Ridmark let out a long breath, the power of the Shield Knight still flowing through him in a torrent.
It would not last much longer. Already Ridmark felt his grip on the power weakening. He could only hold the power for so long, and impacts on his armor drained his stamina even faster. And while Cyprian had been an unskilled and clumsy fighter, he had been fast and strong, and he had hit hard. Ridmark had been certain he would kill Cyprian, but it had taken a lot out of him. Just as well Moriah had somehow distracted Cyprian. How the devil had she done that, anyway?
Later, he could worry about it later. Right now, he would dismiss the armor of the Shield Knight and get Tywall Gwyrdragon out of here. Once they returned to the surface, he would help Accolon restore order to Cintarra, a task which would be all the easier with the presence of the legitimate ruler of the city and its surrounding lands.
He drew a breath, and before he could release his hold on the armor, two things happened at once.
“Ridmark!” shouted Calliande, running up the causeway. There was alarm in her voice.
At the same instant, Oathshield blazed hotter in his fist, and the soulblade’s rage flooded through his mind. Ridmark often felt Oathshield’s anger when he battled creatures and wielders of dark magic, but never had he sensed such pure rage from the sword.
A flare of crimson fire caught his eye, and Ridmark whirled just as the armored figure landed a quarter of the way around the island.
It was a warrior, a knight, wearing armor of similar design of that of the Shield Knight. Except this armor was red and glistening, as if it had been dipped in fresh red blood. Wings of twisting, wispy shadow writhed behind the armored knight’s back.
In his right hand, the red knight carried a corrupted soulblade.
It could be nothing else. Ridmark saw a soulstone filled with shadow set into the tang, a spot of darkness against the crimson sword. Red flames howled along the length of the blade, and Ridmark felt the dark power radiating from the crimson knight, malignant and strong.
A red sword.
Rhoanna had been trying to tell him about a red sword…
The crimson knight pointed the corrupted soulblade, and shadows exploded from him in all directions, a dark haze that filled the cavern. Moriah fell as it washed over her, stunned by its chill power. Selene and Third wavered on their feet but stood. Their dark elven heritage granted them immunity from the power. Rufinius did not fall, but he held Starflame with both hands. Ridmark knew that the full power of his nephew’s soulblade would keep the shadowy haze at bay, that he would not be able to use Starflame to make himself faster or stronger.
The crimson knight charged with terrific speed and Ridmark rushed to meet him.
***
Chapter 25: Dragon War
Prince Everard and Duke Chilmar returned to their place with the reserves just as Merovech’s army let out a mighty shout.
Tyrcamber reined up and watched the battle begin.
Merovech’s footmen marched forward, the tramp of their boots against the earth filling Tyrcamber’s ears. On Merovech’s left wing, the horsemen advanced, moving their mounts at a walk. On his army’s right wing, the pagan gnolls started forward, snarling and barking and brandishing their spears and swords. They did not move with as much discipline as the footmen or the knights, but that didn’t matter. Once the gnolls charged, they would throw themselves forward in a tide of claws and fangs and swords, and Tyrcamber suspected that Nakhrakh and the other gnollish chieftains were more than eager to meet their hated cousins in battle.
“Hold,” snapped Everard. “Make sure that the footmen and the knights hold ranks, especially the horsemen. I don’t want our men flanked.”
“We might not be able to keep our gnolls in place,” said Chilmar, giving the gnolls of Culachar a dubious look. “They hate the gnolls of Monoloch too much. Give them half of an excuse and they’ll charge.”
“Keep the reserve horsemen in place until we need them,” said Everard. “Have the footmen ready to cast Shield spells. I have no doubt Merovech’s forces will cast Lance spells as soon as they are close enough.” He turned in the saddle to look at Rilmael, who sat atop his horse. “Guardian, have you any counsel?”
Rilmael stirred and turned his silver eyes towards the Prince. “No. Your plan is sound, lord Prince. Nothing else can be done. I will have to watch for any attempt by the Theophract to interfere in the fight. He has power enough to decide the course of the battle.”
“Very well,” said Everard. “I would rather that you take part in the fighting, but better that you keep the Theophract in check. Sir Tyrcamber?”
