Erlestoke shook his head. Even using every last ounce of firedirt they possessed, they couldn’t have loosened a single block. “And it’s too wide to defend against what is pursuing us.”
Ryswin, who had stopped twenty yards on, looked back at him. “What do we do?”
Before Erlestoke could answer, an arrow slanted down from above and tugged at the elf’s shoulder. Blood splashed on the snow, but Ryswin did not go down. The arrow had only grazed him. He twisted out of the way of another shot, then danced back as he nocked an arrow of his own.
He drew and shot as everyone else began to run for the bridge. Behind and above them came the hoots and howls of gibberers. Arrows flew. Most went long or wide, though one did hit the quadnel and get caught between barrels. Ahead someone went down with an arrow in the back of his thigh.
Erlestoke gave Jullagh-tse a shove. “Get Nygal.”
The prince turned, drew a bead on one of the leading gibberers, then squeezed the trigger on his quadnel.
Nothing happened.
The priming dust had blown out of the hole. He eared the hammer back, drew his powder horn, and calmly reprimed. The gibberers howled and shrieked as they rushed forward. Longknives gleamed in the air. From the right Jancis snapped off a shot that dropped one gibberer, but that effort would fall far short of what was needed to stem the tide of onrushing troops.
Even if my every shot counted for ten . . .
He squeezed the trigger again. The hammer snapped. Priming powder burned. A heartbeat later the quadnel thundered and bucked against his shoulder. It ejected smoke and fire.
A running gibberer fell.
And then another.
The thunder built, echoing from the canyon walls. There, either side of them, waiting in the rocks, were draconetteers. Meckanshii! Erlestoke couldn’t believe it. How did they get here?
A tiny winged shape buzzed in front of him. His four fast-moving wings dispersed the smoke as he hovered. “Quick, Highness, quick, come quick.” He grabbed Erlestoke’s left shoulder and pulled.
The prince turned and started running as fast as he could. Behind him, gibberers howled, but from frustration. Glancing back, he could see them retreating, leaving a dozen or more bodies in reddening snow.
A man reached him. Though the man was wearing a black mask, the prince recognized him from the scars on his cheek and his white hair. “Crow. How is it you are here?”
“The Spritha, Qwc. We knew a fragment of the Dragon Crown was heading through Sarengul, and Qwc knew where he was supposed to be. We just followed.” Crow turned and pointed with a silverwood bow toward the bridge. “The rest of our men are on the other side, along with our horses. We deployed our meckanshii, and have the rest holding the way out.”
From around the edges of the valley the meckanshii began to pull back. At the northern end, the gibberers had drawn together into a group. They appeared to be reluctant to advance again.
Then the cloaked figure entered the valley. The gibberers drew away from him. He came forward, ignoring the draconette shots that spat snow near his feet. He stopped well shy of the corpses, raising his left hand and holding it out expectantly. “Very well, your lives for the Truestone. You have earned that much.”
Will came up beside the prince. “What is that?”
Erlestoke shook his head. “I don’t know, but it has followed me from Fortress Draconis. It’s been shot and worse, but nothing stops it.”
Crow patted the prince on the shoulder. “Let’s move.” He turned and signaled the others. “Let’s go!”
The cloaked figure spoke again. “A second time I offer you your lives. Harken unto me and you need not die.”
Erlestoke straightened and threw back his cloak to reveal the blue-green stone in the harness that had been fashioned for it. “Your life, not ours, for this stone.” He closed his cloak again and turned toward the bridge.
Already on it were a handful of meckanshii and a man he’d met in Crow’s company at Fortress Draconis. He pointed his people to it. “Let’s go.”
From behind the prince rose a keening wail filled with longing and fear, but also an incredible amount of power. It froze Erlestoke’s guts and cut at his knees. He slumped heavily on Crow, and felt the other man begin to go down, too. That sound conjured fears with the numbing power of childhood nightmares and left him quivering.
