by Meagan Hurst
More impressively, Nivaradros had taken numerous wounds in his willingness to defend the races he was commanding. None of them had been life threatening, but the Islierre knew the Dragon would carry new scars when this war came to a close—if he survived—including one that ran from the center of his forehead down to the right hand corner of his jaw. It had crossed his right eye, but somehow the Dragon hadn’t lost either the eye or his vision in the attack.
The call-to-arms sounded through the castle and the Islierre rose from his chair. He had agreed to ride today—leading his people instead of working as an advisor to the Dragon. Nivaradros didn’t need advisors, but he often requested the rulers stay with him in Thryisa while others led their command on the field. There was a reason behind it, but the Islierre hadn’t yet discovered it. Setting aside his papers, he moved to the door of the room he had been granted—an inferior servant’s room, but as Nivaradros’s quarters were no better the Islierre tried not to be offended. Heading out of his quarters, he went to find the Dragon to make sure nothing had changed overnight.
Nivaradros was out on the wall watching the sun rise without any expression on his features. The Islierre joined him and eyed the bodies piled up before the walls. “Any news?” he inquired.
“None. At this point the Rangers assure me no news is good news,” the Dragon said with a grimace as he turned to face the Ryelention beside him. His eyes were neon, but they had been since the war had started. “And you are well enough to ride today?”
“My injuries were hardly anything to grow concerned over, Nivaradros,” the Islierre snapped. As the Dragon’s jaw clenched, he backtracked. “I am sorry, Nivaradros; I know you meant nothing by it.”
“Nothing insulting,” the Dragon rumbled. “I will have to answer to Zimliya, after all; I would prefer to be able to justify every loss and not inform her I sent very wounded warriors out to battle.”
“You may have to at the rate we’re going.”
“I’ve sent for more Dragons, and we still have some Rangers in reserve.” The Dragon, however, sounded exhausted. “Scouts reported movement behind Thryisa overnight, and I have sent the Rangers to investigate. If Midestol’s troops have managed to surround the castle after all our efforts to hinder them, we are in trouble.”
Grimacing, the Islierre nodded. “Keep me informed.” Heading out for another day of fighting, the Islierre decided he would also do some cleanup—through his shadow magic.
Gathering his troops, which included Syallibions, Alantaions, Dralations, Vyenrians, and Nialtians, the Islierre used a back entrance to enter the field before sending his forces to attack the enemy that was still struggling to wake up. Every third day Nivaradros refused to allow the immortals to continue fighting through the night. Instead he had informed them they would allow one day of rest for Midestol’s fighters because, according to Zimliya, giving them that one small night actually was weakening them. The results they had experienced proved she had been right, but the Islierre hated having to hold his warriors in during that period of rest.
And there were still too many losses. Pulling his shadow magic, he yanked units of the enemy into his shadow realm and trapped them there. They would slowly starve to death, but at least they wouldn’t be here, and as they were mortals, he didn’t give a damn anyway. The fewer mortals there were the better off the world would be. Zimliya had never counted in his mind, and as she was no longer mortal, he could speak this mind aloud, although the Rangers often gave him dark looks.
It was a long day of fighting. Where Midestol had found all of his mortals was unknown, but the sheer number of them made the Islierre want to go on a mortal killing spree, whether or not they were on his side. Too many humans. Far too many. Not to mention that Midestol had the strangest of creatures within his forces, and while the mortals were easy enough to kill, their mounts and the creatures that roamed freely beside them were not.
Running his sword through another creature, the Islierre hand-signaled his troops to push forward. They would force the enemy back to give their army breathing room. Mere inches were gained, but by the time the Islierre was signaled by flag to return to the castle, he felt the day had been successful. Leaving the command to his second, he turned his mount and let the stallion gallop back to the walls that were currently keeping Midestol’s forces out, despite the damage they had taken.
