Threads of Amarion

by Todd Fahnestock

  She’d taken him so far down he couldn’t reach the surface before he drowned, and she’d left him here. He clenched his teeth and swam after her, but it was like swimming through sand. It was utterly black, and water crushed him from all sides. The tiny flicker of GodSpill from the horn was leaking away. He knew, once it left him, the water would crush him.

  He kept swimming, hoping for a glimpse of light, some sign that he was close to the surface.

  There was nothing.

  The golden fire flickered across his arms, faded, and his body went cold. His arms and legs suddenly felt like they were full of wet clay.

  He kept swimming, though his lungs wanted to explode.

  One more stroke. One more....

  His focus wavered, and he realized he wasn’t kicking.

  One more kick....

  But he couldn’t make his legs work. They were feeble.

  Try harder.

  The darkness around him filled his head. He tried to make his arms cup the water, tried to make his legs kick, but he could barely move his finger. His mouth opened.

  That’s bad. I can’t open my mouth. That’s...

  His lungs spasmed, and he sucked in a lungful of water. The cold coursed into him, through him, and his whole body shuddered.

  I can’t...

  He felt a rush of warmth in his chest then, insidious and wrong, like his panicked brain couldn’t tell the difference between cold water and warm air anymore. It simply wanted to stop feeling pain. The cold and the crush of the water faded, replaced by a seductive warmth. He saw Bands in his mind, the side of her face as she turned, her face lighting up with a smile for him. Just for him. Finally, he was going to see her. And they’d be together again.

  Bands...

  28

  Mirolah

  Mirolah stood on the ramparts of the Northern Walk in the dark hours of early morning, staring at the horizon, fighting herself, and feeling an impending doom.

  She had regained herself last night, finally. Up until this moment, it was as though Mirolah had been a tiny voice screaming at the bottom of a dark well, alone and helpless. Mirolah remembered what it was to be human again. She had crawled up, out of that darkness, and remembered who she was, the moments that comprised her, the pains and the pleasures of her life.

  She clung to those memories, hanging onto the edge of that deep well by her fingernails. She didn’t want to go back into the darkness again. The GodSpill hummed inside her, angry, trying to bury her little voice. She realized now that the GodSpill had its own agenda, its own desires. It wanted to absorb her. The insistent power sustained this body at her demand, but it didn’t like it. It wanted her to cut free from her mortal self and become one with it: the vast GodSpill that permeated everything in Amarion. That sentience, that...craving of the lands, had almost gotten what it wanted when Zilok made Stavark stab Mirolah to death, but she had forced herself back into her body and healed it.

  But somehow she’d done it wrong. She didn’t feel the same as she once had. Before she’d been stabbed, the GodSpill sentience whispered to her, beseeched her to leave her body, but she had been—for the most part—in control.

  Now, she had to concentrate just to stay in her body, as if she didn’t really belong here.

  Sniff sat next to her on the Northern Walk, eternally patient. Winter winds whipped around the walls, across the flagstones under their feet. Two guards plodded past them, their cowls drawn tightly against the cold. They didn’t see her or Sniff because Mirolah didn’t want them to.

  Dawn peeked over the Corialis Mountains like a glimmer along the edge of a frosty knife, and the doom Mirolah had been feeling finally appeared.

  The first dragon was a flash of purple against the blanket of white, barely a dot at this distance. An iridescent blue dragon followed close behind. None of the guards could even see them yet. But they would. The rest of the flight appeared over the ridge and dove, a tumble of jewels over a white tablecloth.

  She’d felt them coming for hours now. Since her...death, the lands of Amarion felt like her body. She was connected to the Spine Mountains, to the shores of the True Ocean south of Calsinac, to the north where Irgakth and that hazy red wall began. The threads of Amarion thrummed at the presence of the dragon invaders. She could feel each of them like ants on her arm.

  They stayed close to the ridge line, disappearing behind a nearer mountain, then rising over the next crest. The two guards, suddenly seeing the dragons, shouted and sprinted past her, naked fear on their faces.

