by Dan Allen
“Now?” Terith choked.
“Is it the best thing to do?” she asked. “There’s no other man for me in this realm. I know that. Without you, I would die a maid and have no heir and your line would perish as well. It defeats the Montazi way.”
“But the oath,” Terith said, voice a bit shaky. “We must keep the summer of promise.”
“And what if you cannot?” Lilleth said kindly. “By not returning, is it any different than ending the promise before you go to war? Our marriage is forfeit in either case.”
“You would join now,” Terith said nervously, “and be a mother?”
Lilleth looked away in frustration. “I didn’t say . . . I only meant to ask whether it was the best thing to do, given the circumstances.”
“Hence the Outlandish outfit?”
A smile of embarrassment crossed Lilleth’s lips. “Was it working?”
“Yeah. I can hardly get a sentence out straight—did Enala put you up to seducing me or something?”
Lilleth drew a shaky breath. “She’ll be your sister before long, you know.”
“Well?”
“We did talk about what ought to be done. I won’t say what she said about it.”
“Was she tipsy?” Terith laughed.
“Possibly.”
“Were you?”
“Definitely.”
Terith took Lilleth in his arms and held her against his chest. He whispered in her ear, “It is enough that you would give yourself for me and forfeit your reputation and honor. I will treasure it and give it two months more grace, and a lifetime if it comes to that. I will return. In the meantime, our awakenings will go undimmed and with a clear mind we’ll face whatever comes.”
“Chief!” a voice called from behind them on the trail. The sound was unmistakably urgent.
Terith turned his head and spotted the young man who had delivered his dragon riding gear on the day of the race. “Aon?”
“Sir, we’ve just got word from the border. Erden is overrun.”
Terith’s heart sank through his stomach. “The watchtower at Erden? How?”
“The horde crossed the Erden shallows by night and scaled the cliffs,” Aon said. “They’re moving across the megaliths, using our bridges—thousands of them are on the megaliths already.”
“Attacking at night, crossing the deep with cannons,” Terith said. “But . . .” It was a death sentence. “The Outlanders never sacrifice their own clansmen,” Terith said in a confused shock.
Then he realized to his horror that only the first waves of soldiers would have died. In large numbers, it was possible to overwhelm the predators of the deep. His narrow escape had been because the flies had chosen the dragon carcass over him. But only someone who had been to the deep would know that secret.
Something has changed. He shook his head. “Dungeons of hell—thousands on the Montas!” Not even Toran had faced an army moving in the cover of the forested megaliths.
“Terith?” Lilleth said, holding back a sob.
He put his arms on Lilleth’s narrow shoulders. “I must go, love. Now.”
She looked up at him, eyes welling with tears.
“I will come back. That is a promise.”
Lilleth bit her lip as a tear slipped down her face.
Terith embraced her once more and then released her, feeling her spirit separate from his as he moved away.
She collapsed to her knees.
“Aon, watch over her,” Terith commanded. “Do not leave her alone until I return, not ever. Here is the token of my charge.”
Terith unstrapped one of the two ever-present blades tied to his legs and passed it to the boy.
“I commission you, Aon of Ferrin-tat,” he said, “as a rider of the Montazi. Swear you will keep this oath and protect my wife-to-be.”
“I will,” Aon said, through stammering lips, just a boy, but rising to manhood with his oath.
Terith leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “I can spare no men to aid you. You will have no strength besides your own. Every rider is needed at the front. May you live to see the dragons return.”
“May the dragons return,” Aon said, eyes staring at the knife in his hands, its leather handle stained in a dark red hue.
“May you return also, chief!” Aon called.
As Terith hurried away from his bride-to-be, his heart felt as though it had crumbled away within him.
He kindled a fire in its place.
Pages, keepers, riders, and champions all crowded the main hall of the keep. All that remained was the chief’s call to battle, an ancient ritual, and the highest tribute to those who would leave and the last rite for those who never would return.