The pain of sinking to one knee shocked Erlestoke’s mind to clarity, and he wished it had not. When his head came up, he found himself looking at the bridge. Then a vast, cruciform shadow passed over him, the edges of it rippling against the canyon’s stone walls. From overhead a creature drifted into his vision. He had seen its like before, but never from that angle. And never had he felt so much like prey.
The dragon, its horned, serpentine head flashing a coppery red in the sunlight, soared lazily forward with the ease of a hawk. Erlestoke could feel the touch of its gaze like a lash across his back. If it wanted to take him, it could, and there was nothing that could be done to stop it.
The dragon’s mouth opened, affording a momentary view of massive ivory fangs before a boiling gout of fire obscured everything. Thick and furious, the red-gold flames splashed over the center of the span. The stone sentinels at the nearest end melted like candles left too close to an inferno. For the blink of an eye Erlestoke could see Dranae and the others in silhouette at the peak of the span, then they and molten rock poured into the chasm.
The dragon’s passage pulled the fog of melted snow in its wake. It passed over the chasm, then folded its wings and perched on a cliff beyond the far side. Talons clutched stone, crushing sheets of ice that fell below. The creature settled itself, then swathed itself in its wings.
Its eyes blinked, then it spoke in sibilant tones. The words rekindled Erlestoke’s fear. They twisted maggotlike over his flesh and inside his skull. He did not know what they meant, and was certain they would always be beyond his comprehension. And he also knew that were he tortured for a year and a day, he would not sink to the depths of despair he felt at that moment.
From behind him, the cloaked figure spoke clearly. “Gagothmar says he would like the Truestone. It would greatly displease him if he needed to cleanse it of your ashes.”
CHAPTER 66
K errigan’s eyes burned as though they’d been soaked in oil and lit afire. He’d not slept in more than a day. After slaying the sullanciri, he returned to Navval and began to work on ways to defend the city from dragonel shots. Better magickers were given fragments of the ball he’d rescued and used them as foci to deflect incoming shots. Other pieces were made into attractors that drew the shot to certain targets, such as piles of rubble, where they could do little more than reduce stone to gravel.
As the magickers’ efforts to deflect and direct the shots took effect, the Aurolani had begun to direct spells at the city’s defenders. Kerrigan had to leave off working on the dragonel shots and diverted his energies into defending the other magickers. Fortunately, the Conservatory spellcasters worked individual spells, which spread them out enough that he could react to each in turn.
When he had been at Vilwan, the idea of defending so many people against spells from so many magickers would have daunted him. Wizards’ duels so often came down to casting the perfect counter. If your spell could not match the energy in the attack, you could get hurt. Since very few magickers were good enough to measure the energy of an incoming spell, all too often defensive efforts used too much energy. If one wizard had the initiative, strength, and kept attacking, the defender could exhaust himself.
Spell dimensions provided a different way to defend. He stopped offensive spells by casting counterspells that hunted particular dimensional aspects. When his counter located that aspect, it clung to the spell and told the other spell that it had hit its target. The spell then discharged its energy harmlessly. It had worked against Neskartu and his students alike.
He worked hard through the night, despite the booming of the dragonels and the crackle of
fires. The shouts and screams of victims likewise tugged at him, but he forced it all away. With his eyes closed he focused and projected his awareness into the ether around Navval.
Spells approached from the Aurolani camp sporadically. Some came in quickly, burning like dragonel balls. Others drifted like butterflies slowly seeking a blossom. Once he found a spell, he countered it. Most spells accepted the targeting surrogate and discharged prematurely. A couple were a bit more sophisticated—and all the spells began to double-check targeting information by mid-morning, so he actually had to designate alternate targets. The spells did discharge into them, killing a variety of vermin that Kerrigan had sent Bok out to collect for use as targets.