“My lord?” said Tyrcamber, watching the advancing footmen.
“I would like you to remain in reserve as well,” said Everard. “Use your best judgment to choose the moment to act.”
Tyrcamber nodded. “I will. If I see any of our lines in danger of breaking, I will attack.” His hands tightened against his horse’s reins. “And if Merovech takes dragon form, I will have to face him.”
“Very good,” said Everard. “May God be with us all.”
There was nothing more to be said, though a steady stream of messengers came and went to Prince Everard, Duke Chilmar, and the five Masters of the Imperial Orders. Tyrcamber remained silent, watching the advancing soldiers. He hated waiting and felt like he ought to have been standing in the front line with the serjeants of the Order or flying over the battlefield in dragon form. But the cold logic was inescapable. The armies were too evenly matched, and Tyrcamber needed to wait until the moment when his aid would have the greatest impact.
But likely Merovech and the Theophract had the same plan.
So Tyrcamber sat atop his horse and waited, thinking of Sir Angaric and Sir Daniel and Sir Olivier. In a battle with tens of thousands of men, Tyrcamber knew he had no right to hope that his friends would survive, but he prayed for that nonetheless.
Merovech’s footmen and horsemen continued their steady, implacable advance. The loyalist army stood fast, waiting to receive the charge of the foe. A blast of trumpets rang out, and Merovech’s footmen began casting Lance spells. Loyalist knights and serjeant-captains shouted commands, and the ranks of Prince Everard’s footmen cast Shield spells to respond to the volley of Lances from the rebel forces. Fire and ice and lightning and acidic mist crackled and snarled back and forth between the two armies, and most of the attack was blunted, though some men died. The loyalist footmen and serjeants answered with a volley of Lances of their own, and Merovech’s men cast Shields. It was the usual way battles began, with volleyed exchanges of spells between the two armies before coming to hand-to-hand distance.
At last the enemy was close enough for the archers, and both the loyalist and the cultist archers and crossbowmen released. A storm of arrows and quarrels buzzed through the air and fell like rain among the closing footmen. Shields both magical and wooden intercepted most of the shafts, but men screamed as arrowheads found flesh. Tyrcamber watched men die, his hand gripping Kyathar’s hilt so hard that his gauntlet creaked.
Another blast of trumpets rang out from Merovech’s host, and the footmen shouted and charged. A wail of war horns and Merovech’s cavalry kicked their mounts to a gallop, aiming for the loyalist footmen. Trumpets blared from the loyalist cavalry, and the great mass of knights surged for the cultist horsemen, hoping to block them from reaching the infantry. The pagan gnolls sprinted forward, racing for Nakhrakh and the host of baptized gnolls, who answered with cries of their own and charged to meet their enemies.
The battle had begun in earnest.
The sound of the two armies crashing together was like thunder, and the ring of swords against shields and helmets was a constant background clamor. Prince Everard had raised his banner on a shallow hill a short distance back from the battlefield, so Tyrcamber could see most of the fighting men. But he could not make out what was happening. It was too confused, too chaotic. The loyalist knights plunged into the cultist horsemen, and the screams of
wounded and dying horses joined the cacophony. The din grew louder until it seemed as if the noise would rip the world in half.
A dark spot rose against the sky fire to the south. Tyrcamber expected to see that Merovech had taken to the air as a dragon, but the shape was far too small for that. He glimpsed a blue-armored figure, great wings fashioned of shadow and blue fire arching behind it.
The Theophract leveled his staff and cast a spell.
Four writhing shapes that looked like colossal tentacles sprang out of nothingness and arced towards the loyalist army like whips. Nearby, Rilmael raised his staff and shouted a spell. A colossal Shield spell appeared overhead, and the tentacles lashed against it. The great Shield shuddered, a grimace of pain and effort going over Rilmael’s face, but the Shield held, and the tentacles faded into nothingness.
“Well done, Guardian,” said Chilmar.
“That was but the first thrust,” said Rilmael, looking around. “The Theophract isn’t nearly spent…there! Shield spells! Shields!”
The Theophract vanished in a swirl of darkness. Tyrcamber twisted in the saddle, trying to find where the Guardian had pointed, and suddenly a column of darkness appeared perhaps ten yards to the north.