  Mirolah glanced down at her feet. She’d forgotten her boots. She’d have to remember her boots if she wanted to look normal around everyone else.

  And was that what she wanted? To be just like everyone else?

  Sniff whined. “They come, mistress.”

  Mirolah looked up. The dragons were nearly upon them, six of them, moving at an incredible speed toward the castle.

  That’s what I want, isn’t it?

  The lead dragon, the purple, burst into view, soaring over her head. Its shadow darkened half the palace, then it was gone. The iridescent blue dragon followed, whipping overhead, here and gone. Then a black dragon, whose scales looked like they had each been dipped in gold, soared overhead. The following three came side-by-side: a huge gray with dark blue spines down its back, another that was pure shimmering silver, and the final dragon had diamond patterns of copper and black. Screams rose from the city. Sniff whined again.

  “Is that what I want?” Mirolah asked him, feeling the connections to her memories—to herself—slipping away.

  “Serve the pack,” Sniff barked.

  “Yes.”

  “The pack of scaled others comes to kill,” he said. “To kill your pack.”

  “No,” Mirolah murmured to him.

  “No,” Sniff growled.

  “We won’t let them.”

  Sniff barked his approval.

  29

  Mershayn

  Mershayn had just closed the conference door and sat down opposite Giri’Mar who, for all his unhelpful blustering, was a genius when it came to military tactics. He and Mershayn had been drawing up a plan for the defense of the city when the knock came.

  “Enter,” said Mershayn.

  The door swung open, almost banged into the wall before Deni’tri caught it. Casur stood just behind her. His blond hair was disheveled, and his eyes were wild. Mershayn leapt to his feet.

  “They’ve come,” Casur said. “The dragons are here.”

  “No...” Mershayn said. It slipped out before he could stop it, and he inwardly cursed himself.

  He needed to project calm and confidence, like Bands always did. That’s what the people of Teni’sia needed right now. But Bands had left last night, and she hadn’t returned. They had no enchanted weapons. Teni’sia was going to burn.

  He glanced at Deni’tri. The bald guard watched Mershayn with solemn confidence, waiting for the command that would save them. He wanted to scream at her that he didn’t know what to do.

  Instead, he leapt across the room and grabbed his sword belt from the peg on the wall. He slung it around his waist and buckled it in one swift motion.

  “Archers to the ramparts, as we discussed,” he said to Giri’Mar in a voice that came out steadier than he had any right to expect. The lord, already on his feet, left the room swiftly.

  “Deni’tri,” he said. “With me. Casur, spread the word. Nobles first, officers of the castle next. After that, whoever you can find. We had hoped to implement our plan when Bands returned. We will have to go ahead without her.”

  Mershayn sprinted into the hallway, and Deni’tri followed him. They reached the end of the hall, turned left, banged through the door into the main hallway.

  “Are you ready to die?” Mershayn asked between breaths as they ran side-by-side.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” she returned. After a slight pause for breath, she said, “Are you?”

  He grinned, and a sort of madness came over hi
m. No more waiting in fear. No more doubts. It was time to fight, live or die. This, he understood. “If the Godgate claims us today, we will give it a spectacle,” he said.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” The fear left her eyes, replaced by determination, and for a flickering moment, Mershayn felt like a good king.

  They raced down the hallway together, reached the entrance to the Northern Walk. Two wide-eyed guards stood aside as Mershayn shouldered his way through the door.

  “You two, come with us!” he yelled, not even pausing. They ran to catch up.

  The king and his three guards pulled up short just outside the door as the shadows flashed overhead. Purple, green, then an explosion of colors. Every single one of them was as enormous as Bands in her true form, and there had to be a dozen of them.

  “By the gods...” Mershayn said, the wind going out of his sails. The dragons wheeled around and roared. His heart thundered in his chest.

