Iron Will

by James Maxwell

  Around Kyphos the deck was mostly clear: everyone who wasn’t essential had gone below. The sorcerer, Elmar, was down there, green as an olive and retching into a bowl, along with the survivors from Necropolis, bedraggled and terrified with barely space to move among the oarsmen and supplies.

  Kyphos looked out at the horizon.

  Dark clouds covered half the sky, becoming thicker and spreading. A howling wind blew both the waves and the storm toward them, but the helmsman had to keep the bow facing the peaks or the ship would roll. They had no choice. Their path would take them directly into the storm.

  A length of sailcloth blew halfway across the deck while a handful of sailors lunged after it, trying to grab it before it flew off the Targus altogether. The captain called out for everything loose to be lashed down. Kyphos stayed where he was, holding on to the rail and riding the ship’s savage motion. He hadn’t come this far to be defeated by the weather.

  The fierce daylight dimmed as a cloud passed over the midday sun. There was a brief struggle, with the sun flickering like a fire in the wind, trying to find a way to shine its rays through the thickening clouds. The sun lost. The fleet passed beneath the clouds and darkness spread over the sea.

  Kyphos gazed ahead, feeling fear with every wave that loomed over the ship’s mast and looked like it was going to crash down on the ship before it plucked the vessel up and rode it to its peak. The blackest clouds were still in front of them, and he knew it was only going to get worse. Lightning forked down to strike the sea. The flash of it made the scene strange and unreal.

  The crew raced around the deck, checking that every line was tied and every loose bucket or boat hook was fastened. Water sluiced over the men as they ran, knocking them off their feet and sending them skittering from one end of the ship to the other.

  It began to rain.

  Water poured from the sky with sudden force. Fresh water and seawater mingled on the deck. It soaked through Kyphos’s clothing instantly, drenching his hair and sending rivulets trickling down his face and the back of his neck. He blinked, struggling to see. His lips moved in muttered prayer. It was his responsibility to get the fleet home safely.

  Thunder boomed directly overhead. It became as dark as night; they were now in the heart of the storm. Black clouds collided and fought for dominance in the sky.

  Hearing a cry, Kyphos whirled and saw a sailor’s limbs flailing as he fell from the Targus to plunge into the ocean. He saw the man’s body for a moment as he was lifted up on a wave behind the ship. Then he was gone from sight.

  A sailor ran up to Kyphos. ‘Get below!’ he cried, waving his arms and pointing.

  ‘No!’ Kyphos bellowed, shaking his head. ‘This storm won’t defeat us. We will survive!’

  The ship started to roll.

  Kyphos’s gaze shot to the stern. The dark-skinned helmsman was white-faced and nursing his arm, which hung at an odd angle. Kyphos waited until the ship was being lifted up on the next wave and then ran across the deck, lunging from mast to rail. He grabbed anything he could and leaped from one handhold to the next. But he was only halfway to the helmsman when the ship plunged into the sea on the wave’s other side.

  The ship shuddered, and the rolling motion grew stronger; the Targus was at an angle to the waves. Kyphos’s stomach lurched as he felt the hull lifting up again.

  He let go of his handhold and recklessly ran toward the stern, wading through the water swamping the deck. He reached the helmsman and grabbed the stout wooden pole from his one-armed grip. Kyphos gritted his teeth as he tried to pull the helm and force the ship to come about. The oars at the sides were barely splashing; no one could row in this. Everything came down to him.

  Kyphos knew he was a strong man, but still the pressure holding the ship on its sidelong course was like nothing he had felt before. He roared and pulled as hard as he could. The muscles in his arms and legs strained. The dark-skinned helmsman did what he could, ignoring his dislocated shoulder while he used his good arm to help.

  Finally the bow began to come around; the vessel slowly turned. After one final effort the Targus was facing the waves once more.

  ‘Get below!’ Kyphos shouted into the helmsman’s ear. ‘I’ll take it from here!’

