by ML Spencer
Deep in a corner, he also found a chest of ancient dragon scale armor that was curiously similar to his own. He’d been suspecting the eyrie might have belonged to a Champion at one time and finding that armor validated his guess. He found other trinkets, all ancient, and there were a few that he couldn’t even guess the purpose of. These he set aside on a ledge, a small collection of treasures he couldn’t bring himself to discard.
On the third morning, a knock at the door broke him from his work. Aram opened the door hesitantly, hoping and yet fearing that it was Markus. To his surprise, he found Calise standing in the hallway. He hadn’t seen her since the morning of his Trials, and just the sight of her robbed him of his last scraps of dignity and courage.
Immediately, his hand went to his tunic, which was just as dirty as it had been three days before—he hadn’t taken it off. Embarrassed, he opened the door wider and stepped back, unable to find words to greet her. He couldn’t tell by the look on her face whether or not she hated him.
She entered the room and froze the moment her gaze fell upon Agaroth, a look of startled awe upon her face. She stood staring at the blazing red dragon for several seconds, blinking slowly. Looking away from Agaroth, she turned and glanced around at the stark emptiness of the eyrie, her gaze at last coming to rest upon Aram with an expression just as bleak as the walls surrounding them. Unable to look at her, Aram stared instead at the floor between her feet, shifting awkwardly. He was too ashamed to say anything. He had almost killed her dragon, and he could tell by the set of her face that she hadn’t forgiven him for it.
“You broke my heart,” she said at last.
Her words shocked him, and he felt his stomach plunge. “How?”
She shook her head slowly, face heating to red, her eyes glistening with moisture. “Because you almost took away from me the two people I care about most.”
As Aram stood gaping at her in dismay, she took his hand and placed something in his palm, squeezing his fingers closed around it. Looking down, he saw that she had given him back the heart knot necklace he had entrusted to her before his Trials. It was all wadded up into a little ball of twine, a sad-looking thing that made his chest ache.
He waited for her to say more, but instead, she simply turned and made her way back toward the door.
“Calise,” he called after her. When she stopped and glanced back at him, he whispered softly, “I’m sorry.”
Her lips compressed into a thin line, her eyes filling with sadness. “I know.”
When she’d left, he tossed the twine necklace into the corner of the cave and went to sit on the terrace with Agaroth. The dragon seemed to sense his mood, his golden eyes conveying a look of understanding. He settled down at Aram’s side, looking out over the broad expanse of the canyon with its painted walls. Aram stayed there for a long time, his knees drawn up against his chest, the cool morning breeze playing with his matted hair. It was only when Agaroth left to hunt that he finally rose and dusted off his trousers, looking helplessly around the eyrie.
There was nothing left to clean, nothing left to do. He had spent half the week avoiding both people and responsibility, and now he had no excuse not to get back to them. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to leave the Heights. He walked to the soaking pool and knelt beside it, cupping his hands and filling them with water, which he splashed over his face. Rising, he paced back toward the corner where he’d stacked some empty crates, thinking that maybe he could make some nesting boxes for the chickens.
“Are you just going to hide up here the rest of your life?”
Startled, Aram turned to find Markus standing behind him. His old friend was still wearing his gray tunic, his black hair tied back from his face. He looked confident and knightly, the embodiment of everything a Warden should be. Aram couldn’t help glancing down at himself out of embarrassment and shame.
He drew in a deep sigh. “I’m not hiding. I just figured it wasn’t fair to make Esmir move out of his own eyrie.”
Markus pressed his lips together. “Look. I forgive you,” he said at last. “I was mad but … now, I’m just happy you’re alive.”
Staring at the floor, Aram whispered, “Thanks.”
Markus took a step forward, concern in his eyes. “When’s the last time you had a bath?”
Aram shrugged.
A long silence stretched between them as Markus simply regarded him. At length, he said, “Well, you can’t just hide away up here and rot. Why don’t you come down and dine with the Wing tonight? You’ve been missed.”
