by Peter Fane
“Move,” Colj said.
Doj and Lady Katherine and the ogres nodded.
Colj picked up Lord Garen.
The ogres formed their phalanx around him—.
And that was when the Pretender’s new timber fortifications on the southwestern embankment fell open to reveal seven enormous silver battle cannon, floating, great mouths alive with holy fire, ancient fangs wide and primed and deadly, the song of the Pretender’s golden-robed war adepts a chant to end all wars.
And then a strange, black lightning arced silently toward the Tarn’s Great Door, a black lightning with no sound, yet somehow painful to the mind. A black-robed war mage stood high on a newly built podium behind the Pretender’s great guns, her black hair streaming. In one hand, she raised a battle staff, a shard of obsidian topped with a lightless black egg. Another black stone shone in the center of her pale forehead. Her dread lightning forked toward the Great Door, passed through the coppery fields of the Tarn’s star trees, and cracked soundlessly into the heads of Stormhammer and Oblivion—killing the great guns instantly, the guns’ glow and mighty songs winking out like blown lamps, the guns dropping dead, rolling and crushing their blue-robed adepts beneath their lifeless weight.
47
THE BLACK LIGHTNING wasn’t quiet for Little Dan. It came screaming across the sky, a kind of high, freakish boiling. Dan saw the black branches coming for Stormy, and he got up despite the horrible pain in his head and shouted and pointed, but the Chief just shoved him aside.
“Shut up, you idiot!”
Then the lightning hit Stormy and Oblivion on their noses, and they both stopped dead and crashed to the ground, rolling, crushing the adepts at their sides. Master Falmon and Lord Doldon jumped clear. The eyes of the lead adepts went black, black lightning in their robes and hair, frying skin, black lightning crackling out their mouths. Lord Doldon got up, reached for Oblivion’s lead adept, touched her, and dropped; his eyes went blank and blood came out his nose. Master Falmon tried to help Stormy’s adept, touched her, and the black lightning shot into his eyes, and he fell like a stone. An adept on the ground screamed and screamed, her blue robes splashed with blood. She looked around, looked Dan in the eye, but it was like she didn’t see him at all. Stormy’s huge, dead body slowly rolled over her legs like an iron log, crunching bone. She screamed something at Dan, something that he couldn’t understand. Blood popped from her knees and legs and then her mouth, and then she stopped screaming.
“Stormy!” Dan yelled and ran to his friend. He put his hands on Stormy’s skin. There was a black jolt, a crackle in his head, and his hands tingled, but it didn’t really hurt. He pushed against Stormy, but he couldn’t stop him from rolling, because there was nothing inside Stormy’s skin except cold metal.
Dan looked around.
He didn’t know what to do.
The adepts were dead
Stormy was dead.
Did that mean there was no way to help?
No!
It was just like Master Falmon said!
This was the time to sing!
“Stormy!” Little Dan cried. “Stormy! It’s alright, big boy! I here for you! I help you, Stormy! Little Dan’s here! Little Dan’s here!”
48
“GREAT SISTERS!” TARLEN cried. He touched Kyla’s shoulder, pointing at the southwestern embankment, at the seven great cannon there, the golden-robed adepts, the dark war mage on her podium, her staff alive with black energy. “They . . . they killed our big guns! Ky! You see! They—!”
“Focus your fire on her,” Kyla said calmly, giving the order to the scouts.
“My Lady.” Sledder and Tellerman pivoted. Filip took bearing on their new target.
“What’re you waiting for?” Kyla asked Tarlen.
Her brother nodded and collected himself. “There’s a bit more cross wind at this line, Ky. A bit more snow.” He cleared his throat. “Visibility’s down.”
Kyla aimed, the snow swirling, the battle clarity still pure, placed her sight on the center of the black-robed mage’s forehead, on the black stone that nested there.
And then the war mage looked at her—into her—and it was as if the entire battle vanished.
All the noise and smoke gone, the distant shriek of the Vordan cut off like a knife, the constant thunder of the armies’ big iron silent.