  The helmsman nodded and ran for the safety of the hatch leading to the ship’s interior. At that moment a towering wave lifted the bow up until the Targus was nearly vertical. A torrent of water flowed across the deck and struck the helmsman’s knees, sweeping him off his feet. He screamed as he rushed toward the stern. Kyphos tried to reach for him, but he was too late, and the man plunged over the stern rail, his cries soon swallowed by the sea.

  Panting like he’d run a race, Kyphos risked a glance behind him. He counted at least eight ships. Despite it all the fleet was holding together; if the storm had come at night, it would have been far worse. One of the trailing vessels had a sail tangled in the mast, which was snapped halfway. Another ship was listing.

  He heard the sound of bailing as the oarsmen tried to remove water from below. These biremes were built for the gentler weather of the Maltherean; they weren’t meant for high seas. The few remaining sailors on deck held on to whatever they could and cast terrified glances back at Kyphos. He knew that as long as he stayed, they would too.

  Kyphos looked back at the struggling fleet. He could only hope that soon patches of blue would appear in the clouds above.

  ‘Keep together,’ he muttered. ‘Survive.’

  38

  Dion flew above the clouds, making occasional sweeps of his wings or corrections to his flight, but conserving his energy as he took in the new state of the world.

  He was on his way to the independent city of Koulis, ruled by Lord Lothar and the Council of Five. Kargan of Ilea might not help him, but Ilea’s neighbor might. Koulis was close enough to Sindara to give them aid. But Dion was worried. After the ravaging of Sarsica and the evacuation of Xanthos, Phalesia, and Tanus, the dragons could have headed to the populated areas in the south. Koulis was the first large city they would find.

  He flew over the barren land called the Waste and then came to the isthmus joining the Galean and Salesian continents. Following the yellow coastline, he traveled over unbroken shores and marveled at the fact that he hadn’t seen one vessel, not even the smallest fishing boat. Few people lived in these parts, but it was as if he was seeing the world as it soon would be: an empty expanse, home to trees and plants, but devoid of any sizeable creature.

  Finally he came upon irrigated fields, surrounded by ditches and clustered around stone farmhouses. The grain was ripening in the sun. But his dread rose when he didn’t see a single person below.

  The fields gave way to rows of crude houses, where Koulis’s poor made their homes. Some were burned to the ground; others had their thatched roofs torn off. There were curved white bones and dark smears in the streets.

  The walled city was just ahead. Dion flew over the open gates and gazed down at the proud villas, stone temples, broad avenues, and workshops. Palm trees were everywhere, climbing taller than the houses. Disappointment sank into his gut when he still didn’t see a single person alive. The dragons had come, and they had gone.

  He would be getting no help from Koulis. Any soldiers had fallen or fled the city long ago.

  He beat down his wings and rose up, higher into the sky.

  Despite his experiences with Kargan, Dion couldn’t help flying the short distance to Lamara, the Ilean capital. If the dragons had made it through Kargan’s formidable defenses and ruined that immense city, he didn’t know if he could bear it. His plan to throw everything into one final battle on Sindara’s shore was a terrible risk. At least if Lamara still stood, and he failed, the torch would pass to another, even if that man was Kargan.

  Wild thoughts threatened to overwhelm him: a growing part of him wanted to soar, and hunt, and remain in this form forever. He buried the desire deep in his consciousness. His responsibilities were so great that it actually made
it easier to stay true to who he was.

  He crossed the great desert plain that separated Koulis and Lamara and eventually saw the first villages. Relief flooded through him when he gazed down and caught sight of smoke trickling from the houses’ chimneys. A farmer in a field walked behind an ox, guiding the plough with his hands. Nearby, a few dozen figures moved through another field, sickles in their hands as they cut bunches of wheat and tossed them into a waiting cart.

  Dion could have wept when he saw such signs of normality. The villagers below him had no idea how close they were to death and destruction. They weren’t his people, but he vowed to do everything he could to save their lives. If Eiric didn’t sound the horn soon, the dragons would search past Koulis and come here. They would plunge from the sky and devour every man, woman, and child.

