by Phil Tucker
“You think this a mistake?”
“Yes, of course.” His smile was pitifully sad, and that more than anything caused Kethe to feel a spike of alarm. “I’ve been there, remember. I’ve had demons within me. They change you. Are we looking at Erenthil’s future army in the making? How many of these men and women will take his offer and come back to study under him? My hand is forced. I risk much in my plan. I cannot risk revealing my hand to him… But enough. We must trust in their strength. Though I do fear that this cure will be the death of us in the long run.”
Kethe had no response to offer; she didn’t even completely understand Audsley’s rambling words. She watched as, one by one, every Vothak and Sin Caster swallowed their gem, and felt the skin along the back of her neck and arms crawl with nascent horror.
CHAPTER 30
Tiron
Tiron stepped away from Iskra and the group and walked toward the meadow’s edge. The grass whispered against his greaves, and a soft wind riffled his sweat-soaked hair and cooled the nape of his neck. He stopped a yard from the stonecloud’s edge and gazed out over the nocturnal landscape. Fields lay below, divided by hedges and ancient walls of cunningly piled stones. A village lay perhaps a mile off to the right; Tiron could make out windows lit a cheery yellow against the encroaching dark.
He felt truly and terribly alive. It was a sensation he knew well, something he had once equated with being at peace: a feeling that descended upon him during protracted battles and sieges, when his life was in constant danger and could be ended at any moment.
Yet toward the end of his career with the Black Wolves, he’d realized there was nothing of peace to it; one could never truly be at peace with imminent death, not while the urge to win guided every thought and action. Instead, he’d come to think of it as a feeling of immediacy, of being absolutely and terrifyingly present in the moment, completely inhabiting his body and reacting to the world around him. The more awful the pressure, the more his thoughts were channeled into the present. Some men could operate in this manner, becoming calm and focused and seemingly inured to the danger around them.
Others broke.
Tiron forced himself to take a deep breath, square his shoulders, and close his eyes. Never in his life had there been so much at stake as in this moment. It was overwhelming to consider the consequences of failure. Already, the price they had paid in terms of lives lost beggared his mind. This was to be their final sortie, their last attempt to wrest victory from the very jaws of defeat.
He had to contribute, to make a difference. He’d not stand to the side while Asho and the others fought for humanity – but all his experience, cunning, and savagery in battle were useless against their foes. His only contribution had lain with Draumronin, who was gone.
He closed his eyes tighter. Where are you, you black bastard?
He got no response. Just a sense of vast emptiness, no doubt influenced by his view of the dark, rolling countryside below.
Tiron had been able to sense Draumronin while the dragon was flying around Aletheia, a strange, new sense much like how he could tell where his hands and feet were. But that feeling was gone.
He drew his blade, rested its tip on the earth, then knelt and pressed his brow to the cross guard. The metal was cold, the edges were sharp, and he scowled as he pushed deeper into himself to search for some sign, some flicker of Draumronin’s presence.
He recalled the monster’s immensity, its huge scales edged in gray, the old scars, the sinuous neck. The vast shovel head, the fangs as large as his hand, the glow of wisdom and wry mockery in its glowing eyes.
Draumronin! he thought, hurling the name into the void. Where are you?
Nothing.
Tiron opened his eyes and scowled past his sword at the countryside beyond. He’d forged a connection to the dragon, had been able to speak with it through his thoughts alone. Had that bond snapped?
“Kethe! Asho!” His roar caused them both to startle. “A moment. Now.”
He could have phrased his request better, but he wasn’t feeling diplomatic. Both hurried over, Asho flying a foot off the ground.
“What is it?” asked the Bythian, his annoyance barely masked.
“I overheard you talking about a conduit between the two of you,” Tiron replied. “A bond you share. You can see it?”
Kethe nodded. “Yes. It’s akin to a glowing white cord between us.”
“Can you strengthen it?” Tiron searched for the right words. “Pour your magic into it? Make it more visible?”
They shared a look. “I don’t know,” said Asho. “We’ve never had to in the past.”
“Can you see other people’s conduits? Can you see if I have one connecting me to Draumronin?”
“Draumronin?” Kethe hesitated. “Let me try.”
She closed her eyes and bit her lower lip, extending her palm toward Tiron as if she expected to touch a wall at any moment.
