingered beside the wagon, crunching on an apple, of all things. Sergan couldn’t imagine how he could work up an appetite.
It was another hour before he caught sight of Lazair’s dragon gliding across the sky, returning to land just shy of the hill. She caught sight of him almost immediately and, leaving the dragon to feed on the dead, walked toward him with a smile.
“Exilar, you look like you could use a bath.”
Sergan gave her a weak smile, finding no humor in her observation. Her own pale, skeletal face was absent any sign of blood or grime, quite remarkable for a woman who had personally killed dozens of the enemy.
“A bath is definitely in order,” he said, removing the kerchief from his face. “Point me in the direction of some hot water and send a pretty maid to lather me up.”
“Unfortunately, you don’t have time for a bath. Did you see that dragon flying over just now?”
He took a glance at the sky, which was empty of everything but clouds. “Did one get by you?”
She snorted, bringing out a cotton rag to blot the dew from her cheeks. “It would have gotten by you too. The rider is a True Impervious.”
That was unexpected. So far, they had met with little magical resistance during their campaign—which surprised him. He had assumed that more of the Auld would be Gifted, but it seemed that the ability had been culled from Auld bloodlines even here. He hadn’t spared a thought for those resistant to magic, though he should have. The news made him wary. He would much rather encounter another sorcerer than a True Impervious.
He also couldn’t help wondering if Lazair’s Impervious rider might be Markus.
“The dragon was headed to the Caverns,” Lazair continued, “which means they’ll arrive ahead of us. You need to confront them now, while they’re alone.”
Sergan frowned, not liking that idea. All he had was Obriem, and Lazair didn’t have a Shield of her own. A single Impervious was more of a threat to them than an entire division of soldiers. “Then what’s the point of the army, if you think I can destroy this Anchor alone?”
“The Anchor isn’t the only thing we’re here for,” she reminded him. “My master desires lands and resources and slaves. He is especially interested in subjugating those who oppose him.”
“Your master sounds like he has a lot in common with my Emperor.”
“Of course. They are brothers, born of the same seed.” She scrubbed her hand wearily across her brow. “You need to go. Follow me, and I’ll introduce you to your new mounts.”
“Our new mounts?” Sergan repeated as Obriem glanced at him sideways.
They followed Lazair toward the rocky crest of the hill, to where two dragons perched like eagles. The larger was a deep bronze with a wide wingspan, and the smaller was a sleek-looking green. The eyes of both shone with the same dark energy that radiated from the Baelsword.
“The bronze is Martax,” Lazair told him. “The green is Yuron. They were both recently parted from their riders.”
Sergan cocked an eyebrow in her direction. “You’re giving us dragons?”
Lazair smirked. “Unless you’d rather go on horseback? Through the canyons, the trip will take at least a day.”
Sergan looked up at the mighty Martax, who turned his head to consider him with eyes that glowed with the oily light of corruption. He wondered if any part of the creature still remembered the rider that had been severed from its soul.
“He doesn’t look very friendly,” he observed. “Will he carry me, or eat me?”
“Martax is now a thrall of my master. He will carry you because it is my will.”
Sergan grunted. He followed Lazair up the rocks to where the two dragons waited. Tentatively, he reached his hand up and stroked the dark armor of Martax’s neck. The scales were far smoother than they looked and almost iridescent. The dragon’s face looked both ferocious and wizened, his teeth curved like the talons of a raptor. Truly, this was an intimidating monster.
“What do I do?” he asked. “I have no idea how to ride a dragon.”
“There’s not much to it.” Lazair trailed her hand along the dragon’s back. “You strap yourself into the harness and tell Martax where to go.”
“How does that work, exactly?”
“He will open himself to you, for I have commanded it,” Lazair answered. “Dragons do not speak in words, but he will understand you, nevertheless. Try it. Close your eyes and invite him in.”
Sergan wasn’t sure he liked the idea of inviting a ferocious beast into his head, though he supposed he didn’t have a choice. Closing his eyes, he reached out toward the dragon with his mind and found his invitation accepted. At once, his awareness was saturated by the dragon’s presence, which was so brutal and powerful that he drew in a sharp gasp.
Images flooded his mind, and he became aware of Martax’s agreement to carry him. The dragon had taken his measure and deemed him worthy. He felt stripped naked, every nuance of him exposed to this great beast and yet, somehow, it felt right.
“This will work,” he whispered, glancing back to grin at Obriem. “I think we might actually enjoy this.”
Aram stood frozen in the cold grip of terror. The Exilari sorcerer blocking the mouth of the alley beckoned with an outstretched hand, motioning him forward.