“Thanks. I will,” Aram whispered, though just the thought filled him with apprehension, for he feared the other riders would look upon him with resentment.
Markus nodded. “Take a bath,” he ordered, starting for the door. “Don’t forget to shave.”
Aram ran a hand over his face, realizing that his cheeks were covered in a growth of scraggly whiskers.
“Markus…” He said, his stomach clenching. “Are you still my friend?”
Markus looked at him with a sad smile. “I stopped considering you a friend a long time ago. I consider you my brother.”
The relief that washed over Aram made him waver. His eyes burned so hard he squeezed them closed. He stood silent for a moment, gathering his emotions, until Markus came over and gave him a tight hug. Aram hugged him back as hard as he could, not wanting to let him go.
“You really picked the nicest eyrie in the place,” Markus said, squeezing his shoulder and looking around.
Aram wiped his eyes. “I didn’t pick it. Agaroth did. It’s kind of big for just the two of us, though. If you want, you and Siroth can have the alcove over there.” He nodded toward the adjacent chamber, where the second bed had been.
“I’d like that. And I’d bet Esmir will appreciate having his eyrie to himself.” Markus wrinkled his nose. “You smell like wet dragon. Go take a bath. I’ll get my things.”
When he’d left, Aram went down to the baths and soaked for a good, long time, scrubbing the filth off his skin with harsh lye soap. When he returned to the eyrie, Agaroth looked at him with an expression of surprise, to which Aram could only smile.
“Was I that bad?”
Amused, he put on the second set of clothes Esmir had ordered for him. He was just finishing shaving when a gush of wind blew in through the opening of the cave mouth, alerting him to Siroth’s arrival. Wiping his face dry on a rag, Aram hastened toward the terrace, arriving in time to see the two dragons greeting each other.
Markus slid from Siroth’s back, holding a bundle of cut wood held together by a cord and carried by a branch handle. He walked with the wood out to the end of the terrace, to the ancient brazier that was there, and started feeding the wood into it.
“What’s that for?” Aram asked.
“A housewarming present from Esmir.”
It took Aram a moment to remember that every eyrie occupied by a Greater Dragon had once had its own beacon fire. The brazier on this terrace hadn’t been lit for hundreds of years. Markus fed it one last log and, of its own accord, the kindling burst into flames that crackled, throwing sparks into the air, signaling to the world that a Great One looked down upon them, guarding them from the Heights.
They spent the remainder of the morning making a space for Markus and Siroth in the abandoned second alcove. Aram had to chase the chickens out, for that’s where they had gone to roost, terrified of dragon-scent. By noon, they had Markus pretty much settled in, and they took lunch on the terrace beside their dragons, their backs pressed up against the cliff behind them.
“Do you ever regret coming to my rescue, that day back in the village?” Aram asked. “I mean, if you hadn’t, you’d still be living in Anai right now. You’d probably be married.”
“No.” Markus tore off a last bite from the chicken leg he was holding then tossed the bone over the edge. “Not once have I regretted it. I didn’t rescue you. You rescued me from a life of being my father’s whipping boy.”
Eyes distant, Aram said softly, “If it wasn’t for me, Master Ebra would still be alive, and you could have been his apprentice. Who knows? You could be a master bard right now.”
Markus shook his head. “If it wasn’t for you, Master Ebra wouldn’t have taken me for his apprentice in the first place.”
Aram supposed that was true. A heavy silence settled between them, and for a while, neither friend spoke a word. Aram sat gazing absently down at his hand. Streaks of colored light appeared around his arm that reminded him of the auras he saw around most people—pretty much everyone but Markus and Esmir. Only, the colors he produced were intentional. In the last couple of days, he had taken to the habit of knotting strands of aether out of anxiety and boredom, the way he’d used to do with bits of string, finding the exercise comforting.
“What’s it like?” Markus asked.
