by T P Sheehan
“Are you okay?”
“A little light headed.” Magnus was glad he could communicate with thoughts rather than talk through struggled breath.
Jael mumbled a spell in a dialect Magnus did not recognise. The words were sharp and succinct and were definitely not Fireisgh. In response, his breathing relaxed and the air seemed to become pleasantly thicker.
“Better?”
“Better. Thanks.”
The Dragons reached their peak and hovered, miles above the clouds. Jael reinforced her grip around Magnus’s torso.
“Hold tight to the horn. This is going to be fast.”
Magnus formed a white knuckled grip about the saddle horn. To his right, he noticed Eamon wrapping a leather strap about one hand, binding it about the horn, then holding fast with the other. Magnus took it as a bad sign of what was to come.
In one synchronised movement, all the dragons dove into perpendicular falls. They picked up speed at a ferocious rate. Magnus’s heart felt as if it would leap out of his throat, for they were not just falling, they were driven faster and faster with each sweep of dragon wings.
The clouds below rushed toward them, folding around Magnus’s face as they passed through thanks to Jael’s wards. Moments later they were beneath the clouds. The scene below made Magnus gasp in terror.
The Quag offensive was the embodiment of every nightmare Magnus had ever suffered, brought together to be worse than the sum of its parts. It was an endless collage of Quag legions, wyverns, catapults, warhorses and discarded bodies of dead warriors piled ten feet high—most with the flesh torn from their corpses, leaving Magnus with only one conclusion—
“The wyvern feed on the dead?”
“Don’t think about it, Magnus,” Jael instructed.
“How have the Fire Realm survived this long?” Magnus thought.
“The same way you did in Ba’rrat.”
Magnus knew what Jael meant—Because I didn’t have a choice. Sarah’s life depended on it. And here in the Fire Realm, people fight to protect those they love.
Magnus gritted his teeth and mustered a surge of heat through his body. “Let’s end this for our people, Brue. And for Thioci, Liné and for your soon-to-be-hatched son.”
“A Zenith dragon!” Jael said.
“AYE…” A tremor tore through Brue’s body. It rose up to his throat. Then came a united roar from all thirteen dragons. It was the most blood curdling, ferocious display of power Magnus had ever experienced. Magnus thought back to the day Brue attacked him in the enclosed room in Ba’rrat—the roar that tore through him. This was thirteen times more ferocious. Magnus knew too well what came next. He just hoped Jael’s fire-protection spell would still hold.
South of the Nuyan township, Catanya sat on her haunches behind a barrier. A Quag legion had started their morning raids from south of the river.
“It’s the same every morning,” Csilla explained. “In the beginning, wyverns flew over the river to form a breach. They soon learned that was a mistake.”
“What do you use to fight them off?” Catanya asked.
Csilla looked at her with weary eyes. “We throw everything we have at them—from the quarry.”
“Stones?”
“Aye. Ten years worth of the finest building stone from the quarry has been thrown over that river with catapults—dozens of them—made from Froughton’s hardwoods. Both resources are in endless supply, so it’s been quite effective.”
“The quarry looked unused when I arrived yesterday.”
“It’s been unused for two months. The quarry workers were exhausted and we needed them to fight. It was faster to break down homes and use the stonework. We can always rebuild when this is over. If what you say is true and the dragons come, we’ll celebrate tomorrow and start rebuilding the day after that!”
Csilla and Catanya both laughed. Catanya hoped her promise of a dragon assault proved true.
“CATANYA!” Csilla pointed to the southern sky.
Catanya looked and saw dragons. They were diving through the clouds directly over the Quag legions north of Overpell. As sure as sound follows sight, the air was torn open with the guttural roar of nine, ten, eleven…
“There are thirteen of them!” Csilla shouted. “What a sight!”
“Catanya!” Rubea was stomping eagerly, breathing across Catanya’s neck. Catanya leapt to her feet.
“Where’s Austagia?”
“He’s with Xavier,” Rubea explained. “Come—we must get into the fight.”
Catanya scrambled into Rubea’s saddle.
“Are you coming, Csilla?”
“I very much want to ride a dragon. But… into battle?” Csilla paced about anxiously.