“Come, now,” the sorcerer said. “You don’t want your mother harmed. I promise you, she won’t be, if you come quietly.”
Aram’s body quaked, his breath coming in sharp gasps. He couldn’t go back to the cellars. He’d rather die a thousand deaths. Images of his time there flashed through his mind as he stared in horror at the Exilar’s white-gloved hand.
Every other day they would wake him from sleep and haul him from his cell. They would drag him to the table, where they would bind him down with leather straps and thick iron manacles. He always bucked and screamed and tried to wriggle out of their grasp, but the Extractors knew what they were about, and one struggling boy couldn’t give them much of a problem, no matter how hard he fought.
Then they would leave him there in the dark, shivering in terror, fear-sweat collecting on his face. He would lie there, strapped to the table, sometimes for hours before they began. He never knew what they were doing during that time. Perhaps they were preparing the tortures they would subject him to or getting the flasks ready to fill with the essence they would extract f
rom him. Or maybe they just left him there to wallow in fear, to marinate in the anticipation of what he knew was coming.
He remembered the first time they had strapped him to the table. As he waited in the dark, sobbing and trembling, one of the Extractors came forward, a younger man with guilt in his eyes. The young Exilar had looked down upon him with compassion and placed a comforting hand upon him.
“It’s easier if you don’t fight it,” he’d said.
Then he left.
And then the pain came, horrid and brutal. It ripped screams of agony right out of his throat. And it only intensified, until his screams turned to shrieks, and he writhed and bucked uncontrollably. He could never identify the source of the pain; it attacked his entire body all at once, burning him on the inside and flaying him on the outside. It went on and on as he fought against his bonds, jerking his hands against the manacles until his wrists bled. When the pain at last diminished, hours later, he would lay quivering, wracked with sobs, pleading for death and crying for his mother. Then they unstrapped him and took him to the surface to recover before dragging him back down to his dark cell. He was always allowed a day of rest, but no more.
The next day, they carried him back to the extraction room and subjected him to the same treatment in a horrific cycle that would continue for years, until the pain nearly drove him insane.
He couldn’t go back there.
He couldn’t.
Aram glanced frantically behind him, but there was no way out. The alley ended at the back wall of a house. He turned back to the young Exilar, struggling to think. Maybe he could rush him and knock him out of his way. If he hit him hard enough, he might get enough of a lead to make it to his mother’s house and warn her before they could catch him.
But that wouldn’t work, he realized. The sorcerer had to have a Shield. Even if he could get by him, he wouldn’t be able to evade them both.
“It’s time to decide,” the man said calmly. “Are you coming out? Or am I going in after you?”
Mutely, Aram shook his head. He wanted to wail in despair. His legs were trembling so hard he could barely stand. And yet, his mother’s face filled his thoughts, and her warmth filled his heart.
In the end, love won out.
Somehow, he found the courage to walk toward the sorcerer.
Toward the pain.
Calise stood looking at the alien form of the Overseer, her fear and frustration mounting. The creature stood impassive, simply staring at her, unmoved by the urgency of her pleas. She was out of ideas. Wherever this place was, Aram wasn’t here. And, without this creature’s help, she had no hope of finding him.
“Please!” she begged. “We need him! We need him, and you don’t. Let him go! Let him go right now!”
In a fit of rage, she drew the dagger she wore at her belt and lashed out at the Overseer. No sooner did she move than her body hit a solid wall of air. The dagger flew from her hand and she tumbled to the floor. She lay there for a moment, fighting to get her wind back, at last wedging herself up on her elbows.
“Aram!” she screamed. “Aram! Where are you? We need you! Aram!”
Only silence answered her.
She scrambled to her knees and crawled forward to reclaim her dagger, glaring in hatred at the appalling creature. “If you’ve killed him…” she whispered, her voice trembling. She couldn’t finish the threat. There was nothing she could do that would affect these entities. Sheathing the dagger, she screamed, “Aram!”
Something made Aram halt.
It was the sound of a voice, thin and weak, coming from a far distance.
He heard his name again, and at last, he recognized Calise’s voice.
The sorcerer held out his hand. “Come now or your mother dies.”
Aram almost obeyed, but then he heard Calise cry out his name again.
“Is this your choice, then?”
Trembling, Aram shook his head. He didn’t know what Calise was doing here, but she had entered the Portal Stone, and there was only one reason why she would’ve done that.
She needed him badly.
But his mother needed him too.
Torn between his mother and Calise, he made the decision he felt he had to, one that he was certain he would never forgive himself for. Fixing his gaze on the Exilari sorcerer, he shook his head.
“No.”
