“What’s going on?” Alijah shouted from behind. “Where are we going?”
Gideon half turned to regard the rogue. “Malliath’s going to Velia!”
Alijah looked at Korkanath and the same realisation Gideon had experienced a moment ago flashed over the half-elf’s face. There was nothing anyone could do for the mages now.
The lights of Velia provided a luminous backdrop, allowing Gideon’s human eyes to make out Malliath’s flying form. Backing up to the very edge of The Shining Coast, Velia was a port city with a fleet of ships sitting in her harbour.
They were the first to go.
Gideon and the others were too far behind to prevent Malliath from attacking Direport. A thick jet of fire exploded from his mouth and brought the light of the sun into the night. The flames clung to the ships, determined to burn their way through every plank of timber and sail. The fires were so big that the ships that missed Malliath’s attack still caught the flames from adjacent vessels. In a matter of minutes, the entire harbour was a burning wreck.
Get some height! Gideon ordered the others.
Ilargo roared, hoping to get Malliath’s attention and draw him away from the city itself. Velia’s high walls meant nothing to a dragon and its densely populated streets were easily destroyed by a single jet of fire. There were three times as many people in Velia as there were in Lirian. Gideon didn’t even want to think about the potential death toll.
Malliath paid no heed to Ilargo’s roar and continued to fly around Velia, weaving between the four giant statues that stood tall on the city’s curved western wall. One of the old kings was only built up to the chest, having been destroyed in The Battle for Velia at the end of the war, thirty years ago. Gideon had a feeling the city would suffer far worse than a broken statue today.
The black dragon halted his flight and dug his claws into the most northern of the stone kings. Malliath looked down on Velia and unleashed an ear-splitting roar.
Ilargo swooped down as quickly as he could, aiming for the southern curve of the main wall. The Velian soldiers scrambled to get out of the way, their red cloaks billowing behind them.
“I need you on the ground!” Gideon said to Alijah, pouring as much urgency into his voice as possible.
Alijah didn’t argue. “What can I do?” he asked as he made his way down Ilargo’s scales.
“Stay alive,” Gideon replied simply.
The ground shook, sending a shockwave up the wall. Gideon looked around, expecting to see Malliath somewhere, but the black dragon was still residing over the city from atop the ancient king.
The ground shook again, followed by a distant explosion on the other side of the city. A column of black smoke was pushed high into the night’s sky and the air was filled with screams. Another explosion, only a few streets away from them, threw slabs of rock into the air, destroying houses and shops in the process.
“It’s them!” Alijah cried from atop the wall. “Orcs!”
Gideon looked back over the city as three more explosions ripped jagged holes in the earth. One was just outside the main gates, in the centre of the western wall. The screams of the city were soon accompanied by the feral roars and growls of the pale beasts.
Dragorn, separate from your dragons and take to the city! Defend Velia! Figorax, go back to The Lifeless Isles and alert the others. Bring reinforcements!
The bronze riderless dragon roared in protest but he turned mid-flight and headed back to the isles. The other dragons landed at various points around the city to drop off their riders.
Ilargo…
I know what to do. The green dragon lifted his head to Malliath high above.
Gideon considered the Galfreys’ son. Don’t kill him, he reminded the dragon.
You deal with the orcs. We will take care of Malliath.
Try and separate him from Asher if you can. And… be careful, old friend.
Ilargo roared, matching Malliath’s tone with a regal call to arms. It set off the other dragons, all of which spread their wings and added their own roar to the cacophony.
Gideon joined Alijah on the wall as all the dragons took flight. Malliath remained fixed to the old king, showing no sign of concern for the teeth and claws that were coming for him.
The Master Dragorn wanted to watch their clash, but the sound of orcs filled the air with their hungry growls. Gideon ran to the edge of the battlements, above the main gate, and looked out on the small village that lay sprawled across the field. It was beyond the protection of Velia’s walls, though the inhabitants were fleeing out into the night, desperate to get away from the orcs piling out of the hole in the central road.
Gideon gestured to Asher, astride Malliath. “I hope you’re as good with that bow as he was.”
Alijah snapped the bow to life and nocked an arrow. “What’s the plan?”
“Stay up here out of the way.” Gideon continued before Alijah could argue the command, “Malliath and Asher are about to feel pain; that means you will too. Stay out of the battle.”
The Master Dragorn approached the other side of the battlements and looked down at the interior of the city. It was a hundred foot drop at least. The orcs were charging in from outside, cutting off any escape for those running away from the orcs ascending into the streets.
“What are you going to do?” Alijah asked.
Gideon removed a small vial from his interior pocket and pulled the cork out of the end with his teeth. The pink liquid was far too sweet for anyone’s liking, but it wasn’t intended to be pleasant; he kept the Tempest elixir for emergencies since it only worked for a matter of seconds.
“What was that? Wait, what are you doing?”
“I’m going down there,” he replied, throwing the empty vial away.
It had been too long since he had cause to unleash his power.
Without another word, Gideon took Mournblade in his hand, dragging it from its scabbard, and ran for the edge. Alijah swore at the top of his voice, sure that the Master Dragorn had just leaped to his death. Gideon focused on the ground, which was quickly rushing up to meet him, and uttered a destructive spell under his breath.
