by Phil Tucker
Their reprieve was brief. Out of nowhere, a flood of flames tore into the world, sundering the silence with an all-consuming roar, heading right for them.
“We have to attack!” yelled Tiron. “Now! Before it’s too late!”
VERY WELL, said Draumronin. The dragon furled its wings, dipped its head, and fell into a plummet. Tiron became weightless, then floated up. He grabbed the dragon’s horn to anchor himself, and in a matter of moments his feet were above his head.
“For Iskra!” he yelled, his words stolen by the wind an instant after they left his mouth. “For Iskra, for Shaya, for the Order of the Star!”
CHAPTER 9
Tharok
There was no time. Tharok could feel urgency crushing down upon him, the need to find this damned Ascendant and get out of this human-wrought mountain, but the way was perilous. Following the crack up into the heart of Starkadr, he was forced to leap and scramble as he’d not done since he was a child, climbing the impossible faces of the Five Peaks back home.
This rock glistened even in the dark and was treacherously smooth. Grunting, he warmed to his task, his muscles growing limber, his legs powering up steep inclines or throwing him up in impossible jumps to scale cracks, chasms, and rents in the rocks.
It was an oblique shaft they were climbing. It had started wide enough to march an army into, but the higher they climbed, the narrower it became. Staring up ahead, Tharok wondered if they’d be able to squeeze all the way up. If they were entering a maze within the broken heart of this stonecloud. If there was any chance of finding a dozen humans in the center of this nightmarish morass of cracks and caverns.
Kethe was fighting to keep up. The shamans and warriors had managed to remain with him by stepping through the green Portals that the shamans carved into the air to traverse every few hundred yards of ascent.
Tharok knew he should pace himself. If he’d been wearing the circlet, perhaps he would have. But the desire to climb, to push himself to the utmost, had him riled up, and he only threw himself harder and faster at the slopes. His talons scored thin scratches into the edges of ledges, and his muscles burned as he hauled himself up. The demons could return at any moment.
There was no time to waste.
“There!” Kethe cried out from behind in little more than a gasp. “I sense them coming!”
Tharok paused, standing on the very edge of a ledge, swaying as he caught his breath, his great chest swelling and falling as he breathed in tremendous gasps of air. He stared up and saw nothing. Just more impenetrable darkness.
Then, slowly, like the hint of dawn behind the mountains an hour before the sun was actually due to rise, he saw it: a faint golden glow that appeared indirectly, reflected on the rocks, heralding something’s approach.
“Yes!” Kethe cried, and with a grunt she leaped and landed next to him, nearly stumbling on the rough footing of the ledge. Tharok shot out a hand and closed it around her shoulder, steadying her. She didn’t flinch at his touch, but looked up, nearly rapturous. “It’s them!”
Green flame hissed into being at their side, and a Portal cut itself into existence, spilling forth shamans and warriors who crowded alongside Tharok. Everyone stilled and stared up.
The glow grew ever brighter, and then a sphere of soft, refulgent light came into view, some twenty or thirty people hovering in its center as if within a dream: a number of warriors, blades drawn; a dozen priests in flowing robes; and a young male floating, cross-legged, eyes closed.
“Mother!” Kethe’s voice rang and echoed up the shaft. “Mother!”
“Kethe?” The older woman was startled, and Tharok heard a gasp, almost a sob of relief. “Kethe, is that you?”
“Hurry! We can’t keep the demons distracted for much longer!”
“We’re coming!” called Kethe’s mother, moving to the fore of the group, staring down at where they were standing. “Do you know the way out? This place is a labyrinth!”
“Yes, follow us! Hurry!”
The globe descended ever quicker, and in moments slowed and stopped a few yards overhead. It was strange, Tharok thought, to gaze up at the soles of people’s boots, to see them peering down between their legs at him. Was this what water spirits saw when they looked up from the depths of lakes at the living?
“Kragh?” The man who spoke was large for a human. He was burly and bearded, as if he’d come down from the wilderness and had not bothered with the soft ways of the Empire. If the humans had mountain kragh, he would have been one such.