Exhausted and pleased in equal measure, Kerrigan had breakfasted lightly in mid-morning, right after the dragonels had ceased their pounding assault. Some buildings still burned, and a good number of others had been crushed, but the walls remained strong. The resolve of the people likewise defied the Aurolani. Spectators climbed up onto the walls to jeer and shout defiantly at the enemy.
The enemy spellcastings had stopped, but Kerrigan knew enough of warfare not to see this as something other than a sign of surrender. The Aurolani mages had to be as tired as any magicker in Navval. They would retire and rest, as would their counterparts, to be ready to oppose each other again when the coming siege began.
Despite the existence of warmages from Vilwan, and the martial tradition among Murosan sorcerers, magicians traditionally played a tiny part in warfare, save for dueling. The magickal assets of one side tended to neutralize the assets of the other side. Spells could certainly gather information for a general, but the actual fighting usually came down to steel on steel.
Not to mention that an arrow or a sword was usually more than enough to end a sorcerer’s military career.
Given his discussions with Rym Ramoch, Kerrigan wondered for a moment if the present manner of doing things was the way it had always been. Yrulph Kirûn had been powerful enough that he had created the DragonCrown, and commanded an army of dragons. Then he had moved south to try to conquer the world. Was it just the dragons that gave him an edge, or was he able to win battles through the use of magick? Did the martial tradition in Muroso harken back to those days, before Vilwan had been pacified, or had it been adopted as a way to prepare against the return of more militant mages?
He found no answers to those questions as he munched on stale bread and drank watered wine. Neither suited him, but that was what Bok provided. What he really wanted was a chance to sleep, but before he could crawl into bed, he was summoned to the ducal palace and Alexia’s side.
With Bok in tow, he entered the upper chamber of the northern tower. Alexia was resplendent in her golden mail, and he could not help but smile. Her long hair had been gathered back into a single thick braid. The black lace courtesy mask barely hid her features, but added enough mystery to make her that much more alluring.
With her were Sayce and several other local military commanders. All were clustered around a map spread on a low table in the center of the circular room. In the background stood several signal-mages with arcanslata. A balcony ringed the tower, with access provided by east and west doors. Against the north wall, by the window, a stairway moved up to a trapdoor that would allow access to the crenellated tower top.
Alexia looked up and smiled. “There you are, Adept Reese. You should know—no matter what happens from this point forward—that but for your efforts, Navval would have fallen hours ago.”
“Really?” He couldn’t keep the disbelief from his voice. He had known that she wouldn’t lie to him, but the nods and expressions of thanks on the faces of others surprised him. “I didn’t think I did that much.”
Light chuckles met his comment, though Alexia did not laugh. “There were some individuals who felt that by morning, there would be little of the city left. They wanted to surrender it to the Aurolani. Your efforts did not go unnoticed nor unappreciated.”
One of her advisors, a Murosan Magister who had killed two Conservatory mages the previous day, nodded solemnly. “I have not the skill or knowledge to describe what you have been doing, Adept Reese, but if a mere Adept from Vilwan can do what you have done, there is yet hope for the world.”
“Oh. Thank you. I did what I could.”
Alexia waved him over to the map. “I know you’ll need rest, but I have been thinking. In combat, wizards normally neutralize wizards. Would it be possible for you to cast spells that appear to be powerful and lethal, to make their mages defend against them, while the others here can direct their magicks against specific targets?”
The portly mage crossed his arms and stuffed his fingers in his armpits as he thought. “I guess it would be possible. It would require layering a mask over a fairly simple spell. The mask would present itself as an even more powerful spell. I could do some other things, too, to make them think they were Conservatory spells coming in and, oh, if I were to modify the herald spell, then cast something past them and have it launch a masked attack spell, I could make them think they were being attacked from the east, as if we have troops behind them.”
Alyx raised an eyebrow. “That would be a yes?”
He looked up, then nodded, his jowls shaking. “I can do it. I will need some time to prepare things. And to sleep. And I’ll need to eat something substantial.”
Sayce nodded to Alexia and immediately headed out of the room.