“Up to you, Csilla.” Catanya shouted above the roaring boom of dragon flames. She wrapped and strapped her legs in place. Csilla looked over the Nuyan River as flames engulfed a legion of Quag troops. Wyverns screamed as their leathery hides charred to ash. Catanya was keen to get into the fight. “This time tomorrow when the battle is over, do you want to say you were brave enough to get on the dragon?” Catanya said, tying to goad her aunt into action.
“By all the gods—YES!” Csilla climbed into the saddle behind Catanya.
Once Csilla was strapped in to the second set of stirrups, Catanya cast the usual spells over her—fire and wind protection. Rubea squatted, flexed her muscles and thrust upward. Three, four, five beats of dragon wings saw the young dragon three hundred feet above Nuyan River. A crossbow bolt shot out from the smoky confusion toward Rubea. Catanya ignited her lance and was quick to deflect the bolt. Rubea banked, turned over herself, and thrust toward the chaos releasing a fiery torrent at the bolt’s origin.
Catanya felt Csilla’s arms grip her waist. “YES!” she screamed.
Catanya smiled. Rubea unfurled her wings, levelled out, then tucked them in again, thrusting her at breakneck speed over the Quag legions just above the tracks of dragon fire. Her draught made the flames lap over her sides like rolling waves of a sunset ocean. Catanya’s spells protected both her and Csilla’s fragile human flesh from the searing heat. Several miles south, Rubea circled around and fell into a flight pattern with the other dragons, laying another track of fire from east to west.
Rubea weaved as she went to avoid the other dragons. Catanya realised the dragons were passing through one another’s trajectories. “This is called ‘interlacing’,” she explained to Csilla with thought through Rubea. The tracks of fire interweaved like bright threads of woven cloth. The dragons were like shuttles in this giant, fiery loom. Csilla continued to grip Catanya’s waist. As the dragons narrowly missed one another with their attacking passes, Catanya looked for familiar faces. She saw Färgd with Eamon, Braug with Simeon, and Brue with Magnus and Jael. Jael was gripping Magnus firmly about the waist. Most surprising of all, Catanya saw Magnus’s father riding a dragon.
Magnus spotted Rubea from a distance as Brue weaved his fiery attack on the Quag. As they came closer, he saw she was carrying Catanya and another. Just as they passed, Magnus risked a wave. Catanya held her lance high in return and Magnus recognised her companion—“Csilla!” Knowing Csilla had survived the long war delighted him. He only hoped Catanya had equally good news about the rest of her family.
Brue banked and twisted into a sharp turn for another pass. Magnus was able to look directly down at the damage the dragons had dealt. Beneath the continuous blanket of smoky haze burned a vermilion blaze. Then, through the chaos and flames, came dozens of wyverns. They streamed vertically through the smoke like long, black spears launched by giant catapults.
“Now the battle begins,” Jael said.
Five dragons, including Brue, broke out of formation and climbed to face the airborne attack. The Ferustirs ignited lances and braced for impact. Wyverns began slamming and slashing the dragons that clawed and bit back while the priests wielded lances. Three more dragons joined the fray, charging at the wyverns, torching them as they approached. Wyverns soon outnum
bered dragons four to one. To his left, Magnus saw Färgd with a wyvern gripped fast between his jaws, another between his powerful hind claws. A third wyvern had Eamon madly swinging a sword at its head while his long, grey hair and beard danced in the wind. Magnus wondered how the old man and older dragon would fair, but Eamon was quick to end his wyvern and Färgd’s feet dexterously tore one wyvern in half while his jaws crushed the neck of the other.
“Brace yourself, Magnus!” Jael shouted.
Magnus gripped the saddle horn. A wyvern slammed into Brue’s underbelly. Magnus’s torso jerked to one side but his strapped legs held him in place. Jael let go of Magnus’s waist and arched over to one side, slicing at the wyvern with her lance’s unforgiving blades. Realising he was not going to fall, Magnus drew his sword. Two more wyverns hurtled toward them. Brue showered one in flames, the other got by and Magnus swung his sword, missing it. It came back for another pass and Jael thrust her lance into its underbelly leaving the creature to tumble to the ground, dark blood spraying over the smoky sky.
