by ML Spencer
“Da…” he whispered.
The dragon must be Maranth. Heart thrumming, Aram took a step toward it, but was halted by a threatening growl. In Maranth’s eyes was none of the intelligence and wisdom he was used to seeing in a dragon’s golden gaze. Instead, there was only a feral anger and anguish that recognized no difference between ally or foe. If he tried to approach, he had no doubt the dragon would slay him.
FOOL.
The voice in his head was so thunderous and echoing, that at first, he thought it was the dragon somehow shouting in his mind. His second thought was that it was the voice of the Overseers. His gaze jerked skyward, for part of him expected to see them standing in the sky, staring down at him like callous gods. But the sky was devoid of anything, save clouds. His attention was drawn once again to the steaming crack in the earth.
That’s when he saw his opponent.
At first, Aram couldn’t tell whether he was looking at monster or man. This new adversary was larger than any human he had ever seen, swathed in obsidian armor and armed with a sword enveloped by dark flames. It wore a visorless helm to which long, spiraling horns had been anchored. From its shoulders hung a fur-lined cloak of purple silk that billowed in the air despite a complete lack of wind.
Woven around his opponent’s body was a thin, eel-like creature the color of lard. It hovered in the air as though ignored by gravity. A therling, Aram realized, for it looked just like the monster that had attacked him when he’d opened the rupture in the longhouse. It was a creature birthed in the void itself, not a product of his own world, and he had no doubt that its presence here was an abomination. Somehow, his adversary was able to control it.
Which could mean only one thing: the enemy who challenged him was an Archon. He assumed it was Kathrax, who had struck Maranth from the sky and slain his father.
WHO ARE YOU?
The voice resounded again in his head, agonizingly loud, reverberating through his skull.
Aram brought his hands up, covering his ears—a futile reaction that couldn’t hope to keep the creature out of his mind.
He considered the Archon across from him with a growing sense of defeat. He was not a Champion, so he did not have the ability to fight it. And yet he could not become a Champion unless he did.
Aghast, Aram realized the brutal nature of this final test: the Overseers had placed him in a no-win situation, with his father’s life in the balance. And he had no idea if this was real or simply a vision. Had they somehow transported him back twelve years in the past, to the day his father fell? Could he somehow change the course of events?
It didn’t matter.
He could not defeat an Archon by himself.
And yet he didn’t have a choice. Not if he was to save his father.
“I’m Aram Raythe,” he shouted across the fissure, “son of Darand Raythe! And I’m here to slay you!”
Distorted by heat waves, the helmed figure regarded him darkly. There came no answer to his challenge, and yet, somehow, Aram could feel the utter disdain this enemy held for him. He was beneath the Archon’s contempt, not even an inconvenience. Much more threatening was the beast that crouched behind him.
A shiver of doubt trembled Aram’s spine. He could not let Maranth be defeated, for if the dragon didn’t survive, then his father couldn’t either. Perhaps that was his business here: not to challenge Kathrax himself, but to give his father’s dragon a fighting chance.
He turned to Maranth and extended his blood-slicked hand, a silent offer and pledge he hoped the dragon would understand. In response, Maranth let out an infuriated roar, for he did not know him. He could feel the dragon’s distrust and fear. Aram noticed for the first time that Maranth was gravely injured. A deep wound was carved across the center of his breast, leaking dark brown gore upon the ground.
“Fight with me,” Aram proposed, taking an unsteady step toward the dragon. “I can’t defeat him, and neither can you. But perhaps, together, we have a chance.”
YOU DO NOT.
The world trembled from the aftershocks of that voice.
Aram stood with his hand outstretched, silently begging the dragon to heed him. “He’ll kill you both—I know this for a fact. Fight with me!”
Maranth gave an almost imperceptible nod. He lowered his great head and gave Darand Raythe a tender nudge, then took a step toward his rider’s son with blazing defiance in his eyes.