“You who are too young to ride, mark this well,” Terith said, his voice defiant and ringing with force off the walls of the keep. He was clad in Ferrin’s battle-tried armor, shin plates, gauntlets, and breastplate with the helmet tucked under his arm. “There is no birth into nobility. There is only one trait that earns you the right to ride: courage. Behold, your riders!” Terith held out his gauntleted hand, gesturing to the armored men. “Long ago we made the choice that brings us to battle. We chose the path of light.”
“The awakening is nothing more and nothing less than the power of faith. It is honor-bound. We keep our oaths, and the awakening lives within us.”
It was partly true, Terith realized with a shiver of regret. The awakening knew only a rider’s deepest conviction. He must be true to the principles of his heart.
For Terith, honor. For Pert, treachery.
Both had access to the awakening for their own purposes.
Terith eyed the riders one by one, walking down the line. “Come, riders of the Montazi!” Terith raised his remaining dagger into the air, his tone soaring. “Ride with me. Ride into battle!”
The warriors began the rider’s song. Others in the keep joined in. The notes rang around the cavern. The words told of honor and sacrifice, of motherland and kin.
As the last notes of the hero’s chorus trailed into silence, Terith came to the end of the line. He clasped wrists with each rider in the ceremonial call to battle. Gauntlets clanked together. Eyes met. Wordless vows of loyalty exchanged in the sacred space between rider and chief.
To battle.
The riders numbered twenty-five in all. Seven from Neutat had arrived only minutes before, answering the rally call. Others would ride from Tertat in the high country and from the southern megaliths.
It was a force large enough to slay legions of soldiers in an open battlefield.
But the horde had the cloud forest for protection. They were using the Montas’ own defense.
Some riders would not return.
Terith turned to the foot soldiers and pages. “Those who do not ride must not fail us: the scouts, the supply lines, the archers. You are our vital breath. Fight well.” Terith gave a salute, his arms crossed in front of his chest, and turned to leave, as he had every summer for many years.
This time, he felt deep in his bones, was different.
Bergulo, Ferrin’s dragon keeper, was the last in the line and joined Terith as they walked briskly from the keep into the wide green where the war dragons rested saddled and waiting. Bergulo was Terith’s sergeant-at-arms, a man so impressively strong that Terith would take no other by his side.
Bergulo saluted Terith’s lieutenant, a respected man named Rindl.
“Orders, chief?” Bergulo asked.
“Destroy the bridges at Erden,” Terith said. He glanced at Rindl.
The lieutenant nodded his agreement. “We have to prevent any more Outlanders from getting on the Montas—make them cross the deep a dozen times.”
“Give the order,” Terith said.
Bergulo turned and roared to the riders, “Mount up
! We ride for Erden. The bridges must fall.”
The riders hurried onto the field where keepers and volunteers kept the dragons’ reins. Sweethearts and mothers wept and waved as the young men climbed into the harnesses and closed up their faceplates.
Terith climbed onto the harness of Ferrin’s strythe, a long-fanged creature named Bander. The flawless dragon offered strength, speed, and most importantly, a stomach full of hellfire. Riders checked harnesses and armor buckles and tied down weapons. Most had a small shield strapped across their back and carried either a short bow with arrows or a clutch of javelins, as well as rider’s sword, the last defense if their dragon died.
Werm came up beside Terith, his lurching steps betraying his belly full of butterflies. “Terith, what of those in Neutat?”
Terith paused. The horde was crossing into the Montas at the Erden shallows, east of the crossroads that led to Ferrin-tat. Neutat was halfway between, but a half day’s journey south. There was no way to position enough riders to protect both Neutat and the crossroads.
“It should be possible to get some of the villagers farther inland before the Outlanders reach the crossroads,” Terith decided. “I’ll send a rider. My remaining riders and I will take out as many of the bridges near Erden as we can to prevent more of the horde from moving inland. But Werm,” he reached down and gripped the engineer’s shoulder, “you must get to the crossroads with your catapult before the horde arrives. All roads inland pass through the crossroads—all the roads the horde knows about anyway.”
