Magic's Genesis- Sword of Wilmamen

by Rosaire Bushey

  “Mother!”

  By the time Synca turned from Jex, the sound of her son’s cry had died away, and she saw him being carried by his father, into the keep of Ep’Muta and into the waiting hands of Wynter.

  36 - Sword of Wilmamen

  Synca didn’t spare a thought for those left fighting the Qorghal, they were not her concern. She ran to the center of the fort, her enormous legs shaking the ground like small earthquakes. Two large doors stood ripped off their hinges, the door frame split along all sides to make way for the dragons who had passed through the doors before.

  Synca took in the whole scene before she came to a full stop in the main hall, her head towering over the sitting form of Wynter in a plain wooden chair at the end of the chamber. At his side was her mate, Garprax, and her son, Sanprax. The young dragon was being cowed by his father as Wynter stroked Sanprax’s pale green scales with his left hand, a long white scar outlined on his forearm marking the motion as he ran his fingers from the young dragon’s nose to the back of his head. Sanprax shuddered involuntarily, and Wynter smiled.

  In front of him, on the floor near overturned wooden tables, Lydria knelt with her hands behind her back, held together by bands of blue light. When Wynter realized Synca had taken in the entire scene, he stopped stroking her son and lowered his right hand and lifted a piece of darkness. Two thin blades, one slightly longer than the other, forged side by side, so that their curves created a gap between the blades reminiscent of a willow leaf.

  “Do you recognize this blade, dragon?”

  Synca realized Wynter was speaking to her. Garprax did not meet her eyes, staring instead at his son and his son’s neck, an unbroken sleeve of green scales.

  “I recognize the blade as being made of Farn’Nethyn, if that is what you mean.” Synca’s answer was short. She was inpatient and considering her options to destroy this man without harming the wielder or her son.

  As if sensing her thoughts, Wynter spoke again. “One of the qualities of Farn’Nethyn is its ability to dampen the ability to use magic. Did you know that?” He stood and walked to stand near Sanprax. “Your magic, that of an adult dragon of course, is far too strong to be entirely effected by this much of the metal.” Wynter stressed the word adult while staring at Sanprax but lifted his chin again to look toward the woman captive on the floor. “But hers,” he motioned the twin points of the blade toward Lydria. “Hers, however, are not. Even now she tries to break the bonds your mate has so casually bound her with. Even if the blade weren’t here, I doubt she could do anything against dragon magic. Don’t you see? Don’t you understand the power I offer? We can rule Eigrae – just the three,” Wynter turned and stroked Sanprax once more, “just the four of us.”

  “I’m not Jex, human. I will not sell my soul for power such as you desire.”

  “But your husband, wants to be human again, and I can make that so. I can make you human kings and queens, and you can raise your dragon son by your side.”

  “You have no such power.”

  “All I need is a stone, dragon. A stone with this sword, will make it possible. And thanks to this young woman with the blue and green eyes, I know how to get such a stone. I can use this blade to pry it right off her neck. It will hurt, oh, it will hurt so much. But I’m willing to let her live with that pain.”

  Before walking toward Lydria, Wynter reached out again to Sanprax but this time held his arm around the young dragon’s neck, the longer of the two midnight blades fast against his throat and walked toward Lydria. Unable to attack Wynter without harming her son, Synca looked to Garprax who still stared at the ground.

  As Wynter neared Lydria she felt the blue bands on her wrists loosen. The blue glow still registered in her peripheral vision, but she knew they contained no magic. The blade, however, felt like a weight on her and instinctively she knew at this range the Farn’Nethyn blade would likely not allow her to use magic at all.

  Wynter knelt in front of her and lifted her chin so her eyes met his own. “I told you when we met in the crater, that one day I would find you and kill you. I want you to know, that I’m going to almost kill you today. I’m going to leave you wishing I had killed you. And then, I’m going to find your friends, that traitorous Keldon, and your mewling cat, and I’m going to bring them here and burn their bodies in front of you. When you are surrounded by piles of ash, then I will kill you.”

  When the blade contacted the collar around Lydria’s neck the sound that came from her throat was as much like dragon’s voice as any human would ever make. She screamed in pain that found its way through each hair on her arm and down into every fiber of her skin and body. She could feel her eyes bleeding and her heart pounding in her ears, drowning out all other noise except that of her own gasping and shrieking.

  When it stopped, it stopped suddenly, and her wails were replaced with racking sobs and quiet. She was sure he had succeeded, but when she raised her eyes, she saw only Wynter’s legs, and then his waist, his elbow, his arm, his wrist, a hole in the air where the sword must be, and an enormous green snout, with long curved teeth. The realization was followed by a low thud, a cloud of dust, and a rumble as Garprax laid over on his side, and Sanprax moved to stand by his mother. The dragons quietly backed out of the room, and Lydria felt herself immersed in silence, all noise had suddenly ceased to exist. Even her own heartbeat fell deaf upon her ears.

  “I offer my stone to you, Wynter, in exchange for the lives of my wife, my son, and the Wielder, Lydria.” Garprax spoke out loud but in a whisper. He wanted Lydria to know, and he wanted his son to understand. Even in a whisper, however, his voice shook the floor under Lydria and reverberated in her chest like a hundred drums. “Because I offer you a Stone of Power, the stone will call to the sword you carry – it will not take a stone unwilling when one freely given is at hand.”

