by Devin Hanson
Down the street by the abandoned barricade, a figure caught his eye, a tall man wearing armor and a hooded cloak. He moved strangely, slightly curled up on his left side and walking with a sideways gait. No warden would wear armor that heavy, so it was likely he was Salian, separated from his people during the fighting and lost.
“Andrew Condign!” the man shouted and threw back his hood, giving Andrew a clear look at his face.
It was Trent Priah. Reflexively, Andrew barked out the Saying to form a shield about himself, wide enough to anchor it deep within the earth. Safe for the moment, he took a second to get a good look at the Incantor. The last time he had seen Trent, he had been handsome in an aristocratic way, with a strong jaw and a nose on the slender side. A wide brow, blue eyes and the latest court hair style had finished the look.
The man that strode toward Andrew now had only the ghostly vestige of his earlier grand appearance. His cheeks were sunken and a tracery of thin scars pulled what flesh remained into grotesque twists. He still moved with a swordfighter’s grace, but he held one shoulder back, giving him the appearance of being hunchbacked.
For all the physical changes, it was the man’s eyes that had changed the most. Trent’s eyes had always been cold and distantly cruel, as if he were tempted to evil but couldn’t be bothered. As Trent drew closer, Andrew could see the wild, unchecked madness behind Trent’s gaze. He had become a creature driven by hunger. The lingering whispers of his victims had stripped the last vestige of humanity from Trent and left him a figment of madness and lust for power.
Andrew turned back to the Academy. “Raise the shields!” he screamed.
“No need for that, Andrew. Today, I’m here for you.” Trent licked his lips, his tongue notched on one side. “I’ll eat your heart then I’ll rip the Academy shield from the ground and feast on alchemist vitae.”
Andrew forced himself to stand straight and face Trent squarely. Behind him, the Academy shields snapped into existence. The coming fight would demand every last effort of skill and cunning. Trent wouldn’t fall for a trick like he had pulled on Bircham Lameda, and if what he had heard was true, the Incantor had amassed more vitae than even a dragon.
“What happened to your face?” Andrew asked. He was genuinely curious, though infuriating Trent was also probably a good idea.
Trent’s face twisted, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh or be angry, and tried to do both at once. “You did! You did this to me.”
“I did?” Andrew cocked his head then remembered the last furious attack he had made upon the Incantor outside the Archives. He had cut Trent’s flesh to ribbons, but the Incantor’s continuous healing had stitched his skin back together as fast as he could cut. It was a sobering memory. Short of cutting off Trent’s head or tearing his heart out, nothing he could do to Trent would be fatal.
“Well, I can’t say the look is good for you. Must be hard to get the ladies like that.”
Trent roared and spat a Saying, sending a raging wave of fire surging around Andrew’s shield. “Enough words!” he screamed. “I’ve waited too long to–”
Andrew dropped his shield and snapped out, “Igan!” A rush of dragonfire swept over Trent and the Song stirred within him. Andrew shaped the flame, then inspired by Michael’s explanation of the monoplane engine, added the runes of force to turn the flame into a hammer of pure energy.
The bubble of Trent’s shield was ripped from the ground, cobbles, earth and all, and flung violently across the street and into an alchemy shop. The same place, Andrew realized, as where he had met Trent for the first time.
Glass shattered and melted, wood burst into flames, and stone cracked and splintered under the torrent of fire coming from Andrew’s outstretched hand. Then the front of the shop exploded outward, forcing Andrew to throw a shield up, and Trent emerged from the inferno with his own shield about him.
“That’s better!” he cried. Half his clothing was completely burned away and the skin beneath was blackened and cracked. But as Andrew watched, the burned husk of flesh sloughed away, revealing fresh pink skin beneath. Trent scraped away a twist of lingering skin and laughed, high and mad.