“Next one is mine,” Magnus said, keen to make an effective contribution.
“We should get to the ground and help the townsfolk in their attack from the north,” Jael answered.
Brue circled around toward Nuyan. “A quick pass to ensure the Quag have not breached the river,” he explained.
As they approached the Nuyan River, Magnus could see men and women of the Fire Realm taking advantage of the battle as they had hoped. They were crossing the river in the hundreds, attacking the Quag. Even without any battle experience, Magnus immediately saw a pattern to his peoples’ attack. They were crossing to the southern bank with preformed bridges thrown across the river at one hundred foot intervals. They crossed in groups of twenty or more, led by the strongest fighters—knights on Wardemeers. Other swordsman and anyone else keen to wield something sharp followed the horsemen. Back at the northern bank, archers sent volleys of arrows southward to cull any immediate threat, paving the way for their people. Behind the archers, to Magnus’s alarm, were children—one to each archer. Each child held stacks of arrows, handing them one at a time to their archer to allow them as little time as possible before unleashing the next. Behind the children were a line of catapults, each serviced by a team of four. Sandstone—most of it cut all too well for this purpose—sat in great piles at the rear of the catapults, doubling as a final wall of defence, behind which rows of armoury stood waiting for any available hands to procure and charge into battle. Steady streams of rocks were flung into the Quag legions over the river, beyond the march of the Nuyan folk. It was effective. The Nuyan folk were making it clear across the Nuyan River to face the hefty Quag defence.
Two miles on, the township of Nuyan had not been breached, so Brue doubled back to the south bank of the river. Magnus watched as more of his people made contact with the Quag warriors. He quickly realised he had grossly underestimated the savagery of Quag retaliation now that they were cornered.
A memory forced its way into the forefront of Magnus’s mind. It was a shocking, revelatory memory that seemed to return at moments like this. It had plagued him greatly months ago when he travelled alone through Froughton Forest. It returned when he faced Briet in Ba’rrat’s arena. The memory always came uninvited and with the same, shocking intensity. He was outside his burning home in the J’esmagdlands. In the dark of night, the flames shone across a terrifying figure of a man who was lumbering toward him. Wrapped in burnished armour, a spiked helm and black cloth, the huge warrior attacked him and Ganister. Ganister… He was greatest warrior he had ever known yet was matched for strength by the Quagman. Their swords clashed and grated violently over one another. Ganister used speed unnatural for such a big man. Perhaps it was born of desperate necessity. Perhaps this was how normal people fought when they fought for their lives. Whatever it was, Ganister slayed the Quagman just as he was about to kill Magnus. At the time, Magnus felt like a helpless, powerless child. He was exposed and vulnerable. All his years of sword training meant nothing next to the brutality of the Quagman’s attack and Ganister’s retaliation.
Looking down on his people, the Quag were brutal once again. They were more than a match for most of the tired, war-ravaged people of Nuyan, yet the Nuyan folk fought as Ganister did—out of desperate necessity and fighting for their lives.
“They’re going to be killed,” Jael said, shaking Magnus from his surreal thoughts. “We have to get in there.”
Brue let out a bellowing roar and targeted his landing at the frontline of Quagmen, squashing several. Brue’s jaws found another and shook him about like a rag doll then discarded his broken body. Nearby Quag warriors rose black blades to attack only to be scorched by Braug making a low, flame-throwing pass. On Braug’s back, Simeon raised his lance at Magnus.
Magnus and Jael alighted and threw themselves into the northern assault. Magnus wielded Lucas’s sword to great effect and he soon found a second sword on the battlefield. His body, though, began to exhibit strange feelings. He suffered surges of hot and cold, as though he were suffering from a sickening fever. The heat was welcome but the cold made him shudder and he willed it to pass.
The fight raged on and Magnus was injured twice. The first was a gash to his right calf. A flush of searing heat quickly mended it. The second injury came when a Quag blade lacerated the back of his right hand. The cut was deep, making it hard for Magnus to grip his second sword. He tried to squeeze it into a ball to generate heat but it would not comply. Instead, the gaping red wound morphed into an iridescent slash of blue across his hand. The pain became a cold ache, as though he had held the wound to a sheet of ice. Magnus knew the blood of Iisilée was working its magic within him. Catanya had seen it—felt it—first hand while he slept in the crevice on the Romgnian Mountainside. It was foreign to him. It lacked the soothing reassurance Thioci’s blood gave him.