“Kragh,” said Tharok, baring his tusks. He’d relish a fight with this man. “I am Tharok, known as the Uniter, leader of the kragh horde.” His words rang off the rocks much as Kethe’s earlier yell had done. “I’ve come with Kethe to guide you out. We have greater evils to fight. Come!”
Not waiting for their outrage, their cries of protest, he turned and leaped. Down he fell, the wind tearing at his thick ropes of hair, and landed some twenty yards below on a new outcrop of stone. He sank into a crouch with a grunt, one hand splayed on the rock before him, then rose. The pain that had flared in his knees and ankles faded away. He stepped to the edge and leaped down once more.
In such manner he led them down, and in doing so saw the passageways and tunnels that led off the shaft they had climbed. It would have been easy to become lost. Instinct cultivated from a life spent amongst the peaks guided him, however, and he led them ever faster down to the entrance. Kethe leaped lithely down alongside him, a faint corona of white fire limning her frame as she fell through the air.
Down, down, until the gloom grew lighter and he saw the mouth of the shaft below, sunlight almost painfully bright illuminating the wrecked base of Starkadr. Tharok drew World Breaker and leaped out to fall a good sixty yards right down to the ground. The rocks shattered beneath his weight. Silently, he rose to his feet, and without looking up to check on the progress of the others, he marched out into the sunshine.
It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust, and then he stopped. Had he stepped out into the spirit world? The sky was cut by myriad roads of flame, crisscrossing with ever greater complexity. The air was baking hot, bruised by fire to a pale orange, and everywhere demons of every description were hovering, watching as dragons dove and darted beneath the skein of fire.
Tharok inhaled till he felt his ribs creak, his chest expanding to its maximum, and then bellowed in his avalanche of a voice, cupping one hand to his mouth: “MAUR! COME!”
Kethe stumbled out beside him and froze as she took in the impossible sight above them. Moments later, a green Portal cut open beside them, and his kragh spilled forth.
His yell had drawn attention. Demons seemed to stir to life, orienting on him, great and small. Tharok held World Breaker before him with both hands, ready to withstand the first attack, and then golden light flowed past him and he was enveloped by the sphere.
Grunting in surprise, he turned and saw that the young man had opened his eyes – eyes that burned with white fire. “Greetings, Tharok. I am the Ascendant. Blessed be this meeting.”
The golden light overhead burst into a profusion of sparks as something ricocheted off. Most of the humans flinched. There was barely enough room within the sphere for Tharok’s kragh and the humans. They were pressed in tightly, struggling to keep as much space between them as possible.
“Who rescues us?” asked Kethe’s mother. She had Kethe’s auburn hair and an air of crisp command that allowed her to be heard without raising her voice.
“Ser Tiron,” said Kethe. She moved up alongside her mother and hugged her fiercely before drawing back. “You won’t believe what has come to pass, Mother. You’ll have to see it.”
Another impact, then a dozen all at once. Demons were crowding all around them, lashing out at the sphere.
“How long can we hold?” asked Tharok.
“I don’t know,” said the Ascendant, eerily calm. “I am at the very limits of my strength. Not long.”
Tharok nodded and
then glimpsed the dark-skinned human who had stolen his circlet hiding at the far side of the group. “You,” he said, and something in his tone wrested people’s attention from the impossible battle taking place above them. “You stole my circlet. Where is it?”
The man opened his mouth in dismay and shrank back, but there was nowhere to go. He was saved from having to answer by the explosive appearance of a dragon. One moment demons were swarming all around them, and the next, half of them were swept away by a crimson wing as Skandengraur teleported into existence only yards away.
“Hurry!” cried Ramswold, looking down at them. “Touch Skandengraur!”
“Go,” said the Ascendant, and everyone’s hesitation came to an end. The humans rushed forward to crowd around the dragon’s forelimbs, and then they and the dragon simply vanished.
Kethe, her mother, the Ascendant and the bear warrior remained behind, along with Tharok’s kragh.
