The beast had turned, after making a few defiant roars, and had dedicated itself to clawing away at the keep, like a bear pawing a beehive apart to get at the honey. The bees inside, the few warriors who had yet to flee, peppered the dragon with arrows and quarrels. Every now and then a flash or spark demonstrated that there were still warmagi within fighting. Every rake of its mighty claw swept away masonry and woodwork like a brush, and everyone could see its jaws working as it gorged itself on every defender its greedy maw could find.
I tried not to think about the hellish chaos inside as I prepared my own spells. Very conscious that this may be, indeed, my last few moments in life, I chose extravagantly.
First, as proof against fire, the powerful decarion enchantment that would allow a man to handle white-hot steel fresh from the forge. With the power of my sphere of irionite the complex and potent spell fell into place around me like a second skin. I had no idea what it would do against dragonfire, but it was the best counter to heat and flame I had.
To that end I cast the standard spells that would assist my body resist damage and shock, if injured, and increased the intensity of the personal protection charms I already wore as much as I could. A murmured mnemonic and a touch of my finger transformed the steel in my helm and breastplate, temporarily, making them stronger and more resilient. Hells, I even whispered a private prayer to Briga, for good measure. She was a fire goddess, after all. That had to be some help against a dragon.
I was as magically and mundanely armored as I could be, as I faced the dragon. I had never felt more weak and vulnerable in my life.
I took a deep breath as I saw my professional colleagues prepare themselves, and stand ready. Tyndal, Rondal, Mavone, Taren, Sarakeem, and dozens of others, High Magi and rank-and-file warmagi alike. I was startled to see Planus at the back of the crowd, and I summoned a link to ask him.
Planus, you aren’t a warmage! Return to Pentandra!
And miss the opportunity to witness the most interesting practical magic exhibition in living history? Come now, Magelord. If these good men can risk their lives, then do I not have an obligation to do likewise?
You’re a Practical Adept, not a warmage! Not to be rude, but you’re one step from being a village spellmonger. You have no place in combat.
From what I understand, mighty works and great deeds can be done by a mere spellmonger, he riposted.
I sighed. I don’t have time to argue. I can’t watch out for you in battle.
Nor would I expect you to. I am not powerless, Magelord, nor am I stupid. I will not endanger myself unnecessarily, but if I see the opportunity where the talents of a ‘mere spellmonger’ might come in handy, I will be happy to oblige.
You Remerans are infuriating, I said, and ended the contact.
“I think that everyone who can get here, has,” I said out loud as the last few warmagi arrived. “Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s go slay us a dragon.”
* * *
We marched around the far left side of the battle, on the other side of the Great Cotton Road, to avoid unnecessary entanglements with goblin outliers. From our perspective it didn’t matter much if the rest of the battle was won or lost, because if we didn’t kill this beast or drive it off it wouldn’t matter. After destroying Castle Cambrian – and us -- it would go on to demolish Barrowbell for desert, and the strategic battle will have been lost even if the tactical battle was won.
We didn’t move too quickly, to allow the men who were not mounted to keep up, and as we moved we organized into squadrons to focus on specific elements in the battle, according to our strengths and powers.
But while we were marching, I noticed through magesight a new spell being wrought . . . over the dragon’s head, in the stormy clouds above. I suppressed a chill, my first thought being that the Dead God had taken a personal interest in this battle. But then I recognized the style as standard Imperial spellcraft. But it wasn’t coming from us.
Terleman? I asked, mind-to-mind. Are your men doing something over there?
We’re trying not to die, he explained, helpfully. I’ve got a score over here, but some of us are still smoldering. We might be able to do something eventually, but that’s not any of us.
It’s us, Pentandra admitted, when I spoke to her next. There isn’t a lot for us to do, right now, as Dara is in position and waiting for you to be. So we were discussing the situation, and it turns out that this hedgemage from Brunaron . . . Alfis? Aldis? Something like that. Anyway, the old coot is famous in . . . some circles for weather magic. He mentioned that it was a shame all that good storm energy was going to waste. We started talking, and . . . well, we’re working on something.