Distracted by the wound, a burly Quagman took advantage and struck Magnus in the chest with his baulk sending them both sprawling to the ground. Recovering first, the Quagman grabbed Magnus by the wrists, pinning him to the ground. Magnus writhed beneath the huge warrior, using his knees to strike the Quagman in the stomach. It had little effect for he was too strong and his black armour too thick. The Quagman’s deep-set eyes glared at Magnus. Even behind the dark kerchief covering most of his face Magnus could see the scowl across his brow. It was the dreaded dream all over again. But his face changed. The scowl became surprise and then terror. He began to bellow in pain. The Quagman looked at his left hand, wrapped like a great iron shackle about Magnus’s right wrist. Magnus followed his gaze. Half the big man’s arm was frozen blue.
The creeping ice worked its way up to the Quagman’s elbow. Cracks formed in the metalwork of his bulky vambrace, which then shattered like glass, falling from his arm, revealing the creeping ice over his muscular flesh. He tried to yank the arm free with his other hand without success. Magnus swept his now-free left arm and found the pommel of Lucas’s sword. He gripped it fast. A bronze flamed danced about its white blade. Magnus thrust it into the distracted Quagman’s thick neck muscles. As the Quagman fell, Magnus pulled his right hand free, stood, and looked it over. His veins pulsed with surges of liquid ice. The wound to his right hand was now a fine, sapphire blue scar.
The mark of Iisilée…
FIRST WYVERN
Catanya found Magnus on the battlefield. She forewarned of her approach with a shout and Magnus was glad, for he had worked himself into a fiery fury. He was consumed with a continuous surge of hot rage that he dared not let wane. It fuelled his rampaging attack on the Quag, protected his mind from wyvern attack and healed wounds. There was another, deeper reason for sustaining the hot rage. He was sure that the countermeasure in him—Iisilée—was waiting her turn to release an equal measure of strength. Magnus would not allow this to happen. The unfamiliar nature of Iisilée’s power could cost him his life. He tried to reason with the unknown power within him—“When the battle is over you may com
e as you wish, but here, now… I need to stick to what I know.” Part of Magnus wanted to curse his mother for not teaching him to harness his Ice Realmic powers. He knew why, but in the throes of bloody battle, all reason had become skewed.
“Catanya…” He looked to her, having heard her shout. Bloodied and bruised but well, she was still with Csilla, who stared wide-eyed at Magnus until a Quagmen crossed her path. Magnus went to help but a shriek from behind tore his attention from her. It was a wyvern, but no ordinary wyvern. It looked somehow familiar. Magnus peered into its jaundiced eyes as it sidestepped, edging closer. He could not place it, but knew this creature.
“That scar on its left leg…” It was Csilla. She and Catanya were standing either side of him—the Quagman now dead. “Only a fleu-steel blade scars like that.”
Magnus saw the scar. It ran the full width of the wyvern’s thick leg. The wound seemed to run deep and had raised track marks running perpendicular to the main scar. “Ice burns,” Magnus deduced and then realised—it was the wyvern that attacked and poisoned Lucas. It was his own fleu-steel blade that had scarred the beast when he slashed its leg trying to keep it from killing Lucas. Now it seeks revenge. Magnus relished the chance at his own vengeance for the curse placed on his dear friend, but there was something he needed from the wyvern first.
Catanya and Csilla stepped forward to meet the wyvern.
“Wait. I need it alive.” Magnus took Catanya’s arm, holding her back. He eyed Csilla. “Give me a moment, please.” Csilla looked apprehensive but nevertheless, stepped aside.
The wyvern immediately attacked Magnus’s mind. He should have been equipped to deal with it, but the wyvern had been there before and traced its own mental footsteps, finding footholds where a new invader would not be able. With a gritty mental battle, the wyvern’s mind gradually pushed its way further into Magnus’s thoughts.
“Magnus…” It was Csilla. Magnus caught the warning in her tone.