Kethe’s mother had taken hold of Kethe’s arm. Her eyes were glassy. “Was that — was that –?”
“Yes, Mother,” Kethe said with a fierce grin. “Wait till you see who’s riding the next one.”
With a convulsive roar, Tiron’s black dragon appeared, blotting out the skies with its outspread wings. The downdraft knocked some of Tharok’s shamans over. With powerful beats it landed, and Tiron gazed down over the dragon’s shoulder at them, his eyes going wide.
“Iskra!” It was a cry torn from his heart. “Thank the Ascendant! Touch the dragon — go!”
Kethe had to drag her mother forward, her bearded guardian moving with her, and at a nod from Tharok his warriors did the same, crowding around each leg and touching it only to disappear a moment before a huge river of fire rushed by, one so bright that Tharok had to shield his eyes. For several seconds, the flames continued to blast on, seeking their prey, and then faded away as if they were spent.
Leaving only Tharok and the Ascendant in place.
A demon appeared in the air above them, like none Tharok had ever seen. Gigantic in stature and lean in body, it seemed to be have been pulled from the heart of Starkadr. Its flesh gleamed like black stone, and its chest was hollow but for raging flame which coursed out only to disappear, truncated a few dozen yards from its source.
“I see you and declare you evil,” said the Ascendant. “I am but a poor vessel for the White Gate’s grace, but in me perhaps you will find your undoing.”
“What are you saying?” asked Tharok, switching World Breaker from one hand to the next.
“Not saying,” said the Ascendant. “Doing. It has been a good life. If this be its end, so be it.”
And with that he began to rise into the air, moving toward the demon, whose flames flared out from its chest.
“No, you don’t,” said Tharok. He leaped up, grabbed the Ascendant by the ankle, and hauled him back down.
The youth appeared genuinely shocked. He kicked his foot, but Tharok refused to let go. “Unhand me!” he insisted.
“No.” Tharok grinned up at him. “We came to rescue you. The Sky Father damn me if I let you kill yourself now.”
The demon screamed. It was the sound of a conflagration being whipped into a fury by hurricane winds. It threw its arms open wide, then brought them around in a thunderous clap, causing a cavalcade of flame to descend in a mad torrent toward Tharok and the Ascendant.
Tharok bellowed his defiance right back, one hand still clutching the writhing Ascendant’s ankle, and raised World Breaker with the other so as to parry hell.
The air before them was torn asunder as Flamska burst into existence, moving at incredible speed. Only Tharok’s enhanced reflexes allowed him to make the leap. Dragging the Ascendant, he threw himself into Flamska’s path, glimpsing the demon’s fires only a few yards behind her tail. Massive talons closed around him and the Ascendant, and then they were gone.
CHAPTER 10
Iskra
The dragon scales were each the size of an ebon coin and supple like a coat of mail. The cacophony of Ennoia was replaced by the gloom of Bythos, and only Kethe’s hand on Iskra’s arm kept her from stumbling, overwhelmed by what had just transpired.
They’re warm, she thought, the words floating through her mind as she gazed up at Tiron, into his blazing eyes – Tiron, who was riding a dragon and had just saved her from death. They’re warm, like sunbaked stones.
Shouts erupted from the kragh army as Tharok appeared, clutched in the talons of another dragon. She knew she should be imposing order on the situation, should be asserting herself — she was the Ascendant’s Grace — but Tiron was sliding down the dragon’s wing, his eyes never leaving her own. His boots hit the broken shale with a crunch, then he strode over to her swept his hands into her hair, and pulled her away from Kethe. His lips locked onto her own and oh by the White Gate, yes.
Iskra closed her eyes and returned his fervent kiss, as hungry for his touch as he clearly was for hers. Her hands cupped his head to find his hair spiky with sweat, and his armor cut into her flesh, but she didn’t care. His stubble rasped against her cheeks, his hands were strong as he pressed her against him, and even the shouting and chaos and the madness that the world had descended into seemed to recede as everything narrowed down to this one perfect moment.