The charging orcs didn’t see him coming from above, nor would they live to ever discover the cause of their death. Gideon landed in a crouch in front of the main gate with Mournblade pointed to the ground.
The effect was devastating.
The elixir coursing through his veins prevented his bones from shattering on impact, but the spell that exploded forth from Mournblade broke bones, tore through muscles, and bruised flesh in every direction. The stone of the main gates cracked and the ground shuddered under the Master Dragorn.
In the aftermath, there was an eerie quiet as a cloud of dust and debris settled over the courtyard. Gideon slowly stood up and inspected the tip of Mournblade, happy to see the scimitar still in one piece. He could hear his pulse beating in his ears and his skin itched. Along with the bitter aftertaste, they were the worst of the elixir’s side-effects.
Inspecting his environment, orc bodies were piled around him in a neat circle, their limbs twisted and pulled into unnatural positions.
The eastern street, directly opposite the courtyard, quickly filled with the rushing soldiers of Velia. They looked upon the ruin that Gideon had caused and stared at him in awe.
There wasn’t time for that. He could already hear the next wave charging towards them through the small village outside.
“On me!” he cried, rallying the soldiers. “Don’t let them through the gates!”
A quick assessment told Gideon that the soldiers wouldn’t make it to the gates before the orcs rushed through, but bottle-necking them in the entrance was the only way to get on top of their superior numbers. The Master Dragorn clenched the red and golden hilt of his ancient sword.
He charged.
The orcs made it half way through the short tunnel before Mournblade came down on them. The scimitar cut through the air from right to left, slicing through obsidian ar
mour and pale bodies as if they weren’t even in the way. Gideon lashed out with magic next, hurling a fireball down the length of the wall. Those that caught fire created chaos inside the tunnel, filling it with smoke and an acrid smell to accompany their screams.
Gideon moved like a dancer, weaving between their swords and spears, as he flipped and twirled to confuse his opponents. Every time, he countered with Mournblade, never failing to kill the orcs. Every swipe of the Vi’tari blade cut down two orcs or more, and magic defended Gideon where the sword was too occupied.
Then the Velian soldiers entered the fray.
Gideon jumped back and rolled to the side before the two sides collided in the small space.
“Don’t give them an inch!” he barked over the melee.
The Master Dragorn felt his free hand cramp up before teeth marks appeared over his skin. Looking up, Ilargo was tumbling through the air, locked in battle with Malliath. More pain erupted up and down his arms and at the base of his neck. Gideon gritted his teeth and turned away from the fighting.
The other dragons came to his aid and crashed into the black dragon with claws and teeth. Ilargo fell a couple of hundred feet before spreading his wings and correcting his flight-path.
Gideon shook his injured hand and clenched a fist. Try and get them away from the city.
Gideon! Asher isn’t up here!
The Master Dragorn looked out on the courtyard, scanning the building tops for any sign of the Dragon Knight. If he could subdue Asher, Ilargo and the others could beat Malliath…
I’ll find him!
Gideon ran off into the city, eager for a re-match.
42
Fire and Ice
Vighon pulled his fur cloak about him as the bitter winds of The Ice Vales bombarded the sheer face of Grey Stone’s mountainous walls. The northerner was stood at the base, beside the main entrance to the narrow ravine that served as the city’s central road in and out.
He surveyed the fields of white snow sprawled before him, looking upon the many refugees from Lirian and Vangarth. There were even a few from Ameeraska, having travelled up the western coast seeking shelter.
Tents had been set up for those who couldn’t fit inside the already cramped city and its narrow web of streets. The city watch had done their best to place as many of the southerners inside the city, since most of them hadn’t even seen snow, let alone known temperatures this low.
The howling wind did its best to put out their fires and blow their tents away. Still, they were safe from Malliath’s fire and under the protection of King Jormund’s soldiers. Snowfell and Kelp Town had sent many of their soldiers to bolster Jormund’s ranks.
Vighon tried to keep his mind on the here and now. Thoughts of Alijah tried to distract him, worried as he was for his friend. The width of Illian separated them now and he hated it.
“You don’t look happy.” Inara surprised the northman as she joined him in the cold. The Dragorn was sporting a flowing cloak of red over her leathers now, offering some extra protection against the elements.
“I can’t decide what’s worse,” Vighon replied. “Dying from the heat in there or dying from the cold out here.”
Inara glanced back at the warm glow emanating from the tall ravine. “It is hot in there,” she agreed. “It would seem the perfect temperature is at the top, inside The Black Fort.”
Vighon turned to regard the Dragorn. “Been dining with kings have you?”
“King Jormund has welcomed King Weymund with open arms, but there is a degree of… measuring going on.”
Vighon laughed, the noise lost in the wind. “Is Galanör up there too?” he asked.
“No. He went with Russell to investigate the old tunnels that lead into Vengora. I think they both like to have a way out.”
Vighon nodded, unsure what to say. He had told Inara some things about his life that he had worked hard to bury. Telling her had made it all very real again. There was also a part of him that worried Inara would see him differently now. Perhaps he deserved that judgement, he thought. Alijah had accepted him for who he was, making them brothers, but it had been easier than he deserved.