Reining in the stallion at the sight of a decent sized group of strangely attired mortals, the Islierre was about to attack when he recognized who was in the lead. That rider turned to regard him with orange eyes before nodding curtly to him and breaking away from the mortals—leaving them with the Shade who had accompanied him on his mission.
“How was the battle today?”
“About the same as it always is. Who are they?” the Islierre demanded of his son as he scanned the unfamiliar humans.
“Tezéracians—and a few Rangers masquerading as Tezéracians.” Shalion’s voice was icy, but still warmer than it tended to be when they were speaking. “Crilyne and I came across them while we were escorting our people to their safety. Evidently Z sent them a message and they have decided to send troops. Not,” the Islierri added, “that they have much in the way of them.”
“How many are there?”
“Roughly? Eighty-five thousand. The Rangers in hiding have been training everyone they could to pick up a sword since Z handed the former Tenians their new city. As a result we have men and women fighting, but I am not sure they’ll be up for the task. They may just end up being bait for the enemy, but at least they came.”
“Zimliya would be pleased if she knew.”
Shalion’s expression tightened. “No word I take it?”
“None, and the Dragon is handling the lack of news remarkably well.” The Islierre fell silent as Nivaradros limped forward with his troops. The Dragon was bleeding heavily from his left side, but his eyes were a steady neon and he didn’t appear to need immediate care.
“The enemy is now treating their blades with Keniss,” Nivaradros told them as he approached. “Be wary. I lost a fourth of my detachment today because of it, and the only reason I am still standing is because Keniss works slower on Dragons and the Mithane happened to be nearby.” The Dragon sounded exhausted, but he offered Shalion a weary smile. “Welcome to one of the abysses—and nice job on bringing us more troops. We’re going to need them.” Nodding at both of them, the Dragon limped back into the castle’s walls leaving the two Ryelentions staring after him in concern.
“Is he always like that?” Shalion wanted to know.
“There is a bet going on that he snaps within the next month,” the Islierre said softly as his eyes followed the Dragon. “But, yes, this is how he has been behaving. He is trying very, very hard to hold together an army of races that can barely stand to share air with each other. But the army is his; he’s earned our respect if nothing else.”
“Z would be proud of him.”
“I believe Zimliya is to blame. Shall we head inside?” he wanted to know as he patted his stallion’s neck and handed the reins over to one of those in charge of taking care of the horses. “He’ll want to hold a meeting considering the latest developments.”
“I’ll follow your lead. I haven’t been inside yet.”
The Islierre conceded the point and led Shalion to what Nivaradros had made the war room. Due to the diversity of their army, the Dragon had converted the throne room into their main meeting area, but the number of those who were allowed in had shrunk as the war had claimed more lives. Even today the Islierre noted more missing faces. One of them was significant. He couldn’t find Zyrhis.
Nivaradros waited an hour before deeming that everyone was present. The Islierre glanced briefly around the room, but there was still no sign of the Syallibion. The Dragon looked far better than he had when he had limped up to them on the field, but his features were still drawn and almost troubled.
“Today was not our strongest day. The Islierre and a couple other grou
ps had successes, and while I congratulate them on accomplishing their feats, in the end we still shed far too much blood. Despite the positioning of our troops—despite the fact we are mingling talents to make our army stronger in all parts—we are losing the war.”
His words caused whispers to circle. The Islierre hesitated before speaking. “In what way?”
“Including today’s losses, we’ve lost more than a third of our army,” Nivaradros admitted in an even tone. “And we’re going to be stretched too thin if we try and keep Midestol’s forces from circling the castle. The best we can hope for is to keep them at bay.”
“And what are their numbers?”
The Dragon met his eyes. “We’ve cost them about a third of their own army, but they still outnumber us. I have sent a request to my kind to send more Dragons, but until they arrive, I have no way of learning if they are coming. I have also sent word to the Rangers to send our reserves, but that is unlikely to assist us at the level we require; Midestol will have reserves as well.”