Realizing what he was doing, Aram let the strands of aether go. “It’s … intimidating. Every time I look at it, it makes me think about all the responsibility that comes with it.” He brought the light back again, holding it in his hand like a ball of soft, radiant yarn.
Markus raised his eyebrows, grimly considering the globe of light Aram held in his palm. “I bet it does.”
“The truth is, it’s terrifying,” Aram admitted. “I just … I wish I wasn’t the only one. I wish there were others like me. What if I fail? What if I die? What happens then?”
“I feel the same way,” said Markus, his eyes sad and serious. “I’m charged with protecting the only Champion the world has left. What if I fail? What if I let something happen to you? Then not only have I lost my best friend, but who will stand against Kathrax?” He sighed, draping a hand over his knees.
Aram didn’t have an answer to that. He let the ball of energy fade, his gaze returning to the distant cliffs.
That evening, at Markus’s encouragement, Aram accompanied him down to the dining hall for supper. He would’ve much rather stayed in the eyrie, but Markus was right. He had to emerge sometime. Still, it took all of his courage to enter the hall after such a long period of absence. He saw an open space at one of the tables in the back and made toward it quietly, hoping no one would notice him. But he and Markus hadn’t gone more than a few steps before they were noticed and, to Aram’s shock, every person in the room stopped what they were doing and rose to their feet, applauding and cheering.
Aram froze, wanting to turn and run from the room, but Markus caught the back of his tunic, denying him any hope of retreat. Ducking his head, he started toward the back table, but the sight of Vandra shaking her head made him stop. The Wingmaster sat on the dais at the front of the room, accompanied by some of the senior members of the Wing. There were two empty chairs next to her, and she motioned Aram toward one of them.
He groaned out loud.
Averting his eyes from the scores of people that stood in respect, Aram made his way to the front of the room past rows of trestle tables, at last taking his place beside Vandra. The applause had stopped, but for some reason, the people were still standing. Aram looked to Markus for direction, but his friend only shrugged, looking as lost as Aram felt.
Leaning toward him, Vandra said quietly, “They’re waiting for you.”
Awkwardly, Aram took his seat, the rest of the room following suit. A cupbearer arrived behind him and poured him a cup of wine, which Aram picked up immediately as a pretext to be seen as occupied. He sipped his wine and stared down at the table as conversation picked up around him, droning in his ears. In his lap, he fingered the heart knot necklace that he’d rescued from the floor, replaying the painful conversation with Calise in his mind. It wasn’t until Markus nudged him that he looked up, jarred from his thoughts.
“Did you hear that?” Markus asked.
Aram shook his head. He looked at Vandra, who was staring at him expectantly.
“I said, I’m glad you came.” Vandra’s expression was irritated, probably from having to repeat herself. “You saved me from having to go get you.”
“Why is that?” Aram asked.
“There’s been a problem. Our scouts in the Winmarch failed to report back this morning.”
Aram frowned. “How many scouts?”
“All of them.”
Chapter Eighty-Four
The silver-blue of moonlight reflected off the Winmarch, transforming the grassland into an expansive, rolling sea. Mandrel looked out across the swells of glowing grass with a growing unease, for there was something about the evening that didn’t sit right with him. The horses had been restless, stomping their feet and tossing their heads, giving soft nickers of apprehension. There didn’t seem to be any reason for their behavior. There were no predators about, and no storms hung over the horizon. Just a tight, lingering tension in the air that Mandrel couldn’t place.
He stood at the edge of the village, Elder Hammon at his side. The expression on Hammon’s face was long and grim, the copper rings of his thin gray braids tinkling softly. He stood with his hands on his hips, regarding the shadows beyond the village with a persistent frown.
“Something comes,” he said, and Mandrel agreed, though he didn’t know what.
His gaze followed the direction of Hammon’s stare, and his stomach tightened. To the north, there was a patch of sky that seemed darker than the rest, as though clouds had blotted out the light of the stars in that place. But there were no clouds in the sky; it was a clear night, and all the other myriad stars glimmered like gems strewn across the velvet darkness. Except for that one, dark swath of sky, low on the horizon.