  Worried about frightening the people below, he swept his wings hard and rose still higher. He continued to climb until he saw the great city of Lamara on the horizon and then sped forward, following the dusty road.

  He only approached close enough to see that soldiers manned the battlements with scores of bulky ballistae arrayed around them, tilted to point up at the sky.

  Then Dion wheeled and left Lamara behind. He had a long journey ahead of him.

  Dion pounded again with his fist on the thick wooden gate. It was closed and barred, which meant someone must be inside the citadel. A few soldiers had stayed behind after the attack on Fort Liberty; he could only pray it was them.

  ‘Hello in there!’ he called.

  Finally he heard hurried footsteps.

  The gate opened slowly, parting just a little to reveal a soldier’s wary face as he peeked through the gap. Seeing Dion, waiting with shoulders slumped, so tired he could barely stand, the soldier hauled the gates wide open.

  ‘It’s the king!’ he cried over his shoulder.

  Dion’s journey was far from over, but after traveling to Koulis and Lamara, there was no way he could have made it to the Aleuthean Sea without resting first. He entered the citadel and saw half a dozen young soldiers of Xanthos run forward to join their companion, holding out their hands to offer assistance.

  ‘Sire, let me help you.’

  Dion waved them away. All he wanted was a hot meal and somewhere to sleep. He straightened and heard his back crack like a broken twig. Two of the soldiers closed and barred the gates while the others led him to the armory.

  The citadel was the same as he had left it, aside from the dragon’s corpse at the bottom of the stairs, now gone. The interior was dark, with thick stone walls on all sides and a solid roof overhead. There was only one level, but it was a cavernous space, with just one door at the back leading to the combined armory and store room, where his men had taken refuge after the red dragons first turned wild.

  ‘What news, sire?’ a soldier asked eagerly.

  Dion stopped outside the armory’s doorway. The skin around his eyes tightened. A shadow crossed over his face. He pointed at the doorway. ‘Are there others inside?’

  ‘Some survivors from the town, sire.’

  ‘I’ll tell you all together.’

  Dion entered the armory and the memories returned. He looked at the corner where Chloe had lain, still and unresponsive, overcome by the effects of the magic that had saved his life. He glanced at the back wall, where Palemon and Zara had spoken to him. He remembered asking them if somehow the magic could be stopped, and again he heard Zara’s reply in his mind; now that he was here, her words were as clear as if she’d just spoken.

  It is the combination of eldran magic and our own that maintains the spell over them, she had said.

  He shook his head. Her words didn’t provide a solution.

  Now the vaulted chamber was filled with villagers and soldiers mingled together. Some of the men and women washed clothes in wooden tubs and others stirred pots at makeshift hearths. Bed pallets lined the wall; these people were obviously accustomed to one another.

  They all stopped what they were doing to stare at him.

  ‘It’s King Dion,’ someone whispered.

  Dion moved to a place where they could all see him. The soldiers who had led him inside rejoined their companions, and soon everyone was watching, waiting for him to speak.

  ‘First, how are you all?’ Dion asked.

  They murmured collectively. A young soldier with a scar on his cheek spoke. ‘We are well enough, sire.’

  ‘That is good.’ Dion nodded, taking a deep breath. ‘I am glad you are alive and unharmed. Soon, when this is all over, I hope to see you returned to your homes, and I pray to all the gods that you will be reunited with your families.’

  He paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘I have news,’ he said. ‘First, the dragons are still out there. You are wise to stay hidden in the citadel, and for the time being you should continue to do so. Any travel is best done at night. Keep your movements to a minimum.’

  ‘How fares Xanthos?’ the scar-faced soldier asked.

  Dion wondered where to begin. ‘I bring grave tidings. Sarsica has been ravaged. Myana is now a city of the dead . . . We only heard about it from the few people who survived. Then . . . the . . . same happened in Xanthos’s outlying regions.’