Everyone winced. The Islierre however let his eyes roam the room again—openly this time. “Who did we lose today?”
“Of us? Zyrhis, the Ranger Daryien, the Kalrye, and at least three other rulers. In addition, at least two of the mortal races no longer exist.”
Silence. Just silence. The Islierre felt almost human because he wanted to say something, but what could anyone say? Two mortal races had been completely wiped out.
“Which two?” he asked softly.
“The Lynxians and the Nernlis,” Nivaradros replied. “The last of them were cornered in the same disaster that claimed the lives of Zyrhis and Daryien.”
Three kingdoms erased from the world. What would the stand against Midestol cost them? The kingdoms of both the Lynxians and the Nernlis had been attacked and their inhabitants slaughtered once their armies had left. Unless a stray few of their races still lived there was no chance for those races to rebuild; they had been exterminated. Despite their mortality the Islierre felt pity for them. Any loss, at this level, was a grave one.
“And our enemy is treating their blades with poison as well as using their magic. Because of this, I am sending more healers into the field. They have the training to fight, and my hope is they can protect themselves while helping to curb our losses further.”
“The Dragons?” someone wanted to know.
“We’re down half of what was originally sent, and I explained the situation regarding new Dragons earlier. If anyone has any questions, concerns, or ideas speak. We’re going to need to start improvising. I have Zimliya’s plans, but I am uncertain that they will be enough.”
Which was positively frightening. Zimliya had worked hard to come up with as many plans as she could in order to protect those under her command. The thought that she might not have given the Dragon enough to aid them—and the Islierre had seen the books she had provided Nivaradros—was something he didn’t want to consider. As the Dragon spoke of healers, though, his eyes strayed to the Mithane and narrowed. Knowing something was up, the Islierre let the rest of the meeting pass him by despite listening to everything that was discussed.
Hours later the meeting came to a close and the Islierre remained behind to speak with Nivaradros. The Dragon glanced his way before gesturing that he was allowed to fall instep beside him.
“Will you take to your form?” the Islierre inquired.
“No,” Nivaradros said, as he had always said before. This time, however, more words followed. “I cannot.” The Dragon stopped walking before he reached the door leading outside of the throne room and used magic to both shut and seal it before turning to face the being beside him.
The Islierre froze. “You cannot take your form?” he whispered. “How can you not?”
“Because I surrendered it to save Zimliya—Well not to save her directly, but I could not have returned to her side and aided her had I kept it.”
Nivaradros was on the defensive, and the Islierre wasn’t surprised. Holding up his hands in a fruitless human gesture, the Islierre took a step back. “I am not going to use that against you, Nivaradros, but I am surprised. I wouldn’t have anticipated that move from you.”
“Had I not made that decision, Zimliya would have perished. She was unwilling to let others assist her. But it has little relevance in the present.”
The thought was still hard to grasp. Surrendering his form—the Dragon was far more vulnerable than anyone knew. Or perhaps he wasn’t; there was a hint of power to the Dragon that not even he could read, and as Nivaradros was still alive, the Islierre couldn’t question his fighting talents.
“How many know?”
“Enough to mean I have to be careful, but not enough to succeed if they tried to kill me as a group,” Nivaradros said with a shrug. “What did you want, Islierre?” he demanded finally.
“You’ve been keeping an eye on the Mithane—why?”
Dragon eyes brightened. “Zimliya cares for him.”
He heard what Nivaradros refused to say. “He will die here. In this war.”
For a second, it was clear the Dragon intended to dismiss what he said, but to his surprise, Nivaradros exhaled and inclined his head. “He will. I cannot protect him,” the Dragon added in a bitter tone. “And he knows he will not survive much longer. I believe tomorrow is the foreseen day.”
“Does Zimliya know?”
“She does. It is why I keep watch. I told her I would try and bring his body back to his kingdom. She was unhappy to learn there was nothing she could do to save him because she wouldn’t be here; I thought that was a fair enough offer.”