A hedgemage? You’re collaborating with a common village witch?
Do you really think this is an appropriate time to discuss class issues?
I’m just surprised, I admitted.
Don’t be. He’s still no Archmage, but Talent is Talent. I don’t even know if it can be useful, but I loaned him a witchstone—
You gave him irionite?!? This just kept getting better.
I brought a few spare stones along, she said, casually. Those three others that Mavone brought from Wenshar. I passed them out to those I thought could use them best, on a temporary basis. They’re not connected to the Dead God in any way, so there’s no danger there. Relax, Min, I’ve got this under control.
Somehow I didn’t feel relaxed.
We rode up to the ruined wall on the western side of the castle, and were able to ride through a gap in the ruined wall and into a fiery hell.
The shaped blocks of stone that had been painstakingly laid to protect the citadel were smashed and rent like crumbled loaves of bread. Some were melted, burnt to ashes, and some were still aflame. The foul smoke that rose from them mixed with steam produced from the steady rain, creating a nauseating cloud that allowed the stench of battle to fade to a subtle counterpoint. And of course the smell of dragon was everywhere.
First rule of fighting dragons in the future, I noted to myself: olfactory spells. It took but a moment to cast one on myself and then on Traveler, and both of our moods improved significantly thereafter.
But there was no disguising the powerful beast in front of us. It was perched on its hind legs, its head level with the third story of the structure, and its long snake-like head was darting through the wreckage and ruin, flaming the survivors and eating them greedily. It took no notice of their screams or their attacks – arrows were less than pinpricks sticking harmlessly to its armored hide, and the strongest quarrels rarely did more than irritate its wings. The eyes of the dragon were small, and its head moved quickly – that would be a difficult target to hit.
We had divided into three squadrons for the battle. The first, made mostly of dismounted warmagi, took a position near the outer wall to secure our escape route, guard our rear, and prepare enchantments in support of our attack. The second infantry team moved slightly north around the ruined bailey, past the fallen tower and burning outbuildings, where it would attempt to attack the beast on its mighty flank. Somehow.
Then there was my squadron, the charge-it-bravely-with-everything-you’ve-got-and-die-valiantly squadron. Ah, the perquisites of leadership.
I had stalwart company, at least. Mavone was preparing something nasty between his hands, a kind of mix of blue fire and lightning I didn’t recognize, but which looked encouragingly ominous. Tyndal had a selection of warwands in his belt and a determined look on his face. Jendaran the Trusty, reveling in his newfound powers, was murmuring an incantation while a globe of darkness spun into being in front of him. Delman, who I hadn’t known was present, focused his attention on a spinning whirlwind of force I didn’t recognize. Others I didn’t know by sight steadied their mounts and readied their arguments for the dragon.
I decided to lead with my most powerful force attack, a fareen bolt that was little more than a plane of magical force sped along a trajectory – a magical arrow. While Lady Ithalia had made it clear
that dragons were highly resistant to pure magic attacks, I had to test that theory. I’m just that way. As we began our approach, I spun the fareen bolt into a fever pitch, and looked around at my comrades. “Any suggestions?”
“Hit it in the kidney,” Mavone directed.
“Why?”
“Getting hit in the kidney hurts.”
“Oh. That’s as good a reason as any. Right kidney, everyone. Ready?”
We went toward it at a canter, wary of alerting it . . . but it wouldn’t have mattered. It was hungry, as its snout chased screaming men through the ruins of the keep, stopping only to chew. Everything else was secondary.
It didn’t see us as a threat, it saw us as lunch. Its broad back was to us as we sped up, wound up, and finished our various spells. When we were a hundred and fifty feet away, I shouted “NOW!” and released my bolt.