Instantly, the alley faded, and he tumbled into darkness.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Vandra looked out upon the battlefield from her position on the ridge, growing more disturbed and desperate by the second. The defenders of Inuine, vastly outnumbered, had been routed, and a host of light cavalry had been dispatched to run them down. She knew many of those men and women, for she had grown up on the moors. Some were probably members of her own clan, though she had no way of knowing.
She couldn’t just cower and watch them be cut down. Neither could she endanger the dragons by ordering them to the sky. Too many had already fallen, and the loss of each dragon was also the loss of its rider, a double tragedy.
But maybe … maybe they could still put the dragons to use.
Raising her hand, she called her captains over. Kade and Somlan jogged to her side, looking grim and careworn.
She motioned down the slope at the fleeing warriors. “Find a volunteer to fly down there and direct any allies back in this direction. If we can bring them here, to the hills, we can defend them from the high ground.”
Kade exchanged glances with Somlan. “It’s a suicide mission. Whoever goes isn’t likely to even reach them, much less round them up.”
“It’s that or leave them to their deaths,” Vandra spat. “How many are down there? A hundred? I’ll risk the life of one man to save a hundred of our brethren.”
Kade nodded, caressing the overgrown whiskers that covered his pockmarked cheeks. “I’ll go.”
Somlan’s mouth opened in surprise, and Vandra shook her head. “I can’t spare you. Find someone else.”
But Kade fixed her with a rigid stare, the set of his face telling Vandra she wasn’t going to win that argument.
“I can’t ask my men to do something I wouldn’t do myself,” he said roughly. “I said I’ll go. Promote Calver to my place. He’s a good man.”
Vandra squeezed her eyes closed with a grimace. “All right, Kade. All right. You just better damn well make it back.”
Kade grimaced. “I’m too damn ugly to kill.”
Vandra stared at him a long moment, her emotions almost getting the best of her. Collecting herself, she whispered, “May the wind carry you, Kade.”
When he was gone, she issued orders to have the men and dragons stand ready to receive the enemy. Then she lingered on the ridge as the two men departed. Kade made his way to his green dragon, Taranth, a beast just as old and cross as its rider. Without hesitation, Kade vaulted onto Taranth’s back and the two of them took to the air.
As Markus descended the trail into the canyon, it started raining. The trail was steep and narrow, and it twisted between enormous rocks chiseled from the hillside by the scouring action of water. It was almost like walking through a forest of narrow columns that loomed over him. In places, the grade was so steep, he did more sliding than walking downhill. In other places, the trail disappeared altogether for a ways, and he had to forge his own path. By the time he was halfway down, the rain was coming faster and harder, giving him misgivings. Gullies and ravines were not good places to be in a thunderstorm.
Eventually, he came to the bottom of the canyon. Here, there was only a thin stream that looked completely insufficient for the task of causing the amount of devastation that had been inflicted upon the landscape. He followed the stream as it meandered through the canyon, eventually arriving at a grotto hollowed out of the cliff. Deep within it, almost hidden by the shadows of the cliff, was the cave Siroth had shown him in the vision.
Drawing his blade, Markus removed his sword belt and tossed the scabbard on the ground, not wanting to be bur
dened by it. Then he turned slowly, eyes scanning the surrounding cliffs, but he didn’t see any signs that the enemy had arrived at the grotto ahead of him. Reassured, he moved under the shadow of the overhang, seeking cover from the rain. There, beneath the cliff, a shallow pool of water had collected. Behind it, on the back wall of the grotto, yawned the dark opening that was the entrance to the Caverns of Eld Elan.
Markus hesitated, considering the opening carefully. It reminded him of Aram’s cave back home, the one that housed his extensive collection of knots. Only, this cave appeared far more intimidating. Aram’s cave hadn’t been very deep, and he had been well-acquainted with it.
Slinging his pack down, Markus found that the torches he’d strapped to it had gotten drenched by the rain. Flinging them aside, he had to stop himself from shouting in frustration. Now, he had no way to make fire. He couldn’t enter the cave itself unless he wanted to stumble around in the dark.
He didn’t know what to do. He supposed he could stand outside the cavern’s entrance and guard the grotto. It was either that or brave the darkness in hopes that the Wellspring wasn’t too far from the entrance.
He stood for a moment considering his options, at last deciding he didn’t like any of them. One man could hold the entrance, even against many, but he would much rather do so with a spear instead of a sword, which he wouldn’t be able to swing in such a narrow passage. There were no trees around that he could fashion a spear from, so he would have to make do with what he had. That being the case, he decided to go at least a short way into the cave, to get an idea of where he could retreat to if he had to. He would need to be careful. Caves could be unpredictable, and he didn’t want to fall to his death.