“Doda’at’lani,” Andrew sang, “at’lani, medo, igada!” Heavy stones from the front of the ruined shop ripped themselves from the wall and flew at Trent. Heavy cobbles, heated until they were glowing red, crashed into his shield, and all the burning timber from the shop, and the wooden supports from the neighboring building tore free and smashed into Trent. “Igan, iganir, anir, anir!” Flames erupted from the stacked timbers, fed by a torrent of air until the center of the street turned into a howling inferno.
As Andrew called out his Sayings, more and more stones were wrenched from the surrounding buildings and piled on top of Trent. The flames were so hot the stones cracked, glowed red, and started to melt. The heat was so intense Andrew had to retreat back down the street, and still he piled on wood and stone and fed the flames with vitae and howling wind.
Flames leaped dozens of feet in the air, the street was stripped of cobbles and the surrounding buildings collapsed as their structure was torn from them. Glass that was miraculously unbroken sagged in window frames. The ground itself bubbled around the fire.
Finally, Andrew let his Song fade and stood panting, his clothing tugging at him as wind rushed past him to feed the blaze. Surely, in the center of all that, Trent had finally died.
Light bloomed and Andrew cried out and threw up a shield. The pile of melting rock and white-hot fire exploded, sending magma spraying out over Andronath. Trent threw himself from the center of the destruction and rolled to his feet outside the ring of still-bubbling stone.
The debris rained down around Andrew and onto the roofs and walls of the buildings. And Andronath began to burn.
Trent’s feet were seared to the bone, and the skin and muscle on his legs were blackened, just from the bare second of exposure after he had dropped his shield. But his lips were twisting and he spat out his own Sayings.
The world outside Andrew’s shield disappeared in a swirling rage of fire. Fear gripped Andrew. If Trent could do the same thing to him, Andrew would die. He had no Incantor powers of healing, and while his scales had a vast store of vitae, they were not endless.
But Andrew was a Dragon Speaker and a lauith. He would not die like a mouse in a trap. He gritted his teeth and concentrated, and the permutations of the shielding Saying filled his mind. He wove in water and air and manipulated the shape of the shield until it arched over the blasting rush of flame, cooling it and directing it outward and away from himself. Then he opened a gap in the rear of the shield and sprinted out. His boots sizzled on the hot cobbles, but they weren’t molten, or even red hot.
Trent, for all his power and vitae, was not a rune master. He didn’t know the true shape of the rune of fire, and despite his endless store of vitae, he couldn’t raise the temperatures that high.
Smoke filled the air, glowing orange from the fires raging in the buildings. Andrew coughed on it and held his arm in front of his face, breathing through his sleeve. The flames rushing at his shield had died out and the street was empty. The only sign of Trent were charred foot bones where he had been standing.
“Trent!” Andrew screamed. “You can’t run this time!”
Mad laughter rolled through the smoke, high and mocking. Andrew ran toward the sound, holding a partial shield in front of him. The street was a canyon of flame, buildings on both sides of the street in full burn. Black clouds of smoke rolled up into the night.
Andrew ran down the street with the heat beating in on him. His sweat dried as soon as it formed and his clothes started to smoke. Ahead of him, limping madly down the street, Andrew caught sight of Trent. The Incantor was directing bursts of flame into the buildings as he passed them, driving the existing fires into a roaring inferno. Andrew was close, but he couldn’t push on. It was too hot. Trent’s clothing had long-since burned away, and the armor he wore glowed dully on his skin.
<
br /> It was impossible. Andrew couldn’t chase Trent any further. He needed a way to block the heat, that wasn’t a shield.
What seemed like ages ago, Andrew had carved his first kossarigan with Ava protecting him from the heat. Ava had hummed a meaningless note, but now Andrew remembered it with new clarity. It wasn’t just a note, it was a drawn-out Saying.
“Ignia,” Andrew cried, and held the last note. The heat crushing in on him faded away to nothing. The fires blazed five paces to either side, but all Andrew felt was a brushing tickle of warmth over his skin.
Unafraid of the fire now, Andrew strode after Trent. The Incantor’s healing was keeping him alive, but his skin smoked and peeled away, with fresh, unblemished skin coming through beneath. As Andrew’s footsteps grew close, Trent spun around and screamed, “Igan!”