  “Don’t just stand there!” he shouted, as much for himself as those who stood around him. “Archers at the ready!”

  Thankfully, Mershayn saw a handful of archers already on the walk. He ran to one of them and took the man’s bow. He couldn’t shoot an arrow as well as he could fence, but right now, everyone needed to reminded what to do. They needed to fight for their lives. He nocked an arrow, then saw that the other archers watched, slack-jawed, as the dragons wheeled in the sky.

  Holding the bow and arrow tightly in one fist, he stepped up and slapped one of the stunned archers across the face.

  “Listen to me!” They all turned their attention on him. “Calm your hearts or they will distract you. Today, you die. We all die so that our countrymen may live. Accept that and purge your fear. If you falter, your deaths will be in vain. If you stand fast, then we die to save others. So stand fast! Stare down these beasts. Aim for the eyes. Take your time. Don’t miss.”

  “Yes,” Deni’tri said with heartfelt conviction. The others stood transfixed.

  “Do you hear me?” Mershayn shouted.

  “Yes!” they said, shocked from their speechlessness.

  “Then follow me!”

  He sprinted up the Northern Walk toward the approaching dragons, and they followed.

  Behold my tiny army. Seven guards and a bastard king.

  Bands’s words returned to him from the previous night: If the dragons defeat us, they will burn Amarion down to the soil. We stop them here or there is no tomorrow.

  Mershayn ran like he had never run before toward the wheeling dragons. He skidded to a stop on the parapet, dropped to one knee, and readied his bow. The rest of his small band arrived, and the other three archers nocked their arrows. The dragons approached again, low, skimming the snowy slopes.

  Mershayn looked quickly over his shoulder. “They will appear suddenly, moving faster than anything you’ve seen before,” he said. “Be ready. Choose, aim, and fire." Mustering a smile, he winked at them. “Steady, Teni’sians. Make them remember us.”

  He was rewarded with nervous looks.

  Somewhere to the south, fire exploded against the castle.

  “Steady,” he murmured.

  Flames licked over the roof of the West Hall, and the iridescent blue dragon shot into view, drawing another breath. It spied them and dove toward them.

  “Hold,” Mershayn said, steadying his nerves. “Aim for the eye...” he murmured, stretching the string to his ear. He wanted to see the eye. Bands said no normal weapon could pierce those scales, but she said their protective spells were weaker around the eyes to enable the dragon to see clearly.

  Mershayn released, and each of the archers behind him released at the same time. Four arrows flew at the fanged blue face. One sailed over the head. Two shattered against the iridescent blue scales of the dragon’s jaw.

  The fourth hit home, striking the eye. The dragon shrieked, and its wings jerked, sending its body sideways toward the castle.

  “Cover!” Mershayn shouted. The dragon slammed into the rampart, scattering stones like leaves. Mershayn leapt to one side, but the monster’s massive neck struck him. He saw one of the archers go over the edge. Deni’tri was thrown against the castle wall.

  He crashed to the stones. The air whooshed from his lungs, and his head cracked against the ground....

  30

  Mirolah

  Neither the guards nor the king saw Mirolah and Sniff as they rushed past to shoot the dragon. She watched them draw their bows, watched the king lead his impossible attack, and watched it—miraculously—succeed. The arrow blinded the dragon in one eye. Now the beast thrashed, cracking the stones of the castle as it keened its rage. The entire walkway shuddered.

  Not “the king,” a little voice said inside her. His name is Mershayn.

  We are one.... the voice of the GodSpill trampled over the smaller voice. It washed through her, tried to pull her from this body, and Mirolah resisted. She looked down at herself, and the arms and legs of this human body suddenly seemed foreign. A moment ago, she’d...been thinking of something.

  Mershayn slid across the stones toward her, limp, unconscious.

  “Serve the pack,” Sniff barked urgently.

  Mirolah looked at her hand. Rainbow colors passed across her fingers. Those colors came from her eyes, and it gave her a foreboding feeling.