“Here,” said Asho. “Let me help.” He reached out and touched Tiron’s shoulder.
“What are you doing?” asked Tiron.
“I don’t know,” Asho said with a mirthless smile. “I’m making this up as I go along. But maybe if I pour some magic into you, it’ll help Kethe see it.”
Tiron clamped down on the urge to shake off Asho’s hand. The idea of a Sin Caster pouring magic into him struck at the core of his upbringing and made his skin crawl. But his discipline asserted itself, and he stood still.
Warmth flooded into his shoulder and then emanated down into his chest. It made his mouth feel sticky, his throat tighten up. His heart began to race, and beads of sweat broke out along his brow.
“There,” Kethe said faintly. “I think that’s it. It’s coming out here.” She tapped his sternum. “It’s little more than a thread.”
“Can you strengthen it?” His voice was hoarse.
“Asho, do you feel it?” She guided Asho’s hand down from Tiron’s shoulder to his chest. “Right here. Feel that?”
“Yes,” Asho said after a moment. “A leaking. As if there’s a gap here in his skin, and his — I don’t know what to call it — is pouring out. Not dripping, continuous. But very little.”
Tiron felt like he was lying in a field surgeon’s tent, listening to whether his leg was going to be cut off.
Asho narrowed his eyes. “I can’t bolster his connection — that’s made of his own spirit stuff. But perhaps I can open the aperture, allowing more through...?” He looked questioningly at Tiron.
“Do it,” said Tiron.
Asho closed his eyes, and Tiron felt a stab of heat into his chest, as if a knife had been plunged into his core and was being twisted to lever his ribs apart. He bit back a cry, and then the sensation was gone.
“There,” said Asho. “What do you see?”
“It’s stronger,” said Kethe. “Much stronger. It’s pouring out now. Tiron, are you all right?”
“Fine,” rasped Tiron. He felt light-headed, wanted to sit down, and something felt wrong inside his chest, a loose, liquid feeling he’d not had before. But he’d be damned if he’d complain. “Give me a moment.”
He closed his eyes again and searched within himself, pushed at that loose feeling, tried to dive into it. Draumronin. Where are you?
He waited, listening to his racing heartbeat, then sighed and opened his eyes. “It didn’t work. Thank you —”
TIRON, came the dragon’s voice, echoing from deep within him.
“Got him!” Tiron gasped, then lifted a hand, warding away questions. Draumronin. You live. How badly wounded are you?
BADLY, BUT WITH THE PASSAGE OF TIME, I WILL HEAL.
Where are you?
I FOLLOW SKANDENGRAUR HOME. SOON, I WILL SLEEP. FORGIVE ME, TIRON. YOU WERE A WORTHY RIDER.
You can’t go, Tiron thought fiercely. The battle’s not yet over. We need you.
THE UR-DESTRAAS TRIUMPHED, the dragon said wearily. TO PERSIST WOULD BE FOLLY. I WILL SLEEP AND FIGHT ANOTHER DAY.
So
, that’s it? You’re giving up? Accepting defeat?
YES.
Tiron’s eyes snapped open, and he gazed out over the dark landscape, searching the shadows as he groped for a response.
You’re wise, he thought at last. You know as well as I do that the odds are against us. No – to call them odds means thinking we have a chance. It’s a near certainty that we’re going to die.
YOUR REALISM BEHOOVES YOU, said Draumronin. IT IS WHAT DREW ME TO YOU WHEN I AWOKE – YOUR COMBINATION OF SAVAGERY AND EXPERIENCE.
Thank you. But I’m not going to back down.
I UNDERSTAND. THIS IS YOUR EMPIRE, YOUR PEOPLE, FOR WHOM YOU FIGHT. YOU WOULD RATHER DIE THAN ADMIT DEFEAT.
That’s not it, thought Tiron. I’m not afraid of defeat.
There was a pause.
NO? THEN WHY DO YOU CHOOSE DEATH?
Because I’d rather die than live a hollow existence, thought Tiron. Before my wife died, I might have thought otherwise. But no longer. I’ve come to see that my very experience in battle has come to limit me. I can gauge the odds; I know when there’s a chance and when something is rank foolishness to attempt. But that voice of hard-earned reason limits me. It tells me what’s possible, and in doing so prevents me from ever changing the world.