Fire roared toward Andrew and faded away to nothing but a gentle breeze by the time it reached him. The sight drained what little sanity Trent had left and he howled with fear, scrabbling away from Andrew on all fours. The Incantor’s feet were gone, with only the vestigial growths of new foot bones giving him something to balance with.
In time, perhaps, Trent would recover fully from his burns. It was time Andrew would not let him have.
When Andrew was only feet away from him, Trent threw up a shield. It was small, five feet across, just enough to cover Trent as he cowered on the ground, weeping and shrieking obscenities at Andrew.
Andrew ignored his cries and paced in a circle around Trent. The Incantor had enough vitae to last for days holding that shield. Perhaps even months, and his healing would keep him alive.
The Dragon Speaker changed his Song. In addition to the humming, he added the quiet chant of controlled bursts of force. He widened his circle about Trent and carefully carved the delicate twisting pattern of an Add chain into the stone about Trent. Concentrating on the careful chipping of stone using a Saying of force and air, Andrew completed the chain then started on the inside.
He carved a simple rune, broad and wide. He carved it deep, and he carved it precise. He carved the Master Igan rune into the stone and stepped back, looking at Trent cowering beneath his shield. He felt no pity for the Incantor, and no hate. Just a weary relief that Trent’s corruption was finally done with.
Finishing the jag on the Ig rune took a single breath, and flames immediately roared skyward. The Add chain kept the fire contained to the circle, but within it, the pure essence of fire blazed. It was hotter than a forge fire at full stoke, hotter than anything Andrew had experienced before. He had to retreat from the circle despite his heat barrier.
From a distance of a dozen yards, Andrew watched the fire blaze into the night sky. It would never burn out. Andrew doubted there was an alchemist alive who could get close enough to disrupt the Ig rune, other than himself.
If Trent dropped his shield, even for a moment, the fire would consume him instantly. There was no escape for the Incantor. He was doomed to lie huddled beneath his shield until his vitae finally burned out.
Andrew turned away. He felt… tired, but a deep well of relief lay underneath. He wasn’t happy about killing Trent, but someone had to do it. And now it was complete. Whether all the Incantors had died during the attack on Andronath was something that would have to be discovered later, but their leader was now dead, or would be eventually.
With a last glance back over his shoulder at the column of flame, Andrew trudged back out of the smoke and fire.
Chapter 31
Restitution
Jules watched the sun rise over the mountains to the east. The aftermath of Andrew’s battle against Trent was still sending clouds of smoke into the air, saturating the morning light a deep red. The fires had burned down overnight, leaving almost half the city a smoking ruin. Down the hill, where Andrew had finally cornered Trent, the column of fire rose into the sky. With the sun up, it wasn’t as bright as it had been at night, but the flames would still be visible for miles.
Iria limped up next to her, leaning on a crutch and seemingly more bandaged than not. Still, the petite warden looked to be in good spirits. “Cities can be rebuilt,” she said.
Jules looked at the warden and cracked an unwilling smile. “What are you so cheerful about?”
“Trent is dead. The Salians have surrendered. The Speaker says at least two more Incantors were killed.”
“By the dragon. I saw it too.”
Iria shrugged, awkward with the crutch. “What is there not to be happy about?”
Jules didn’t bother answering. The state of Andronath was clear enough.
“We live,” the warden said, more seriously. “Many lives were lost. But many were also saved. It is the Maar way to celebrate life, not mourn death.”
“I need to learn to think like a Maar,” Jules said.
“When things become too difficult, become very drunk. This helps.”
Jules laid a hand on her stomach. “That… isn’t an option.”
Iria followed the movement, her brow furrowed, then her eyes widened suddenly and she glanced up at Jules. “Does the Speaker know?”
“He has enough to worry about right now. There will be time enough later.”
“This changes things.”
“Iria, I–”
“You should have said something,” Iria groused. “I let you go into battle!”