An accord had been reached.
Without hesitation, the dragon sprang from the ground and swept toward him, touching down only long enough for Aram to haul his injured body over its back. Then Maranth vaulted into the sky, spewing torrents of flame upon the Archon.
But Kathrax merely raised his hand, extinguishing the dragon’s flames.
Maranth growled his rage, wheeling on wing to come around for another pass.
This time, Kathrax was ready. He drew his awful sword back and carved it around in a mighty arc, just as a reaper swings a scythe.
A ball of dark flame blazed toward them. With a furious cry, Maranth keeled to avoid it, and the terrible magic sped past them, narrowly missing.
In response, Maranth dove toward the earth. Before the dragon could touch the ground, Aram leapt from its back, weaving magic to soften his fall. Even so, he hit the ground hard, dropping into a crouch only feet away from the Archon as his side exploded in agony.
Grimacing in pain, he pushed himself to his feet and stood wobbling like a drunken man.
Kathrax ignored him, distracted by Maranth. Knowing that this might be his only opportunity, Aram raised his sword and plunged toward his opponent, throwing himself at the Archon with the last of his strength.
His dull blade scored the dark armor but failed to penetrate. With a roar of fury, Kathrax swept his arm around, and a tidal wave of magic picked Aram up from the ground and hurled him backward.
The Archon drew his sword back over his shoulder then hurled it into the sky. The Baelsword tumbled through the air and slammed into Maranth as he passed by overhead. Aram watched in horror as the dragon let out a mortal cry and fell from the sky, spewing blood and fire from a rent in its gut. It crashed into the crest of a ridge, hurling dust and debris high in the air. And then it tumbled, rolling in a flailing mass, to slide into the steaming fissure.
Aram opened his mouth to scream, but another voice took up the scream for him, shrieking a soul’s weight of agony across the landscape. Aram whirled to see his father on his knees, shoulders heaving with tormented sobs. Though he stood across the fissure, Aram took a step toward him, but his motion was halted by a sword of blazing darkness that raised to block him.
Aram glared his wrath at Kathrax, his vision swimming with defiant tears.
“Leave him alone, you bastard!” he shouted.
But then the last of his strength left him, and he collapsed.
Aram lay on the ground, panting, his vision going dim. Kathrax advanced toward him like an evil apparition, swathed in an aura of dark flames.
YOUR SOUL FOR HIS.
“What?” Aram whispered, clutching his side as the last of his life bled out of him.
Kathrax halted over him. Slowly, he raised his sword.
CHOOSE.
Understanding drove a jagged lance straight through Aram’s heart. The sword of flaming shadow was a Baelsword, and it hungered for his soul.
At last, he fully understood the tragedy that had befallen his father. Darand Raythe had lost more than his life that day in the Greenwood.
He had lost his soul.
And he would again, unless Aram chose to save him.
His life for his father’s life.
His soul for his father’s soul.
This was the test.
He heard a cry behind him and turned to watch the man he loved more than anything in the world pull himself to his feet.
For a moment, his father’s eyes met his own, and their gazes locked. Aram had no idea whether his da recognized him, but he hoped that he didn’t.
His body shivered uncontrollably, and tears filled his eyes, for he knew that sacrificing himself for his father was not the purpose he was born for.
Using hatred to fuel what little strength he had left, Aram wiped his tears and glared his defiance into the shadows of that dark helm.
“Take him.”
The hoarse words clawed their way out of his throat, more painful than any torture he had ever endured.
The Archon stood without moving, as though it hadn’t heard him. Then, ever so slightly, it inclined its head in acknowledgment.
Aram screamed.
The world jolted and wrenched away.
He awoke, naked and in chains.
Gasping, he found that he had been staked out, limbs splayed, upon a circular slab of stone under the vault of a clouded sky. His breath came in weak, panting gasps, and his vision was dark from blood loss. Aram knew for a fact that he was dying, and he struggled to care.