  “Mistress,” Sniff whined again. “Will you help him?”

  “Why is it so hard, Sniff? I knew who I was. But it fades so quickly....”

  “Mistress!”

  She felt Sniff’s urgency, so she reached through the threads, let the vastness of herself flow into Mershayn and repair his wound. A memory fluttered to her then, of when she had healed him before. It had exhausted her, but it didn’t now. Her body was so vast, she couldn’t be exhausted.

  Mershayn came awake, shaking his head, groggy. Fear came from him in waves, but he staggered to his feet and ran toward the thrashing blue monster.

  “That one,” Sniff yipped. “He is important. Your scent, his scent... They change when you are together.”

  The memories she’d held only moments ago, of Mershayn helping her recall her childhood, flashed through her again. She remembered why she was here, and what she must do.

  She stopped her fears and focused on what needed doing. Teni’sia was under attack, and she could do something. So she must do something.

  Serve the pack. This is my pack.

  Mirolah reached out to stop the blue dragon’s heart from beating. Sparks exploded in her threadweaver vision, and Mirolah jerked her head back. The dragons scales were tightly knit with strong threads, swelling with red GodSpill. She had never seen anything like that before. It was stronger than anything she had encountered. She could not reach through it.

  The dragon struggled to its feet and reared up, sensing her attack. Mershayn roared, drawing his sword and charging toward his own death. Mirolah studied the makeup of the threads that went into the dragon’s enchanted protection. It was powerful beyond her comprehension. Her body was vast, her power vast, but whatever had created this was also vast.

  “Mistress!” Sniff whined.

  “It is protected,” she said.

  “This one goes!” Sniff launched from his sitting position as if shot from a catapult. His lean body streaked toward the dragon, each strand of muscle rippling under his nearly translucent skin.

  The dragon drew in a great breath even as Mirolah watched Sniff leap onto the dragon’s flank, chewing viciously at the scales. The dragon spat fire over the entire walkway. Roiling flames consumed them all, but Mirolah pushed air at the fire, creating a tube that shielded Sniff, Mershayn and the others.

  The dragon flung itself into the air with Sniff still clinging to it, tearing at the scales without success. The dragon shrugged, rippling its body, and dislodging the dog. Mirolah reached into the threads of the air and caught Sniff, lowered him to the walkway.

  The dragon glanced down and, obviously shocked, realized that its prey was still alive. It seemed to sniff the a
ir, and Mirolah felt its touch on the threads around her. With rage in its eyes, it peered around and spotted her.

  It can see me with threadweaver sight just as I can see that magnificent spell that protects it.

  The dragon dove at her. Given time, Mirolah might be able to unravel the protection that had been woven into those scales, but she did not have time. She had to fight this dragon, and those scales were too strong for a direct attack.

  But the air was a different matter. The air was a part of Amarion, a part of her own body.

  You are an invader. You are not wanted here.

  She reached out, moving the threads of the air surrounding the dragon. She stole its wind.

  The dragon fell like a stone. It beat its wings frantically, but they cut the air like a scythe. It crashed into the Northern Walk again. Mershayn, Deni’tri, Sniff, and the others leapt upon it.

  Mirolah watched the battle. When the dragon whipped its head around to bite Mershayn, she turned the air as hard as stone and held the dragon’s jaws open.

  The powerful scales pushed against her will, and Mirolah pushed back. It was all she could do to keep those jaws open even for a few seconds. They snapped shut, but Mershayn had leapt clear.

  Mershayn leapt forward again, sword flashing. At the last instant, Mirolah sent her will into the metal of his blade, filling it with GodSpill.

  Mershayn thrust the blade deep into the dragon’s good eye. Mirolah went in with the blade, through that narrow slice in the creature’s defenses. The sword drove into the beast’s brain. It should have killed the dragon, but somehow that powerful threadweaving in its scales also imbued the dragon with unbelievable fortitude. The dragon was insane with the pain, but not dead.