The dragon didn’t respond.
Tiron went on gazing out into the dark, ignoring Asho and Kethe, who were standing just behind him. His emotions were finally falling into place, along with his understanding of what had so impressed him about Ramswold’s charge at the edge of the Dragon’s Tear. Why he’d been drawn to the Order of the Star. Who he sought to be.
One can come to so thoroughly understand the world – how it works, who has power, who always wins, what strategies will lead to victory and which to defeat – that one begins to accommodate that reality. We come to believe we know what’s possible and what isn’t. Beings like you and me survive long after others have fallen, but we don’t change anything. We never achieve the impossible. We start no revolutions. We perform no miracles. Our experience keeps us alive, but it’s a half-life. And I’ll not live that way any longer.
Still, Draumronin did not respond, though Tiron could feel the dragon thinking, the turning of its thoughts.
I’m going to go back and face the ur-destraas because I want to be the kind of person who tries the impossible — if doing so is the right thing. I want to change this world, I want to save it, and listening to experience now will only prevent me from doing so. So, fuck experience. Fuck living to fight another day. I’ll be damned to the Black Gate and back if I’ll retreat and accept defeat. I’m going to die trying to do what’s right.
THERE IS A WORD FOR YOUR KIND, said Draumronin.
Oh?
MARTYR.
Tiron’s head rocked back as if he’d been punched in the chin. He tried to refute the accusation but found himself unable to do so.
I UNDERSTAND YOUR PASSION, said Draumronin. YOU HAVE BUT A SCORE OF YEARS LEFT IN YOUR LIFE. THE FATE OF YOUR KIND IS AT STAKE, THAT OF YOUR VERY CIVILIZATION. I UNDERSTAND YOUR WILLINGNESS TO DIE. TO BE A MARTYR.
“No,” said Tiron. Anger and denial flared within him. Was the dragon right? Was this a natural response to the influences in his life, and not an epiphany based on the flowering of love and hope and idealism he’d experienced these past few months?
No, he said. I told you. It doesn’t matter what my odds of winning or losing are. This isn’t a grand gesture based on a certainty of death. I’m not risking death for a cause, but rather for myself.
YOURSELF?
Aye, my bloody self. I’ve always prided myself on being exactly who I am — on not letting anything dictate my behavior, and I’ll hold to that right up until my end. I’ll be the man I wish to be, and that man is one who’ll fight in the hope of winning even when his experience tells him he’ll die. I don’t go to my death – I go to win against all odds. And in doing so, I’ll truly be living at long last, and not some half-dormant beast that’s only roused by the prospect of righteous slaughter.
Tiron felt a weight slide from his shoulders, leaving behind a clarity that had eluded him before, a way to square his newfound beliefs with his sense of self. He sheathed his blade.
Go on, Draumronin. Go back to your cavern and your eon-spanning slumber. Go back to your twilight existence, awaiting your next call so that you can kill again if the odds suit you. Go back to your half-life, your life without meaning, without cause, without a point. I’ll most likely die in a few hours, but I’ll die laughing. You? You’ll fade from the memory of this world, having never truly made your mark on it.
He got no reply.
“What’s going on?” asked Asho.
“I told Draumronin to fuck off,” said Tiron.
“You — you insulted the dragon?” asked Kethe.
The sky before them was rent by Draumronin’s sudden appearance. Its wingspan blotted out the stars, each downbeat causing a gale to riot across the surface of the meadow and bend the trees. The dragon’s eyes glowed high above Tiron, and fulminous crimson flickers emanated from the depths of its gullet.
YOU DARE? Draumronin’s voice echoed in Tiron’s bones. YOU DARE INSULT ME SO?
“Aye,” Tiron said, planting his hands on his hips. “You know I do. What’s more, that anger you’re feeling should tell you something. It should tell you that my words found their mark. That there’s something to them.”
The dragon landed on the edge of the stonecloud, and such was its weight that the entirety of the Isle of Nethys tipped over a few degrees, eliciting shouts of alarm from behind. Huge wounds gaped where the demon had shredded the dragon’s hide, massive cuts that wrapped around Draumronin’s chest and back, each easily several feet deep, and bones gleaming whitely in their depths. Black blood flowed freely down over the dragon’s scales.