“If I recall correctly, you were half dead on your feet,” Jules said gently. “And no harm came of it.”
“No harm came of what?”
Jules started at the sound of Andrew’s voice and glared at Iria before turning to him. “Nothing. We were just talking.”
Andrew wrapped his arms around her, and Jules leaned against him. He still smelled of smoke and the short hairs on his arms had been seared off, leaving them slightly prickly with new growth. The weary tension that had been in his eyes for the last week was replaced by the sparkle of good cheer. The skin beneath his eyes was still dark, but the few hours of sleep he had managed had lifted the worst of his exhaustion.
“Who’s up for a visit to the king?” he asked.
Jules frowned a little. “You seem awfully cheerful about that. What’s going on?”
“Things have changed. We need their airship. I understand it’s in good repair?”
Iria nodded. “They were working on it all night but have not yet left the city.”
“Why not?” Jules asked. “If I were them, I’d want to leave as soon as possible and sort out the diplomacy later.”
Iria brushed her hand to the side. “They were discouraged.”
Jules could only imagine what a city full of angry wardens would do to discourage the Salians from leaving, and thought it better to leave it at that. “What’s changed, Andrew? Why do we need the Pride?”
“Ava woke me. Her eggs are ready to hatch. She expects them to begin before the day is out.”
“Vanali is a four-hour flight, at least,” Jules said, estimating in her head. “You’re right, we need the Pride.”
“Closer to six hours, actually. Ava flies faster than she seems.” Andrew shook his head. “But we need to decide on animi first. I’ve been thinking about it. I would rather wardens volunteered for it than alchemists. Iria, can you find five wardens who you would suit best? Make it clear I want volunteers only.”
“I have five picked out already,” Iria said. “I chose them the day after you returned from Vanali.”
Jules nodded. Iria had no compunction about taking immediate necessary actions, no matter the emotional difficulty involved.
“They are volunteers?” Andrew asked.
“We are all volunteers, Speaker,” Iria said simply. “I let them know the stakes involved. None hesitated.”
Jules felt Andrew’s chest lift in a sigh. “And the other five?” he asked, referring to the five that would be given to the potential male dragons.
“I will have a warden question the captives. I understand some were found looting.”
Andrew shook his he
ad. “They must be criminals, Iria. Looting doesn’t carry a death sentence.”
“It does in Nas Shahr. But very well. I will locate the five worst of the lot.”
“I still want to approve of each one,” Andrew said firmly.
“You will not be disappointed, Speaker,” Iria bowed and strode off, leaning only slightly on her crutch.
Jules watched her go. Her head was pressed against Andrew’s chest and she could hear his heart thumping and gradually slowing down after he finished talking with Iria.
“That woman can be bloody minded sometimes,” he grumbled.
“She is very useful.” Jules didn’t finish the rest of her thought. She already knew what Andrew’s reaction would be to every king needing a good military advisor. “I’m looking forward to returning to Vanali,” she said instead.
“You like it there?”
“Better than here,” Jules said. It would be a good place to raise a child with lots of opportunity for adventure.
“I miss it already,” Andrew agreed. “I might just stay there for a while after Ava’s young hatch.”
“We better hurry down to the Pride,” Jules suggested, drawing away from Andrew. “It would be bad if King Delran gave the wardens the slip and left before we arrived.”
“That isn’t likely,” Andrew chuckled. “But you’re right about the need for haste.”
“Do you know what you’re going to say to him?” Jules asked. “Delran is a proud man, but isn’t afraid of admitting his mistakes.”
Andrew shrugged. “I’ll figure something out. Be ready to step in, though. You’re more familiar with this sort of thing than I am.”
Travis knelt on the ground in front of King Delran and kept his head bowed, listening to the pacing of the king. Returning to the Salian camp had been a difficult decision, but he had felt the need to clear his name. An order of arrest had gone out for the late baron’s lieutenants, with Travis one of the names on that list. He had surrendered himself to the king, hoping for a chance to explain himself.