“Something comes,” he agreed. Mandrel glanced back over his shoulder at the center of the village, where his people had gathered around the evening bonfire. Their songs and laughter drifted toward him, sounds of normalcy and blissful ignorance. Every person he cared about was seated around that fire, a thought that made him shiver.
“Send the women and children away,” he told Hammon. “Have them flee but do not ask where they are going, just in case. Warn the stallion of what comes.” With that, he drew the sword he always wore at his side, a weapon he trained with unceasingly and yet had never wielded in war.
“At once, Dedicant.” Hammon bowed curtly and left, striding back toward the sod huts of the village.
Mandrel kept his attention fixed on the north, on the dark expanse of shadow that seemed to be growing larger by the second. Behind him, the cheerful sounds of evening were replaced by cries of dismay, shouts and clamor destroying the peace of the night. The village collapsed quickly into disorder as men scrambled to collect their weapons and women rushed to collect their children. Within moments, Mandrel was joined by a line of shirtless men who stood with swords and bows, sheaths of arrows dripping from their bodies and clustered about them on the ground.
“What is it?” asked Namud, a tall and muscular man who was considered the strongest warrior of the village. His eyes scanned the horizon, at last narrowing when he spotted the nothingness that approached.
“The horse-killers come,” Mandrel informed them all. Never had he seen them, but he knew their wickedness. They came from the north on black wings.
“The Disavowed,” said Hammon, and Mandrel nodded.
The sounds of hoofbeats rose and then grew distant behind him, bearing his loved ones away to safety. His heart and prayers went with them, though their lives were not important. It was the Elesium that must be saved at all cost, the Great Horses of the plains, purest spirits born of the blood of the Mother.
As the sounds of hoofbeats faded, stillness enshrouded the village, chilling the hearts of the men who had stayed behind. They were warriors, one and all, born and bred to defend the Great Horses of the plains. It was that sacred duty that burned hot in their blood and gave them the courage to stand against the evil that rode the shadows toward them.
“Go,” Mandrel ordered Hammon. “Ride to the dragonmen and bring them word of our fate.”
For a moment, the old warrior made no move, but stood considering him
with a look of profound respect and weary sadness. Then he nodded, touching his hand to his brow. “May your spirit ride the winds home.”
Mandrel touched his own hand to his brow, though he did not reply, for he knew that his spirit would never find the Greenest Pastures. He watched Hammon sheath his sword and walk away, wading out into the grass of the plains, where he would summon a stallion to bear him away. After he was gone, Mandrel stood in silence with the rest, waiting for hell to descend.
He did not wait long.
The stars overhead disappeared one by one as though gobbled up by shadows that expanded to consume the sky. The evening chilled and darkened, the grass losing its silver glow as night advanced upon them. The wind stilled, as though the earth itself had paused, holding its breath in anticipation.
They crossed the grasslands like a swarm of locusts, dark forms that moved like insects, advancing at impossible speed, teeming over the prairie like spiders erupting from an egg sac. A terrible screech echoed across the sky and a winged form glided by overhead, a black dragon of the enemy. Upon its back sat a human rider garbed in dark armor, wearing an iron helm with two horns swept backward like a goat’s.
There were hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. They chattered as they advanced, mandibles clicking in an insectoid tongue that sounded like an army of cicadas. All up and down the line of men, he heard the sounds of struggle followed by the guttural moans of death. When the first creature came at him, Mandrel found himself confronted by a demon armored in a black enameled carapace that was segmented at the joints, its forelimbs ending in sharp spikes. Though humanoid, it wasn’t human, but had the jaws and long, slanted eyes of a mantis.
Summoning every drop of fortitude that he could muster, Mandrel swung his sword, driving it hard into the creature’s shoulder, in the gap between plates of armor. The thing screeched, black ichor splattering his face. He screamed as the caustic fluid ate away at his skin, dissolving his flesh with a hissing noise.