It was, but the Islierre doubted it would be enough. The Mithane had been Zimliya’s person of safety for years; all of them knew it. He had considered the Mithane weak for taking in such a fragile mortal child and attempting to raise her, but considering who Zimliya had become, the Islierre felt like more of a fool than he had considered the Alantaion to be.
“She will not recover from his loss,” the Islierre commented.
“Not fully,” Nivaradros agreed. “He is—in all the ways that matter to her—her father. She was barely willing to accept his desire to add her to his family, and now she will lose him. I have no idea what will happen if she defeats Midestol, but she will need time to grieve.”
The Islierre nodded, but his thoughts were turning. Zimliya could not lose the Mithane, not yet. Perhaps once she had settled into her new life for a century. She needed an immortal to guide her, and unfortunately neither he nor Nivaradros were up for the task. “Assign the Mithane to my command tomorrow,” he told Nivaradros. “You are compromised; you don’t need to be looking after him.”
Nivaradros was suspicious. “Just because I told you he is going to die doesn’t mean you are allowed to kill him.”
“I have no intentions of shortening his time with us anymore than it will already be; you are not in any condition to have to worry about finding and carrying a body back to the castle. I, however, am. I will take your duty as my own.”
Neon eyes held his. “Why?”
“Because I owe Zimliya,” the Islierre admitted. “And this is a debt I can pay her that costs very little on my part.”
“And you get to watch an old rival of yours perish—probably painfully—in front of you?”
“That is an added bonus.”
The Dragon snorted smoke, but he did consider the offer. “Alright,” he agreed. “I will send the Mithane with you on the morrow. If you do anything to speed up his demise, yours will follow swiftly.”
“Understood.” The Islierre smiled. “What do you plan to do with your new human warriors?”
“Your son needs a job. As he brought them, I rather thought it was fitting he should continue to lead them. It was either that or give Shevieck the duty, and although I dislike the Tezéracians, I am uncertain they deserve that fate a second time.”
Chuckling, he agreed with the Dragon. Shevieck was still a disaster; it was a miracle the young Alan
taion had survived this far in the war, and the Islierre suspected that Nivaradros was trying to get the former Alantaion heir killed. Shevieck had managed to be assigned to every unit that was heading deep into the enemy ranks. Though there were losses—sometimes heavy losses—within those units, Shevieck had yet to be one of them.
“Shalion is unlikely to be pleased to find out he has to command the humans.”
“We all have to make sacrifices. If he wishes to argue with my decision, he is welcome to.” Nivaradros nodded once in dismissal to him before unsealing the doors of the throne room, leaving, and vanishing down a set of halls.
It was just as well; the Islierre had a lot to think about. Foremost being the Dragon’s dark news. He couldn’t believe Nivaradros had surrendered the one thing that had shaped him when he had begun his rise to power as the Warlord. But, based on the timeline he was suspecting, the lack of a form had not weakened Nivaradros. Which made the Islierre suspect Nivaradros controlled more elements than the rest of his kind—including the shadows.
Returning to his room, the Islierre began to set his plans in motion. The Dragon had been willing to assign the Mithane to his forces, but that was only the start of his plan. What Nivaradros didn’t know was a good thing, and what the Dragon suspected didn’t concern him either, since the Mithane would join his forces the following day. The Islierre was looking forward to the morrow. He had been waiting a long time to watch the Alantaion ruler perish.
The next morning came with rain. The Islierre had ignored it while he poured over his plans for the night, but the prospect of fighting in it soured his mood. Hearing the call-to-arms, the Islierre emerged from his chambers to find the Mithane was waiting for him outside his door.
“What do you want?” he demanded sharply.
“I heard I am to ride with you,” the Mithane said. He looked ill and the Islierre noted how thin he had become over the last couple of months. “Since I normally ride with Nivaradros I thought I should seek you out early to find out where your forces have been ordered to stand.”