All too soon, Tiron broke the kiss and pulled back just enough that he could look deep into her eyes. There was anger there, passion, a smoldering desire that lit a fire within her core.
“I am never,” he said hoarsely, “ever leaving your side again.”
“Good,” she managed.
It was almost too much. His gaze was so intense. Yet she was the equal of it, had passed through her own transformative fires. Reaching up, she traced the length of his jaw, feeling a sense of wonder that he had exploded back into her life after she had given him up for lost.
“I love you,” he said, and he was shaking, she realized. His arms around her were trembling, strong as they might be. “I love you, Iskra Kyferin, and I don’t care what you do or whom you marry. As long as I draw breath, my soul and sword are yours.”
Her eyes flooded with tears, and she kissed him again. A different kiss, not the ravaging hunger of a forest fire, but a deeper, harder kiss of longing and need.
THIS IS YOUR WOMAN?
Iskra’s eyes snapped open to see a dragon peering at her over Tiron’s shoulder. It was as large as a haycart, magnificently adorned with curving horns that flared back from its skull, and with eyes as depthless and wise as the darkest night sky. The sight filled her with awe and panic, and brought home again the multiplicity of impossibilities that had somehow become their shared reality over the span of the past hour.
“Yes,” said Tiron, holding her close and half-turning. “At least, I wish she was. Draumronin, may I present you to the Empress of Agerastos, Iskra Kyferin.”
“He’s dead,” she blurted. “The Emperor. I killed him.”
Tiron stilled. “You killed him?”
“He was torturing me with his magic. I provoked him so that he cast too much. It drained him, killed him. He’s gone.”
Tiron’s arm tensed around her, and a murderous gleam entered his eye. “He tortured you?”
Something of herself came back to her, and she took a half-step back. Not leaving his embrace entirely, but regaining some measure of her poise, her own innate strength. “Yes. But that was his undoing. It allowed me to take control of his army and with it liberate the Ascendant.”
Tiron’s expression darkened. “I should never have left your side. If he weren’t dead, I’d –”
“Hush, Tiron.” She reached up and touched his cheek. “Thank you, but it’s done. If anything, feel pity for him. I do. In the end, Enderl got him too. Twisted him into a broken reflection of himself. He’s gone. Let him be.”
Tiron looked down for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met, Iskra. No – what am I saying? The strongest person.”
She laughed. “Hardly, but thank you.”
She glanced up as Draumronin moved with surprising grace to join the other two dragons. They seemed to communicate in silence, and then, as one, disappeared. “Where did they go?”
Tiron blanched. “I don’t — Ramswold! What just happened?”
Before the young knight could respond, the three dragons re-appeared. A charred mass lay before them.
It was a dragon. The few places where its hide was not blackened shone white.
“Rauda,” said Tiron, his voice little more than a pained croak. “Shaya. They died on their first assault on the great demon.”
“The ur-destraas?” Iskra whispered. “You attacked it?”
“We tried. We didn’t get very far, even with four dragons.”
Draumronin took Rauda’s corpse in its front claws and then beat its wings powerfully, sending stinging winds through the crowd. It lurched off the ground and climbed higher into the air, and the other two dragons followed. Silence fell throughout the kragh and the humans. Everyone watched as the three dragons flew higher, spiraling around each other until, just before they reached the aurora infernalis, Draumronin let loose a bugling cry of loss and released Rauda’s corpse.
It fell, and the three dragons dove after it, strafing it with dragon flame as they swooped by. In moments, it was reduced to little more than ash, which the wind diffused so that her remains disappeared into the Bythian sky.
The three dragons voiced their grief once more, their cry echoing out across the badlands, and remained aloft, slowly flying past each other in a series of mournful loops.
“Shaya,” said Ramswold, moving to the small bundle of burnt rags and bones that had remained on the ground. “Oh, Shaya.”
Tiron led Iskra with him, and others gathered to form a circle around the pitifully small corpse. The demon’s flame had reduced her to the size of a child, erasing any distinguishing features, causing her to shrivel up and curl into herself.