Moments later it was joined by blue fire/lightning, a black sphere, a green bolt, two different colors of yellow light, and other, less dramatic manifestations of magic. I watched with anticipation as my bolt, and all the others, sped along the same trajectory, and hit the dragon within a few feet of each other on its back.
While my fareen bolt, I was sorry to see, had no effect whatsoever, the others’ spells each had some influence. Mavone was right. Getting hit in the kidney hurts. Only instead of turning around and presenting its vulnerable eyes to us in response, the dragon howled and swept its rear flank with its tail.
It sounds comical, until you realize that its tail is thicker than an anchor chain and studded with natural armor plates. Whipped suddenly from side to side like that, it had a similar effect as an anchor chain. Moving fast even while I was enchanted with augmented perception, the tail swung around from our left . . . and knocked us all ass over elbows. I watched with horror as my horse’s head came apart under the force of the blow. I felt like I had been hit with a wave of iron, and probably lost consciousness for a moment.
The next thing I was aware of was wetness on my face. My ears weren’t working, but I could feel something hot and sticky and familiar on my face. When I could open my eyes and force my vision to stabilize, I watched the storm clouds overhead violently churn into a nimbus of chaos. When my arms responded to my commands again, my hand came away from my face wet with blood – but not as much of my own as I’d feared. Then sensation came shooting back into my consciousness and I realized that I hurt – all over. Especially my leg.
I don’t know precisely how long I crawled around the bloody, burnt cobbles of that bailey, but the battle raged around me, having forgotten me. My right leg was pinned under what was left of my horse’s hindquarters. I wanted to feel bad about that – Traveler had been with me for years, and I had never been closer to another beast – but the truth was I was so distracted with my own impending mortality, I didn’t have the room in my heart to consider him. Later, if there was a later.
It didn’t help that my vision swam – I likely had a concussion, I diagnosed, as I struggled to my knees. My spells were keeping me awake and lucid despite what my body was demanding.
I became aware that I was still breathing, and I fought to encourage the process. When everything else is chaos, return to basics, my training had told me. Breathing was the most basic. Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat as necessary. I felt the sweet, cool sensation of air filling my chest like an overheated bellows, and I rolled back over onto my back, once my leg had been pulled free, and tried to marshal my resources.
I may have passed out. But the next thing I remember is the sudden, brutal re-establishment of contact between my mind and my sphere. I had almost forgotten its existence, much less its utility. I had not summoned the link . . . but the instant it was there, there was a booming voice in my mind filled with the power of compulsion:
Spellmonger Minalan! Magelord! You must rise . . . you must return to battle!
The voice was soft, but strong, a compelling force that pulled my consciousness from the murky depths it sought in a time of crisis. To emphasize the point, my link to the sphere suddenly filled with magical energy. I could feel it course through my body with no clear point of origin, but wherever it touched there was an instant restorative effect. It was as if I was coming alive, coming awake, and becoming aware all at the same time. I went from lethargy near to death in one moment to the most alert and vibrant I have ever felt.
There are restorative spells in every magi’s grimoire, everything from hangover cures to becalming cantrips to medical spells that encourage hydration. There were some powerful ones they taught us at War College, some so sophisticated only a few of the better magi could manage them.
But this enchantment was unlike even the best of those; it renewed my body down to the cellular level, invigorated and energized it beyond its normal capacity. It filled my very bones and sinews with the urgent desire to act. I gasped with the sudden onslaught of power, a milky green glow enveloping every pore of my body. I sat up automatically, my heart racing, my pulse pounding, my eyesight suddenly clear, my hearing perfect, and my perceptions enhanced as if I had cast a host of spells all at once.
By Briga’s toasty tootsies, I felt like I could actually fight a dragon.
The scene around me was a frantic cauldron of violence. The dragon had half-turned to face the new direction of attack – which I found vindicating, since I would have been upset if our brave charge had resulted in nothing but a forgetful sweep of its tail. I don’t which one of our spells worked, but someone’s attack had gotten its attention. It had abandoned the search for food in the ruined castle and had turned its sinuous neck around in alarm, snapping at the irritants that had bruised it.