The northerner considered lighting his pipe as something to do, but the winds would never allow it. Instead, he looked to the night’s sky, where a thick blanket of dark clouds greeted him.
“Where’s Athis?” he asked, curious.
Inara looked at the sky with him. “He’s…” The Dragorn pointed to a patch in the sky. “There.”
Vighon followed her finger but saw nothing but more clouds. “As you say.”
“He doesn’t like it here, either,” she said. “There’s nowhere for a dragon to fit. Even the upper city is too cramped for his size.”
Vighon agreed. There was barely enough space to fit the inhabitants of Grey Stone, never mind all the refugees and a dragon.
Another awkward silence befell them.
“I’m sorry if I—”
“Thank you for sharing—”
Having both cut each other off, yet another awkward silence filled the air between them. Vighon didn’t remember it ever being like this when they were younger. The relationship between them had been so natural and easy. He couldn’t deny, however, that they were two very different people now.
“Thank you for sharing your… story, with me, on the road. I know that couldn’t have been easy to talk about.”
Vighon shrugged. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
“No,” Inara replied quickly, shaking her head. “I just wish… things had gone a different way for you.”
The northerner had shared that wish many times over the years, but never more than when he was in the company of Inara. His dreams of ‘what may have been’ had returned of late, leaving the young man to wonder what life with her would have been like. He’d certainly have a lot less scars. He might even manage a whole night’s sleep without waking up in a cold sweat.
Vighon turned to Inara, intending to ask her if she ever dreamt of different times, but the words never had a chance. The ground to the left of the sprawling camp exploded, followed by another, then another.
Vighon and Inara braced themselves under the Dragorn’s protective shield as chunks of rock and debris hammered down. Black smoke poured out of the large holes, preceding the monsters of mans’ nightmares.
The refugees scrambled from their tents and huddles and dashed for the light of Grey Stone’s only entrance. The screams were loud, being as close to the tall ravine as they were, but Vighon and Inara still heard the roars that came from the explosion sites.
“Orcs!” Vighon spat, drawing his sword and lifting his shield from his back.
Inara unclenched her hand and released the magic that had protected them. The Dragorn strode away from the main entrance, towards the oncoming orcs, with her Vi’tari blade in hand. Vighon often looked upon her and saw great beauty, but now he saw that beauty harden into a resolve of heroic stature. Deciding she was a distraction, the northerner twirled his sword, getting a feel for the weight of it.
He would need to focus if he was going to survive the next few minutes.
The black smoke stretched its ethereal hands through the camp, hiding the emergence of the first orcs to crawl out of their hell. Their growls reached his ears before the first of them charged through the haze. The pale beasts were clad in their obsidian armour, their helmets crafted individually to curve around their unique horns. Vighon clocked jagged swords, razor-sharp axes, and obsidian-pointed spears in the hands of his foes. It was nothing his shield couldn’t handle.
“Come on then!” he yelled at the rushing orcs.
As one, Inara and Vighon leaped into the fray with their swords raised. The northerner switched his attack mid-fall and presented the nearest orc with his shield instead. The force of his impact launched the beast backwards, knocking over two more behind it. With a roar and a mighty swing, Vighon brought his sword to bear, cleaving off the head of one of the orcs unlucky enough
to have remained on its feet.
Now he was in the thick of it.
The orcs came at him through the smoke, navigating the piles of supplies and tents to reach him. Vighon stood his ground and beat his sword against his shield, drawing them to him. He ducked one swipe, letting the orc rush past, and came up swinging his own sword to open up the neck of another. Shield, sword, shield, sword; the rhythm of battle took over his body.
A particularly crazed orc painted in black and yellow burst out of the smoke and ran at Vighon with abandon. Its feral roar was the only weapon it had, devoid of armour or a sword. The northerner twisted his sword and lifted it to his head in the manner of a spear. His aim true, he launched the sword at the orc, impaling it in the chest and dropping it to the ground immediately.
With only his shield now, Vighon could hear Galanör’s warning voice in his head about relying on it too much. The blade was now more than a few paces away and more orcs were coming for him. Vighon growled and dashed forward, rolling under the first swing of his enemy, and jumping up to reach out for his sword. An orc’s axe came down between him and the blade, forcing the northerner to pull back his hand and leave the sword. Vighon didn’t hesitate to grab one of the orc’s horns and yank it down, exposing its throat to the edge of his shield.
The orc went down under the impact, spluttering at the air for a desperate breath. Vighon ignored its dying moments and put his whole body behind his shield as he bashed into another orc. He blocked the swing of another and twisted his body on the spot, gripping the hilt of his blade on the way round. When he came back at the orc, he was swinging both his sword and shield until the beast had steel thrusting though its gut. He kicked the impaled orc back and freed his blade again.
Vighon stumbled back trying to catch his breath for a second. The refugees were still fleeing towards Grey Stone, but the narrow ravine was slowing everyone down. Jormund’s hardy soldiers were doing their best to get through the stampede and present a defensive wall, but the orcs slipping past Vighon and Inara were almost upon the refugees.
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