  A sharp cry came from one of the women. Gasps filled the room.

  Dion continued, ‘If you have family in one of the villages, there is some hope. Many made it to the city; we took in thousands. Then, before it was too late . . . we . . . We were forced to abandon Xanthos.’

  Now there was stunned silence.

  One of the women exchanged glances with her male companion. ‘Our homes are gone . . .’

  She trailed off, and Dion pressed on; they deserved to know. ‘It was a huge undertaking, but the city never fell. We evacuated to Sindara; it is safe there from the dragons. Phalesia did the same. There, we found the people of Tanus. We may have been forced from our homes, but we still have our people.’

  Dion looked from face to face, wondering what he should say next, but then the young soldier with the scar on his cheek strode up to him.

  ‘Don’t forget, sire. We saw them. By Balal, we fought them.’ He spoke loud enough for everyone to hear him. ‘I understand, King Dion. You got our people out alive.’

  Dion swallowed. ‘Thank you, soldier.’ He held out his hand, and the soldier clasped it. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Portos, sire.’

  ‘Well met, Portos.’

  Another soldier, a bearded man older than Portos, came to join them. ‘What brings you back to Fort Liberty, sire?’

  Hearing the question, the other soldiers came over, and soon a group formed around him.

  ‘We are fighting back,’ Dion said, meeting their eyes in turn. ‘We have three armies united in Sindara, men from Xanthos, Phalesia, and Tanus. The eldren will fight with us too. It’s time to end this.’

  Cheers greeted his words. The soldiers clapped each other on the back. ‘Can we come with you?’ Portos asked. ‘We want to do our part.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Dion said. ‘I came here alone, and I will have to leave alone.’

  The old soldier scratched his beard and then leaned over to say something to Portos, standing beside him. Portos frowned, and then his eyes lit up. ‘Of course. Please excuse me, sire.’ Portos bowed and left.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ the bearded soldier asked.

  Dion wiped a hand over his face, trying to hide his exhaustion as he shook his head.

  ‘Bring food for the king!’ the soldier called over his shoulder.

  Someone arrived with a bowl filled with steaming vegetable stew. Dion took a spoon and immediately began to dig in. He finished it while the soldiers asked him more questions, and then set the bowl down, feeling his eyelids dragging.

  But then he was jolted alert when Portos returned. Portos was grinning from ear to ear and had with him an immense sword. He held it out, offering it to Dion.

  ‘We found this outside the citadel,’ Portos said. ‘It is a gift, from us to yo
u, sire.’

  Dion stared down at the sword. The soldiers nodded at him, and he clasped first one hand, then the other around the hilt. An uncomfortable tingle shivered across his skin as his hands made contact with the metal, but he knew that the sensation was a result of his eldran blood and ignored it.

  He held the sword up, running his eyes along the weapon.

  There were ancient designs on its wide blade, swirling patterns and angular symbols. A crossguard protected his hands, and the hilt was wire-bound to provide a firm grip. It was the largest sword he had ever seen, but the steel shone brightly, and it was surprisingly light.

  It was the sword Palemon had left behind.

  ‘Thank you,’ Dion said. He swept his gaze over the group. ‘This is a fine gift indeed.’

  ‘There’s no scabbard, but we can make a sheath out of leather,’ Portos said.

  Dion nodded, still running his eyes over the weapon, looking up to the point of the blade. He wondered where Palemon was now. He supposed that Kargan must have killed the man who had brought ruin upon the world.

  39

  In a little corner of the valley, away from prying eyes, Chloe sat on a hill with a medallion of solid gold in her hands.

  She had borrowed it from Consul Felix. Chloe had never tried to use gold before, but she knew the principles. Gold provided light, and could flare bright enough to stun or even blind an enemy. To summon its power, she needed to imagine light without heat, without wind, and without sound. Zedo had said that gold was one of the easiest of the four materia to command. But it wasn’t the thought of causing the medallion to glow that frightened her.