Around him in a ring loomed the horrible creatures that had designed this fate for him. The Overseers, all doing nothing but observing him die. As he felt the last of his blood trickle out of him, Aram shook his head in confusion.
“Why…?” He gasped weakly. “I did everything right.”
A pinpoint of light moved toward him, and he turned his head, struggling to see through his dimming vision. It was another of those horrid creatures, leading a gleaming Elesium colt. The sight of the foal confused him more, making his mind return to the scene of the terrible slaughter he had witnessed.
They had taken the colt.
“Betrayers…” he whispered.
Let him die.
A waste. We can make use of him.
His soul is too powerful.
He will be broken.
But the agreement…
They will not know.
No. He could not be controlled.
Let him die.
Let him die.
Yes. Let him die.
Aram’s vision faded until only the silver light of the colt’s aura remained in his darkening world. The colt’s eyes met his, and in that brief moment, something passed between them, the acknowledgement of defeat. But it was more than that. He could feel the colt’s great heart harden with resolve, and a sharp dagger of understanding lanced through him.
No! his mind screamed, too late.
The Elesium reared, throwing back its captors, striking out at the nearest with its forelegs.
The Overseer put its hand out. Dark fire gushed from its palm, enveloping the young horse in black flames.
“NO!” Aram screamed, and lashed out with all his wrath and the full force of his mind.
The world exploded in fire, the air filled with the ghastly howls of dying creatures that flailed around him in the heat of the inferno. The flames savaged the circle all around him, everywhere but where he lay.
Through the flames streaked a blazing light, and suddenly the glowing Elesium colt was rearing over him, its silver aura glowing brighter than the sun, haloed by flames. It was a powerful and arresting sight, agonizing to behold. The colt came down on top of him then reared again, its hoofs striking off the manacles that bound his arms and legs.
Then it wheeled and fled back into the raging fire.
“NO!!!” Aram screamed.
But it was too late.
The colt was gone, consumed by the flames.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Markus shivered as he stared at the fourth portal, his throat clenched with suppressed emotion. Every passing second tightened the grip of dread that strangled his heart, until the agony of waiting grew unbearable. He had known, watching Aram stagger beneath that last arch of rocks, that his friend wouldn’t be coming back out. He had known it in his heart, and yet he had refused to give up hope.
But it had been too long. Far too long. When the tears came, he realized that the Trial had reached its inevitable conclusion. He could stand there all day, staring at an empty doorway, but that wasn’t going to change anything.
Aram wasn’t coming back.
A terrible silence clenched the Henge in a trembling fist. All around the ring of stones, men and women stood with their heads bowed and hands clasped, faces somber in grief. No one spoke, for words would be inadequate, not to mention inappropriate, at such a time. So they stood in silence, each of them marking the end of a life in their own quiet way.
Markus looked to Esmir, and something passed between them that was profoundly intimate. For, in that moment, they had ceased to be mentor and student, and stood before each other as two fellow Wardens united in the solidarity of grief, mourning the loss of the loved ones they had been entrusted to protect.
The moment was broken when he heard the sounds of footsteps moving away. The others were leaving, for the time for hope had come and gone. He heard the sound of quiet weeping and looked to see Calise standing against a pillar of stone, clutching Aram’s knotted necklace.
That was it, then.
It was done.
Markus bowed his head and stood in silence for a time, until he felt the touch of a hand rest on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw that Wingmaster Vandra had come up next to him, her face long and haggard.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice ragged.
But then her breath hitched, and her eyes widened.
Markus turned, following the direction of Vandra’s gaze, just in time to see a flash of light accompanied by a falling body.
He was running before the body hit the ground.
He skidded to a halt next to where Aram lay, face down in the dirt. Esmir and Vandra rushed to his side, and together they rolled him onto his back. Vandra tore at his clothing, exposing the long gash that had opened his side. Esmir started ripping at his own clothes, shredding his shirt into strips of cloth that he pressed against Aram’s side in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Dark brown blood pooled on the ground, soaking into the sand.