Across a quiet chasm, their eyes locked together, the woman’s eyes dark and beautiful and pure.
Kyla’s finger froze on the trigger.
We see you, child queen.
Kyla’s breath locked in her throat.
In her mind’s eye, she saw Garen and Colj alone, unprotected, on the Long Bridge, only the Tarn’s batteries and Michael’s mad sortie providing cover for their return, the Pretender’s great cannon turning down toward Garen and his ogres, the enemy’s golden-robed war adepts lifting their voices in song . . . .
And we know you, child queen.
Tarlen, one eye pressed to his spyglass, the other eye shut. “You’re good, Ky. You’re good. Looks like they’re targeting the bridge. Looks like she’s sighting for them, too. You’re good to fire. Ky? Ky!”
But Kyla could not pull the trigger.
And the war mage aimed her black staff at the Pinnacle’s heights, just as she pointed the Pretender’s great cannon toward the bridge below, her eyes locked onto Kyla’s. Black lightning crackled silently up from that staff of night. It moved through the swirling snow, black fractures against grey cloud, skeletal black hands jittering, coming, but slowly, as if in slow motion, the black lighting jumping here to here to here, branching toward them, silent, slower, closer . . . .
And we know you see us.
49
“BACK,” COLJ ORDERED. “Quickly.”
Lady Katherine nodded.
But the Pretender’s great cannon still turned together, seven living guns aimed as if guided by one mind, the Pretender’s golden-robed war adepts alive in their own righteous song, the power of the great weapons unstoppable. Together they turned, pointing down at Colj and his little phalanx, the seven mouths dark holes from which death would issue.
Then the big guns stopped and together swung toward the sky, toward the countless war dragons of Dávanor diving from heaven.
50
“ANNA!” TARLEN CRIED. “It’s Anna! Ky! Our dragons!”
Sledder, Tellerman, and Filip hooted and popped off a pair of shots, then hooted some more.
But Kyla still couldn’t move.
The war mage’s voice came to her and her alone.
Watch, child queen.
It was not an evil voice, Kyla realized.
It was no voice of darkness.
It was kind—and almost sad.
Watch your best and last burn at the hands of your last and best, child queen. Watch your failure unfold.
Kyla’s eyes turned up on their own. She saw over a hundred squads of diving dragons, Anna and Moondagger, blinding white and resplendent at their lead, countless Davanórian war banners streaming, hundreds of dragons diving toward the enemy, straight at the great guns.
But the maws of the Pretender’s living weapons rose to meet them, the great bores opened, swelled, lips peeled back, silver fangs wide, their swelling war songs like the end of everything. Kyla saw Anna atop Moondagger, Anna’s black hair flying behind her, Moondagger’s great white wings folded to his side, plummeting, Anna standing high in her saddle, her silver armor glorious, her silver sword raised overhead, a primal war scream like the savage edge of dawn, dropping into death.
And then the Pretender’s guns fired—THOOM!—a single, enormous noise that shook the earth. And a quarter of the dragons of Dávanor were erased from the sky. Smoking ash, scores gone, dragons of every color careening, dying, hissing into the Sea of Ice. A triumphant cheer rose up from the Pretender’s host, fresh energy for the enemy, loyal dragons and riders falling in charred fragments but—but no, oh Great Sisters, no! Kyla couldn’t look away. There, a blue heavyweight
flapping one enormous wing, desperately trying to stay aloft, to save its rider who dangled lifeless from her saddle, fragile bones snapping as it succumbed to gravity, its dying cry pure sorrow. And there, a massive red, its leg and tail missing, trailed blood across the sky like a falling meteor, its rider trying to unclip, falling into Tarntown noiselessly as the rain of color and blood and dragons continued.
The Pretender’s great cannon prepared to fire yet again, on center this time. Anna and Moondagger were still out front, still diving.
They had realized what had happened—what will happen.