“My stone bridges,” Werm muttered, his eyes distant.
“If they capture the crossroads,” Terith warned, “no place in the Montas will be safe. Can you break them—all of them? The horde could be there by midday tomorrow.”
“I’ll . . . get started,” Werm grumbled. He stumbled backward and hurried off the field with his lumpy jog. Destroying bridges he had designed to last more than a century hurt him to the core.
“Kyet,” Terith called. The dragon of the youngest rider of Neutat came in swift bounds until Kyet’s smaller fruit dragon stood alongside Terith’s. “Ride to the place of resort. If the path is open to the highlands have Mya signal the retreat. If not, warn Redif to prepare against the siege and cut down all the bridges through Neutat.”
“But, sir?” Kyet complained, slicking his long jet-black hair away from his eyes and looking away in frustration. He knew it was a dismissal from battle. “I was halfway there with the patrol orders when the rally flares went off. I’ve only just returned!”
Terith fixed his eyes on Kyet. “The horde is upon us and you must bring Mya back with you.”
“Yes, Terith—chief!” Kyet answered smartly. He was a good match for Mya, if he could keep their future alive.
“I didn’t take a fall into the deep with her on my back so I could see her captured by the horde. Ride hard. We rendezvous at the crossroads. Before sunrise, I must have Mya at the crossroads.”
Kyet saluted and blew his whistle. His sleek fruit dragon, a third year, kicked off and beat its wings into the air.
“Riders!” Terith called.
His sergeant and lieutenant formed up beyond his wingtips as the riders flew their dragons into a fearsomely tight group.
Terith scanned the army of fire-breathing war dragons, knowing every moment was critical. “Keep a wary eye out for those cannons and nets—one shot, one dragon down. Stay out of range or out of sight.”
“What about their archers?” Rindl asked. “They’ll have scout patrols at all the bridges.”
“Stay low and tight. If we get past their front line, the soldiers in the rear won’t be prepared to fight and their archers will hesitate to fire back over their own ranks. Our task is to cut off their supply lines at the first bridges and prevent more Outlanders from crossing into the upper Montas.”
“But what about the Outlanders already on the megaliths?” Bergulo, the bulky dragon keeper asked. “Who will stop them?”
Terith knew Bergulo knew the answer. He only asked the question to bring up the topic nobody else would.
The battle plans were clear enough. Wherever the horde attacked, all riders within a half-day ride went to the front, no questions asked, no hesitation. The reinforcements would take the rear positions to defend the villages.
With the attack focused at Erden, the reinforcements would come from the southern Montas, from Entat the old capital, Cafertat, and the villages near Pert’s fortress at Montasen.
“It takes a day to get here from Entat,” Terith said. “When Pert’s riders arrive, the southern riders will help us defend the bridges between the crossroads and the capital, or destroy them if they have to.”
“So it’s down to Pert in the end,” the spindly Rindl said dryly. He was lanky, forty-something, and bald, but deadly with a spear and tactics.
“Let’s focus on our job first,” Terith said. “The front end of the column will be spread out—very dangerous. We can’t be worrying about other things.”
Rindl agreed. “At dusk, we meet at the watchtower.”
“At dusk.” Terith blew his whistle and snapped the reins. “Up Bander.” The strythe, powerful, war-hardened, and long fanged, lifted into the air. Terith relished its strength as he gained altitude much more quickly than Akara could have borne him up. The riders launched in the air behind him, falling into a vee formation. The pace was aggressive. Every minute, more savage Outlanders poured into their realm.
A mile into the ride, Bergulo rotated into the lead position. “How are we going to take the bridges, high or low?” he asked as Terith moved into Rindl’s position.