The irritants in question were still doing their best against it. Mavone was huddled behind the corpse of his own horse, furiously preparing another spell. His usually neatly-groomed face was covered in a blend of dust, ash, sweat and blood, and there was a nasty wound in one of his thighs. Brave Jendaran the Trusty was actually on his feet, a warwand in one hand while he cast protective spells with the other. His armor was singed and smoldering with every falling raindrop, but he seemed otherwise unhurt.
I turned my head and saw Tyndal on his knees, a wand in each hand, three or four expended wands in a pile in front of him. The lad wasn’t well-schooled or sophisticated, but he was thorough. He was pouring every charge from every wand he had at the beast. Delman’s body sprawled nearby, and Tyndal had dragged a discarded infantry shield over it to help protect him . . . if he still needed protecting.
And Planus . . . Planus was standing calmly in the middle of the scene, leaning on his slender staff, staring up at the dragon and looking thoughtful. I almost expected him to be contemplatively smoking his pipe.
There were others either running in retreat or charging toward the dragon, but I realized that even with my enhanced perceptions that if I didn’t get off my ass soon, I was going to be a casualty. I leaped to my feet with far more alacrity than I would have credited myself with, and with another heavy sigh I slipped back into battle. My sphere took flight at my command, hovering shoulder-high behind and around me as I took stock.
We were getting our asses kicked.
The dragon did not seem damaged in the slightest by our attack. While it had enough arrows stuck in its armor to qualify as a giant hedgehog, none had done anything to slow it down. Our magical attacks may have hurt it, but there was no visible wound, no blood, no protruding bone or helpful smoking hole of destruction in its body. Just one highly pissed-off dragon.
Meanwhile the number of bodies was piling up. The flanking team had been busy while I was unconscious, but that had attracted some draconic attention and another tail-sweep, and half of them were scattered. The support team was continuing to lob spells from an unsafe distance, but they weren’t doing much more than distracting it.
I sprinted and dove next to Mavone. The dragon wasn’t looking at me at the time, but I didn’t feel like taking chances.
“How is it going?” I asked, casually.
“I’ve had better evenings,” he admitted. “I can’t get a gods-damned hook into the thing no matter what I try!”
“It’s the resistance,” I spat, blood in my mouth. “Just like the Alka warned us. But something hurt it when we attacked. They aren’t invulnerable. Horka hurt one. There has to be a way. Keep trying.”
“I’m thinking of trying something in a Vandimir bolt.” That was pretty obscure. I had barely heard of it.
“Good thinking,” I encouraged, patting him on his armored shoulder. “I’m going to rally the troops.”
I waited for the dragon to whip its head back around toward the flankers, then I sprinted back over Traveler’s corpse, remembered to grab my fallen battlestaff, and found myself near Tyndal.
“Nothing is working, Master!” he lamented. “I’m down to two wands!”
“Forget it!” I ordered. “Save it for the goblins!” He nodded gratefully and put one of his wands in his belt.
“So now what?” he asked.
Good question. “I believe we had a secret weapon,” I remembered. “Bide,” I said, and closed my eyes.
Pentandra! We could really use that Thoughtful Knife about now!
It’s on the way! She promised. We were holding off until—
What? My funeral?
No! Funny! No, we’re working on something that might help, we think. But we need you to get the dragon to put its head up.
What the hells are you talking about?!
The dragon’s head should be higher, preferably fully extended, she said, matter-of-factly. Above the level of the manor’s highest point would be ideal.
Penny, this is not the time to be thinking about its posture! I shot back angrily.
Will you shut up and trust me? Just get it to raise its head!
I groaned and broke contact. “Guess what, Tyndal? Penny says we need to get it to raise its head. How are we going to do that?”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 89