A strange expression came onto Anna’s face, and she leaned forward and whispered something to her dragon. Moondagger’s blind eyes glimmered with knowledge, with fearless determination, and then it was as if Kyla were there beside them, riding the sky.
“This and only this, forever,” Anna said.
Where is your joy now, child queen? Is this not what your people sought? Time now, child queen. Time to reap what your people have sown.
At Kyla’s side, Tarlen whispered, “. . . they’re gonna kill them.”
51
HIS LITTLE HANDS on Stormy, Dan hummed a tune. It was just a little song. He closed his eyes, rocked back and forth, hands tingling with the black cold in Stormy’s skin, pushing a bit of his own warmth down into the big gun—pushing, but gentle—trying to find the heat at Stormy’s center, because Dan could still feel Stormy down in that cold metal. He was sure of that now.
“You take it, Stormy,” Dan said. “You take it, boy.”
He pushed harder, pushing his little heart down into the big gun, pushing his own warmth down into his friend, humming his song, eyes clamped shut.
Then, out of nowhere, Dan felt Stormy pulling at it, and he willed his own heat into Stormy’s center. It was starting to hurt a little in his chest and hands, but it was alright because Stormy was his friend and that’s how you’re supposed to do it. He just sang his song—the right song this time, the song like it was supposed to be.
A song of silver and blood.
Stormhammer’s song.
And then the Chief came up and punched Little Dan hard in the face.
“What did you do, crazy idiot?! What did you do?! Get your stupid hands off!”
52
“THEY’RE GONNA KILL them all,” Tarlen said again.
Watch, child queen.
Kyla saw the dragons falling toward the Pretender’s great guns. She heard Anna’s scream. She felt Moondagger’s roar.
The mouths of the mighty cannon opened, as if to devour them, ready to blast them into ash.
And there was nothing she could do.
Watch and learn. See the true flower of your people’s dark seed.
53
“MOVE,” COLJ SAID grimly.
Lady Katherine nodded.
But they couldn’t go much faster. They were still taking sporadic fire. And the phalanx could only go so fast.
“Move,” Colj repeated. “Anna buys this time with her life.”
54
THE CHIEF HIT Dan again. Dan felt his nose break with a little pop. Dan tasted blood, but he couldn’t let go. And he couldn’t protect himself, either, because his hands were warming up and sort of sinking into Stormy’s side, as if Stormy’s skin was a warm cushion. That was good, Dan knew. Stormy was starting to wake up, starting to take what Little Dan gave.
“What did you do?!” the Chief yelled. Another punch, this time to the side of Dan’s head. Dan saw stars and tried to say something to the Chief, but he couldn’t really say anything because he had to concentrate on the song, and his words came out like a crazy mumble. Then the Chief hit him again—real hard this time. So, Dan just closed his eyes and kept humming and let himself become like Stormy, let himself flow down into Stormy’s skin like he’d done so many times before. The Chief hit him again—but this time he cried and fell away.
And then the Chief was gone.
And everything was gone.
And Dan just pushed his warmth into Stormy.
It hurt, but it was what Stormy needed, and that’s how a good soldier did it.
And then Stormy pulled, heat flooding out of Dan’s hands, his own little chest going cold, all his good song, his good warmth pouring into the big gun.
“You take it, Stormy,” Little Dan whispered. “You take it, big boy.”
He was still humming, but then—suddenly—the warmth came back to him.
And the song came back, too.