  Wynter looked at Lydria and smiled with his whole face. She could see the glee in his eyes, as he knew the dragon’s sacrifice would burn Lydria’s soul. “I guess,” Wynter smiled to Lydria and then to the giant laying in front of him, “You’ll have to do.” He lowered the blade without compassion and the shaking that commenced immediately told Lydria all she needed to know. In the vibration of the floor, Lydria felt the same pain she had felt in her skin moments before. She forced herself to stand, unconsciously rubbing her wrists where the bands of blue light had disappeared. She saw Wynter leaning over the neck of Garprax, both points of the Farn’Nethyn blade deep beneath the green skin of the dragon, prying on the sapphire collar around its neck, blood shooting up and covering Wynter in a thick, blue mud. Garprax’s feet kicked like a dreaming dog, but he did not defend himself, nor did he cry out. He stared at Wynter and did nothing, but his agony was destroying the fortress around them. Wood and stone fell from the walls and ceilings, hiding Garprax’s agony in a cloud of dust and debris.

  In a moment, it was over and Wynter stood straight, his arms covered in dragon’s blood, a small blue sphere held triumphantly in his palm. On the ground in front of him, Garprax made a final gasp of breath. Before he died, his eyes locked onto Lydria’s and he managed, “for Sanprax and for Eigrae.”

  The fort was a ruin, three walls barely held together by scraps of wood that were the rudiments of a ceiling. Wynter held the sphere and looked at it expectantly, but not with the far-off gaze that Lydria remembered when she had first grasped the stone.

  “It will not return to you, Wynter. You are no longer a wielder.” Lydria’s voice was thin but defiant.

  “It is as you said, Sol. I cannot regain the collar.” Wynter spoke aloud to himself, as he did when he and Lydria fought in the Cobalt Tower. But he did not speak to his wife. Lydria knew she no longer existed, not even as a spirit in his head. “But I will find you, Sol, and I will free you from your prison and we shall be reunited.”

  Wynter looked at Lydria and smiled, his smile decorated with black gaps where teeth used to be, and he raised the stone and slapped it onto the Sword of Wilmamen, on the largest s
pace between the blades. What the dragon-voice didn’t do, the expulsion of air from the stone and Farn’Nethyn blade connecting did, and the remainder of the fort fell outward as if pushed by giant hands.

  Standing amidst the ruins of the fort, Lydria looked at Wynter and saw a man who had suddenly come into real power. He stood tall with his head tilted backward and staring at the sky, his black blade given life by a pulse of blue between its twin blades that sent the sapphire light flashing across the weapon, defining the blades with its light, giving the weapon definition and infusing it with purpose.

  Without looking toward Lydria, Wynter held the weapon at arm’s length as if admiring it, before raising it above his head and swiping it in an arc that reached nearly to the ground. As the blade rent the air, lightning played out across the sky, a brilliant arc of power that landed with a deafening crash of thunder in front of Wynter, throwing Lydria onto her back. She struggled to her knees and looked through what seemed a doorway cut out of the air. She could see a land of sunshine and blue skies where the tear seemed to be, but only the devastated keep on either side. The hole in the air in front of Wynter reminded Lydria of a rip in a piece of fabric, torn asunder by lightning, and opening into a different world from Eigrae.

  “Yes, son, now I see. I will find you.” Wynter looked to Lydria, winked, and stepped forward into the tear he had created. As soon as his back foot cleared the tear, the hole vanished leaving nothing but the night air, the dust of destruction, and a weeping baby dragon who would never know his father.

  Lydria stood with Synca and Sanprax for a long time, until she was joined by her friends. Garprax had used his last magic to cut off the sounds from the keep. The Ahlmen, working with the wielders, had routed the Qorghal, only a few finding their way to boats and crossing back to the mainland. Ep’Muta was returned to Rykaba’s kingdom once more.

  “We have failed then, said Haustis, kneeling by the head of the dead dragon.

  “Not entirely.” Lydria knelt near her sister, taking her larger shoulders under her arm. “But we have done as the spirits asked – Wynter no longer has his most potent weapon – the dragons.” Haustis forced a small smile, and the two women stood to give the dragons space.

  Synca moved with her son to stand by Garprax, and Sanprax laid his head on his father’s. The elder dragon retained his dragon shape in death, although his skin was dark brown where the collar had lain.

  “He gave up his stone to save my life and his son’s,” Lydria said to her friends who made a semi-circle around Garprax’s head. Perryn was in his own form again, and while covered in dried blood, he seemed unharmed. The others were dirty and bloody, and Lydria did her best to heal them and take away what pains they had.

  “The Sword of Wilmamen,” Synca began, “when connected with the stone, allowed Wynter to enter the Melting Grae. No living being has ever gone there. There is no telling what may become of him there or what chaos he might create, but while he is there, the balance of the living and the dead will be upset.”

  “And the Nethyn Plains?” Haustis asked the question with hesitation, knowing in her heart what the answer might be.

  “Wynter has been speaking to his son since we freed him from his blue tower,” Synca answered. “His son is not his wife. Where she was manipulative and dangerous, his son has been something of a calming influence.”

  “This is calming?” Relin’s quiet remark was overlooked as Lydria and the rest gave their attention to the green dragon.

  “Wynter’s son has prevented a much wider and more destructive path, whether you believe it or not. That Wynter is trying to reach his son, may be a good sign, for it is unlikely a boy who died falling through the ice would enter the afterlife in the Nethyn’ Plains. So long as Wynter does not turn his eye in that direction, we may have little to fear.”

  “And if he does turn his eye in that direction?” Haustis’ voice was hard, and she was visibly tense as the words worked themselves across her lips.

  “If Wynter opens the Nethyn’ Plains, then there will be war in the Melting Grae, and that war may spill into Eigrae. As he holds the Sword of Wilmamen, he holds the key to all our realms.”

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