“Both,” Terith said quickly. He turned to Rindl who was riding a brown strythe with enormous fangs that overhung its jaw. “Take Ferrin’s troop east of the Erden shallows. Bergulo will bring the other volunteers around the other side. Both formations will cross behind the watchtower. That will turn their cannons backward, away from the front of the column. My Neutat riders will start some fires to keep the Outlanders busy while you attack the bridges.”
Rindl nodded. “Circle around, attack from the rear. Got it.”
“We’ll look for the fires,” Bergulo said.
“Rendezvous at the crossroads,” Terith said. “May your dragons return.”
“Dragons’ return or no,” Bergulo said through clenched teeth. “I’ll personally escort a company of Outlanders to the seventh dungeon of hell if I have to. Break formation!” he called.
He gave a hand signal to his riders and the assembly broke seamlessly into three tight vees. Those who remained with Terith, all Neutat riders, descended into the canyon following Bander’s silent wingbeats. The other two groups climbed and separated.
When the others were well out of earshot, Terith made a gesture and the vee inverted. Terith was at the back so his voice would carry to the men in front. “The deep is a fire bomb. Last time I was down there the air in the swamp was so rotten with fermentation it nearly exploded when I sprayed out a little ragoon juice. The air of the deep is hot, and the evening air of the Montas is cool. We only need to turn the air.”
“A cyclone,” said Trip, the liveliest of the Neutat with a clever smile. “If we draw up the swamp air, a spark will start a firestorm.”
“The fire cyclones will keep the Outlanders busy while we cut down the bridges,” Jand said, impassioned excitement showing in his only remaining eye. “I like it.”
Terith looked to the right, where Nema flew, trying to judge what he thought of the plan. He was a gifted rider, nearly Terith’s equal, a habitually impulsive type who managed to luck himself out of almost as much trouble as he landed himself in. After a few seconds, he nodded and whispered to Terith, “Guardians keep us. That fire will burn out of control.”
Hours later, the group let down a half mile beyond the crossroads. The horde was just ahead. Behind them, the sun was setting
in an orange sky. Ahead, the megaliths ended abruptly. The last canyon dividing the volcanic mesas from the unbroken plain was shallowest at this point—the Erden shallows.
The familiar watchtower atop the last megalith poured smoke into the twilight sky.
The horde, rather than attempting to bridge the shallows, had braved the deep and scaled the cliff walls on the opposite side. The flesh-eating maggots, vampire leeches, and scorpions could not stop so many at once. Never before had the clans made a cooperated sacrifice, using their sheer numbers to overwhelm the predators of the deep. And it had worked. The horde was closer to crossing the Montas than any time in memory—and on Terith’s watch.
Terith led his team down into a hidden clearing.
“Cut that ivy,” he ordered. “I want two lengths of fifty yards.”
He dismounted and joined the riders as they ripped vegetation from long sections of ground-running ivy with cloak-sized leaves branching at intervals.
Terith secured the front of one ivy rope around the horn on Bander’s saddle. “Just like the parades,” Terith explained. “Everybody support a section of the ivy. We’ll use the big leaves like the vanes of a windmill to stir the air in the deep. Nema, get the other length of ivy and take your patrol down the canyon on the south side.”
“Parade ribbons are a lot lighter than ivy,” Nema complained. He motioned to a couple of riders who hauled out another section of ivy.
Nema’s twin Kema watched the other group of dragons with an anxious, pensive look. By nature he was not the warring type. He was a poet.
“How much longer?” Trip asked. “I can’t wait to see the looks on their faces when we light up these firestorms—special Montazi welcome.”
Ahead, in the distance, the other two teams would be circling behind the enemy, out over the Outlands.
“I can see their scales shining now, chief,” Kema reported. “Both groups have begun the crossing maneuver. And I can see cannon smoke.”
“Time to go,” Terith called.
Nema’s patrol of four riders ran along the ground dragging stems of ivy with massive leaves between them almost as large as the dragon wings. The dragons took to the air, the ivy leaves dragging on the tips of tree branches below.