Kind of soft at first. Real soft. Right there, where you almost couldn’t hear it, a kind of low beat, a kind of low thump—like the beat of a big drum calling soldiers to war. There was a jingling noise, too, like weapons and armor and gear, the snuffling snorts of dragons and animals, the hiss of sharpening swords that stops as soldiers get up from their tents, buckling on gear while the drum keeps thumping like a big monster’s heart. Other sounds came, too. A creak, a grinding clank, the beat thumping faster now, a bit more warmth in your chest, the metal turn of wheels and iron clattering over mud and bones, ground shaking, pebbles jumping, iron creatures puffing smoke, rising slow and sleepy, stopping, starting, stopping, then starting up again, crawling like metal ants into battle. The drum thump louder now—and warmer, too, louder and warmer, louder and warmer—way warmer, the iron monsters riding their burning bellies and metal feet, the stamp-stamp of heavy boots taking up the beat, iron-shod war boots spiked with stud and claw, stamping-stamping-stamping now into battle’s maw. And ho, there! Yes, there! Far away at first, then louder, louder, louder still, rising ‘til they burst above: the crying horns, the sighing horns, their cry of blood and tears, their sound the moan of lowing beasts fed by ancient fears. Faster now, faster now, the drum-thump comes and booms, a million hungry brutes of war, marching to their dooms! Then—kreeeEEE! kreeeEEE! —the war flute’s jagged scream, a screaming bolt of lightning’s fire, a war flute’s olden scream and fall, scream and fall, the cry of raging war, a hundred children crying now, cursed with savage lore—and then the song broke inside Dan’s head, it didn’t hurt any more, it was more like a soft snap, like a kind of opening into something huge and warm, something beyond Dan’s words, the war flute’s scream rolling up into an endless cry, the cry becoming a shriek, the thumping drums coming down to meet it, the tempo lost and strange, so far beyond his words—but so right, oh so right at last! A rush, a stampede, a wave of arms and men and blood and teeth, pounding faster and faster, hotter and hotter, so hot now, so hot! Louder now, the song opened. Louder! It grew! It swelled! Louder still! Hotter still! A thousand voices—a million voices—crying together, colliding, exploding, a storm of victory and sacrifice, a trumpeting rout whose fiery roar shook Dan’s little heart like the thunder of armored giants, everything he was, everything he had to give—and more.
“It’s alright, Stormy,” Little Dan whispered, accepting, knowing what it meant. “You take it. You take it, boy. You sing for ‘em. You sing for ‘em, Stormy.”
And then he let go of everything inside himself, kept one hand on Stormy, pointed his little finger at the place where the bad black lightning came.
And then he asked.
It wasn’t a demand.
It was a simple request.
A high, shining question:
“Can you sing for me, Stormy?”
55
FROM BEHIND COLJ and his ogre phalanx, at the Great Door, a sudden war song rose from nothing.
It was unlike anything Colj had ever known.
A clarity of heart.
The ultimate song.
The ja of the purest warrior.
The power and fury of its fire was beyond imagination.
Colj turned.
There he saw the little warrior—Daniel Eadle—standing beside the mighty Stormhammer. The little boy’s eyes were shut, one hand on the great weapon, the other pointing at the Pretender’s guns. Daniel was surrounded by the mighty cannon’s holy light, the great gun alive with silver radiance, float
ing off the ground, barely contained, the gathering power unspeakable. The little boy’s mouth moved over and over, as if repeating a whisper, as if repeating a song.
“Get down,” Colj ordered calmly. His ogres took a knee, Lady Katherine and the unconscious Lord Garen at the formation’s center. “Brace.”
“Are you mad?!” Lady Katherine cried, pointing at the Pretender’s battle cannon. “We can’t take that fire, Colj! Anna gives herself for us! We must get back! On your feet, now!”
“Not that fire, my Lady.” Colj shook his big head. He lifted his huge chin toward the Great Door, toward the little boy and his weapon, toward the swelling song which could save and destroy a world.
Lady Katherine saw and heard and said, “Great Sisters save us . . . .”
56
“CAN YOU SING for me, Stormy? Can you sing?” Little Dan asked and hummed, kind of singsong. He was so tired, just so darn tired now, but he understood what had to be done, what had to be given. The fire was so hot, it hurt bad, and he was almost empty inside now, hollowed out, getting cold. But still, he gave his all. His chest was caving in on itself, like all the air was being pulled from his lungs. Didn’t matter. He was ready, ready to give what he had, to show the way, to point where Stormy needed to go.