The blue-armored form of the Theophract reappeared out of nothingness, and the dark elven sorcerer thrust his staff.
A dozen tentacles of shadow erupted from the staff, lashing like whips. These tentacles were not nearly as huge as the ones the Theophract had conjured earlier, no thicker than Tyrcamber’s forearm, but they shot forward with terrific speed. Most of the nearby knights and lords had gotten their Shield spells up in time. One the tentacles lashed towards Tyrcamber and slammed against his blazing Shield. It was a terrific impact, but his power held, and the tentacle unraveled into nothingness. But a half-dozen men of Prince Everard’s bodyguard were not so fortunate, and the tentacles coiled around their throats and snapped their necks, sending their bodies tumbling to the ground.
The lords and knights cast Lance spells, fire and lightning lancing towards the Theophract. The dark elf gestured with his free hand, and a half a dozen multicolored Shield spells appeared before him, weaving and bobbing to intercept the magical attacks. Rilmael pointed his staff, and something like a dragon’s head of golden fire hurtled forward, its jaws yawning wide to swallow the Theophract whole. But the dark elf jerked his staff back, grasping it with both hands, and the shadowy tentacles withdrew to coil around him, forming a sort of cocoon. The glowing dragon’s head ripped through the Shield spells and slammed against the tentacles, only to explode in a spray of flames and sparks. That was enough to shatter the cocoon and send the Theophract staggering backward, and the dark elf struck the end of his staff against the ground.
The staff spat darkness, and again the Theophract vanished in a swirl of shadows.
“A cunning stratagem,” snarled Chilmar. “He sought to decapitate our army with a single strike.”
“He might well have done it, if not for the Guardian’s vigilance,” said Everard. Rilmael did not respond, his eyes scanning for the Theophract’s reappearance. “Or he might have wished to distract us at a critical time – there! Our footmen are being pushed back. Master Ruire, Master Grimoald, send some of your reserve companies, swiftly!”
Tyrcamber looked at the struggling footmen. The loyalist soldiers were holding, but the cultist infantry was gaining ground. If the loyalists were not reinforced soon, the cultists might break through. The cavalry melee had broken off, with both sides withdrawing after taking losses and preparing to spring on each other again.
But the gnolls…
The gnolls of Monoloch had greater numbers, and Merovech’s gnollish mercenaries were winning. Nakhrakh and the other baptized gnollish chieftains had been pushed back, and to Tyrcamber’s surprise, he thought the baptized gnolls were in danger of breaking. If that happened, the pagan gnolls would sweep to the west and attack the loyalist footmen from behind.
Merovech and the Dragon Cult would win the battle then and there.
“My lords!” said Tyrcamber. Everard and the others looked at him. “I am going to aid the gnolls.”
Everard hesitated for a half-second, his eyes sweeping the battle, and then nodded. “God go with you, Sir Tyrcamber.”
This was no time for half-measures. Tyrcamber jumped from his saddle and ran a short distance to the north, giving himself room to transform. Then he called on the fire of the Malison that filled him, the power that had become part of him, and he shifted.
His body transformed, expanding into immensity. Tyrcamber became a mighty golden dragon that stretched fifty feet from snout to tail, his wings like sails, his claws and teeth like swords. His golden scales were as hard and tough as steel, and dragon fire burned in his chest and yearned for release. Once his dragon form had been alien and nightmarish to him, a prison in which he had been trapped for thousands of years, dying over and over again. Now it felt as natural to him as breathing. Sometimes it felt so natural that it seemed like the dragon was his true shape, and his humanity was just a strange, half-forgotten dream.
Tyrcamber tried to push aside those thoughts. The urgency of the battle made that easy.
He leaped into the air, his wings beating, and great to the south. His wings propelled him with terrific speed, but the innate magic of dragons let him fly faster than his size and bulk would have allowed. Tyrcamber hurtled towards the battle, flying low over the ground. Cheers rose from some of the loyalist soldiers as he passed, and Tyrcamber banked towards the gnollish melee. The situation had worsened in the few moments it had taken him to transform, and the gnolls of Monoloch were on the verge of breaking through.