Vaguely, Markus was aware of the people rushing to cluster around them. Someone handed Esmir a bottle of Wellspring water. He took it and poured most of it over the wound. Then he handed the container to Markus, who lifted Aram’s head into his lap and tried to dribble some of the life-saving water down his throat. Aram coughed and sputtered, water leaking from his mouth, and Markus wasn’t sure if any made it down.
“This isn’t working,” growled Esmir, panic in his voice. He pressed the bloody rags into Markus’s hands. “Keep pressure on it!” With that, he rose and moved quickly away through the crowd.
Suddenly, Calise was there. She moved the blood-soaked rags aside and pressed her bare hands over the wound, squeezing her eyes closed. A fierce light appeared around her, streaming outward in golden rays. The light poured down her arms, running over Aram’s body like liquid, melting into him.
“Gods, help him,” someone gasped.
Looking up, Markus saw that they were surrounded by a crowd of people, all looking on in fear and awe, faces lit by the golden light streaming from Calise. Markus looked on with held breath, knuckling his mouth. Calise seemed entrenched in a desperate struggle, her jaw clenched, her face pinched in effort. Glistening sweat broke out across her skin.
Suddenly, Calise threw her head back and cried out. Then she toppled over, unconscious. Vandra caught her as she collapsed and laid her down on the sand at Aram’s side.
Markus scrambled forward and gasped in relief when he saw that Aram’s bleeding had slowed substantially. The wound looked well on its way toward closing. By the time Esmir returned with a bag full of medical supplies, the bleeding had stopped entirely.
Vandra retrieved a needle and held it between her teeth as she threaded it with catgut. Crouching over Aram, she started stitching the wound while Markus looked on. Her work wasn’t neat, but it did the job. Within a few minutes, she had him sewn up and bandaged. She turned Aram over, checking him thoroughly for other injuries. Other than bruises and abrasions, he seemed to be whole, at least in body.
“Do you think his mind’s b
roken?” Markus asked Esmir.
“No.” The old man shook his head firmly. “They didn’t break him.”
“How do you know?”
“His clothing’s black.” Esmir grasped a handful of Aram’s cloak, holding the fabric up.
It took Markus a moment to understand the significance of the color, to remember the cloak had been gray and tattered when Aram had entered the portal. Now it was black and looked almost new.
“But all is not right,” Esmir continued, his face haggard. “He should have never been returned in such a condition. They should have healed him.” He looked down at Aram’s ghost-pale face, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t know what happened to our friend, but the Overseers were certainly not on his side.”
“So, something went wrong?” Markus asked, a deep-seated fear returning.
“It did. I just don’t know how or what it means.”
They loaded Aram and Calise onto stretchers and carried them down the stairs past scores of anxious onlookers. Vandra took Calise down to the infirmary while Esmir and Markus carried Aram to their eyrie. There, instead of placing him on his pallet, they tucked Aram into Esmir’s bed, smothered in blankets.
Markus stayed up late into the night drizzling Wellspring water little by little down Aram’s throat and monitoring his condition. Esmir, meanwhile, slept on the floor, his sleep aided by copious amounts of honeywine provided by well-wishers.
When the morning arrived, Markus was glad to see that his friend looked much stronger. Aram’s face was less pale, and the deep shadows had retreated from beneath his eyes. Markus was convinced that his improvement was entirely due to Calise’s intervention, for he had never seen anyone bleed as much as Aram had and survive the night.
In the early afternoon, Esmir answered a knock at the door and admitted Calise. She came in tentatively, glancing around as though uncertain she should be there. Markus pulled another chair over beside the bed for her to sit on. But instead of sitting, she simply stood at Aram’s bedside, her hand worrying the knotted necklace she wore around her neck.
“Is he better?” she asked, her voice fraught with worry.