The Okrans Princess smiled. “I don’t know how much time you will have.”
A great wailing from the east pierced the chamber. Kerrigan couldn’t identify it, though it sent fear pulsing through his guts. He had a sense that, were he not so tired, he might have been sharp enough to figure it out. Then again, had I all my wits about me, it would probably scare me silly.
The wails and screams of people suddenly mingled with, then drowned out, the original sound. The company moved out the east door and onto the balcony. Kerrigan drifted in their wake and found himself on the south side of the tower, beside Alexia, looking east.
A dragon whose deep purple scales were edged with gold landed toward the rear of the Aurolani camp. It furled its wings, then swept its head back on the end of a long, lithe neck, and looked over its left shoulder at its back. Humanoid figures, a half-dozen of them, slowly dismounted. It was not until they reached the ground and gained perspective that he realized they were hoargoun, and positively huge.
Which means that dragon is enormous.
“Ah, Highness, before you ask, ‘no.’ ”
She smiled at him. “As much as I respect your skills, Kerrigan, were you fed, watered, rested, and studying for weeks, I’d not ask that question.”
From the command pavilion, a tall figure walked through a forest of unit banners. It appeared to address the hoargoun first, for the frost giants began to move forward, and gibberer formations began to line up. Then the figure reached the dragon.
The dragon brought its head down and laid it on the ground. It appeared almost docile. Its tail curled around to cover its side, and its hips and back shifted as the dragon settled in. Wings furled and adjusted, then lay flat. Then the figure pointed toward Navval and the dragon’s head came up.
A signal-mage walked over to Alexia. “Caledo reports a dragon has joined Anarus’ forces. Shall I tell them of this one?”
“Please. Tell them we will advise of conditions once we see what is happening, but that it does not look good.”
“As you wish.”
Suddenly, the dragon reared up. Its wings spread wide, its head rose and let out a ghastly shriek—equal parts outrage and hatred. Its head came back down and its gaze swept over Navval. Kerrigan found himself holding tight to the balcony’s balustrade, wanting to flee, but too terrified to do anything for fear he would be noticed.
With its forepaws clutched to its chest and wings stretched up and out until the tips almost touched above its head, the dragon lumbered forward. It moved as a fowl might, swaying from side to si
de, its tail jauntily bouncing behind it. It knocked over a few banners, and squashed a few gibberers, but those were just the ones who had been upset by the pounding of its heavy tread.
The dragon passed in front of the Aurolani lines, then hopped almost as a vulture would, approaching Navval as if the city were carrion. A few arrows arced out, but they bounced harmlessly off thick scales. The dragon loomed larger, the battleground dolmen barely reaching its breastbone.
Its head lowered again, but any hints of benign intent died as its eyes hardened and its mouth opened. Kerrigan actually felt the heat before he saw flames, then all he saw was a roiling torrent of living fire. It struck the eastern gate and wall hard enough that masonry cracked and stones shifted even before they began to glow. The massive oaken gates blew in like shutters before a cyclone and then, in an eyeblink, became ash stains spread deep into the city.
The people who had been on the wall had begun to run, but it mattered not at all. The dragonfire sought them and herded them. Tendrils curled around them, turning them into living torches. It sprang to find another victim and another. The flame ran along the lines of joinery in the stonework, nibbling at block edges, making them drip turgidly down the walls.
The roar that accompanied the flames came as a blessing, for though it assaulted the ears, it eliminated the terrified screams of the dying. After far too long, the roar slackened into cold silence. The dragon’s head came up and its jaw opened in what Kerrigan could only take to be a grin.
At that moment the mage felt certain of only two things. The first was that he would not live to see the end of the day. The second, and far more important, was that he’d never seen a more beautiful sight in his life; for the dragon’s smile abruptly shrank and its head dipped below the line of the half-melted wall. The body jerked back, hopping clumsily, and it turned with the same craven posture as that of a whipped cur.
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