Tyrcamber dove towards them and opened his jaws.
The dragon fire lanced over his teeth, white-hot, and spread in expanding cone. Tyrcamber swooped over the gnolls, and his flames lanced into the enemy. He didn’t know how many gnolls he burned in that instant – a hundred, perhaps a hundred and fifty, with as many more badly wounded. The stench of burned flesh and the hideous reek of charred gnoll fur came to his nostrils, and Tyrcamber flew to the south, banked, and swept back around.
Again, he unleashed a stream of fire upon the gnolls. A few of the pagan gnolls tried to attack, flinging weapons or hurling Lance spells. He was moving too fast for the flung axes and spears to do more than bounce off his scales. The Lance spells hurt more, and some of them burned through his scales to strike his flesh, but at his size, the spells were no more than pinpricks and he would heal from the wounds swiftly. Unless they attacked in concentrated volleys, they were not a serious threat, and between Tyrcamber’s fire and the baptized gnolls, the gnolls of Monoloch could not focus their efforts. The gnolls of Culachar shouted and flung themselves into the fray with renewed vigor, and Tyrcamber loosed another plume of fire into the enemy.
Then he felt the deathly chill.
Tyrcamber turned his serpentine neck and saw the Theophract soaring overhead, pointing his dark staff. A surge of fierce anger went through Tyrcamber. Here was the chance to destroy the founder of the Dragon Cult, the author of so much misery and horror. Tyrcamber twisted in midair, opening his jaws to unleash a plume of dragon fire. Not even the most powerful wizards of the dark elves could withstand the fury of dragon fire for long.
But the Theophract dodged around the blast of fire, and more of those tentacles of shadow erupted from his staff. They shot forward and curled around Tyrcamber, and chilling pain flooded through him. He thrashed and tried to break free, but the immaterial tentacles felt rubbery and clinging, as if they had been fashioned from glue, and he could not get loose. The Theophract’s will hammered at him, the dominating will of a dark elf, but Tyrcamber ignored it. He was a Dragontiarna now, and a dark elf could not dominate him.
Yet he was still vulnerable to potent magic, and the chill from the staff’s tentacles spread deeper into his body. He felt himself growing weaker, felt the strength draining from him. Too much more, and he would not be able to stay airborne…
>
Golden light flashed before his eyes, brighter than even the yellow-orange of the sky fire, and a Shield spell appeared between Tyrcamber and the Theophract. The Shield sliced through the tentacles, and they shriveled and dissolved into nothingness. Tyrcamber risked a glance down, saw that the aerial battle had carried him north of the loyalist army, saw Rilmael galloping below them, his staff held aloft. Tyrcamber turned and unleashed another cone of flame at the Theophract.
A half-second before the flames would have reached him, the Theophract gestured with his staff, and the wizard vanished into nothingness. Tyrcamber allowed himself one growl of frustration, and then dove for the ground, landing next to the Guardian. Rilmael’s horse shied in fear, but an effort of will sent the fire of the Malison coursing through Tyrcamber, and he shrank back to human form. The magic of his armor, the ancient armor of an elven Dragontiarna Knight, let his clothes come with him, else he would have reappeared naked.
“Thank you,” said Tyrcamber. “He had me. Another few seconds and I would have crashed.”
“Aye,” said Rilmael, looking to the south. “The footmen will need your help. They’re being pushed hard, and the Cult has sent its most powerful wizards there. I will keep watch for the Theophract and stop him from attacking you.”
“Any sign of Merovech?” said Tyrcamber.
“Not yet,” said Rilmael. “He is holding himself in reserve. Or maybe he enjoys watching the slaughter. With a Dragonmaeloch, it is impossible to tell. We…”
His voice trailed off, his eyes narrowing.
“What is it?” said Tyrcamber.
Rilmael opened his mouth to answer, and there was a flash of blue light to the south, behind the cultist army. Tyrcamber thought that the Theophract was unleashing another spell, or that Merovech was about to use his powers as a Dragonmaeloch. But the blue light flashed again, becoming a pillar of blue flame, and then bent around itself, shaping itself into a ring.
A ring of blue fire burned behind Merovech’s army, and inside it…
Dragontiarna: Thieves Page 36