Draumronin’s great head lowered until it was level with Tiron, and its breath scalded the knight’s face and hands. YOUR VANTAGE ON LIFE IS PITIFUL AND LIMITED. YOU SPEAK WITH THE INSIGHT OF A CHILD. YOU KNOW NOTHING OF INFINITY.
“Maybe not,” Tiron replied. “But I don’t care, either. Children, fools, and madmen are as likely to tell the truth as anyone else. So, rather than insult me, tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t wonder about the point of it all: Your eternal servitude. Your slow accumulation of scars that lose all meaning in time. Your talk of lances of ice and wars of perdition that mean nothing to anyone but yourself. Tell me you haven’t thought of giving up, of sinking into a sleep so deep it’s tantamount to death. Not out of fear, not out of boredom, but out of despair.”
Draumronin glared at him. Fire snuffled around its nostrils, and steam curled up from its wounds as its blood boiled.
I HAVE ALREADY RISKED DEATH FOR YOU, said Draumronin. FOR ALL OF YOU. IF I DO NOT SLEEP NOW, I WILL DIE.
“And I thank you,” said Tiron. “With all my heart, I do. Riding with you into battle has been the greatest honor of my life. But if I’m right, if any of my words have struck home, then stay with me. Let’s ride one last time. Let’s show those demon fucks we’re not afraid to defy them right up to the end. But more important yet, let’s show ourselves that our lives mean something.”
YOU DERIVE MEANING FROM DEATH.
“No, you glorious bastard. I create my own meaning while I live. And I value it so much that I’m willing to die for it.”
THIS WAR OF YOURS MEANS NOTHING TO ME.
“You lie. It might mean something different to you than it does me, but it means something. Fighting those demons, whatever they represent to you, means something. Stopping that ur-destraas means something. What it means, I can’t claim to know. As you said, I know nothing about infinity. But this struggle, this fight – it bloody well means something, or you wouldn’t have come back here to challenge me over it.”
The entire stonecloud seemed to hold its breath as Draumronin’s head rose into the night sky. Tiron had nothing left to say; he’d never talked so much in his life. But his every living m
oment seemed to him to have led to this confrontation, to allow him to speak those words. He’d spoken his piece. The rest was up to the dragon.
THERE ARE THREE OF THEM NOW, said Draumronin. YOU REALIZE THIS.
“Three of them?” Tiron frowned. “Three of... oh.” The knowledge pierced him like a lance square to the chest. It was all he could do to keep from flinching.
YOU STILL WISH TO FIGHT? KNOWING THIS?
“I — yes.” He coughed, cleared his throat, and a burst of anger took him by the throat. “It changes nothing. You hear me? Nothing.”
Draumronin regarded him in silence. The wind blew mournfully over the meadow, causing the long grass to whisper, and finally the dragon bowed its head. VERY WELL, SER TIRON. I SHALL BEAR YOU INTO BATTLE ONE LAST TIME.
The breath flooded out of Tiron, and he wanted to fall to his knees. Instead, he bowed low before the dragon.
“Thank you, Draumronin. Thank you.”
Kethe let out a little cheer, and when Tiron looked over his shoulder, he saw her grinning and hugging Asho, who was shaking his head in amazement.
“All right,” said Tiron. “There’s nothing to celebrate yet. Let’s get everyone together. It’s time to strategize. We’re going to have one last chance to steal that circlet. Let’s make it count.”
CHAPTER 31
Iskra
The Ascendant recused himself, leaving the planning of the final encounter to Iskra. She watched him step away to sit beneath one of the trees, where he formed the triangle with his hands and closed his eyes.
She felt a surge of frustration that she ruthlessly suppressed. She was his Grace. Her very purpose was to orchestrate the defense of the Empire. It was right and proper that she should be the one to take control at this juncture, yet at that moment, watching the youth sitting in silent meditation, she felt a flash of envy and resentment so strong, it startled her.
“Erenthil,” she called out to the Artificer, who was working with the Sin Casters, and a second later he was at her side. She couldn’t stand his placid, contented look, his obvious enjoyment of the proceedings, but she choked that back. “We’re going to use your home to plan the attack. Open the door and welcome us in.”
