by D L Sims
“Nix.” She unclasped the necklace at her throat. The gold chain glittered in the sun, and the red pendant reflected on the sand. “I love you. I never told you that, but it’s true. I love the way your fingers feel when you brush my hair. I love that you are strong and good. I love the way you say my name first thing in the morning.” Andalen sniffed. She couldn’t list everything she loved about nixema; there was no time. “If this is the end, I want you to be happy, Nix. We will find each other again in the Heavens. Remember that.”
Nixema nodded, crying too hard to say anything. Andalen pressed the necklace into her palm, closing it over the chain and stone. She brought Nix’s hand to her mouth and kissed her balled up fingers.
“My heart is yours, Nix. Forever.”
“F-forever.”
The dragon rider made a low humming sound in his throat, and the dragon took off towards Lysic. Arlen and Nixema screamed, holding on for dear life.
Andalen spun, tears burning her eyes. She found Grant and Lonis at her side. None of them said a word as the last of the Eltharians gathered into the ships and set sail for the neighboring kingdom.
Chapter
Twenty-Five
Light spilled in through the cracks of the curtains. The white walls of the castle seemed to sparkle with multiple colors in the morning light. Roslen’s red hair spilled over the black pillow, a river of lava on volcanic rock. Ikar reached over, brushing her cheek with the back of his fingers.
“Roz.” Ikar’s voice was soft as he nuzzled her neck. His hand traveled over her skin, under the covers and over her slight bump. “You can’t have the baby before we marry. We can’t have a bastard.” He rubbed her belly as he spoke. “Many men have bastard children, and I refuse to be one.”
“You haven’t asked me to marry you,” came her sweet, sleepy voice.
Ikar smiled into her neck. “Haven’t I?”
She giggled. “No.”
He pulled back, taking her face in his hands. She returned his smile as he bent and placed his lips to hers. He kissed her soft and sweet, exploring lips he had memorized like a well-loved book. Her hands came up, covering his hands on her cheeks.
“I love you,” he whispered before taking her mouth again in a passionate kiss. She moaned, arching her back, rubbing her warmth against his thigh. He pulled his head back to look at her once more. “Marry me, Roz. Let’s make our dreams a reality.”
“I’m pretty sure I’m still dreaming,” she countered. “Are you sure you’re real?”
“Very real.” He pecked her lips again. “You haven’t answered my question, shall I take that as a ‘no’?”
“Yes, Ikar. A million times, yes.” Her hand slipped into his trousers. “I love you, Ikar.”
“And I, you, my Roslen.”
The door to the chamber opened. A servant dressed in pure white hustled forward with a basin. “My Lord, the others are arriving.”
“You’re interrupting my proposal,” Ikar ground out. “Leave me to make love to my bride-to-be.”
Roslen hit his shoulder. “Be nice.”
She shimmied out of bed, uncaring of looking indecent in front of the servant. He averted his gaze, although Roslen was covered in a black gown. Ikar groaned and got out of the bed.
“You owe me,” he told Roslen.
“We have all our lives for me to make it up to you.”
“Not if I die during this fucking war.”
Roz rolled her eyes. “You’re not going to die, my love. I forbid it.”
A female servant entered the room and ushered Roslen to the chamber down the hall, where she would be dressed and pampered. The male servant had already begun pulling Ikar’s clothes from the wardrobe.
“Even in war, I’m still treated as if I can’t dress myself.”
“Some things should give us a sense of normalcy in these troubling times, don’t you agree, My Lord?”
“The only thing troubling me is why we didn’t open the castle to the refugees. It’s big enough to house many of the people in Rivland, and yet, only the nobles and Roxell are inside its walls.”
“That’s the way it’s always been, My Lord.” The servant began helping Ikar into his clothes. “For hundreds of years, the temple has served as a refuge for those in need. It has served well for centuries as it has served well for the past ten days.”
“The Temple isn’t big enough to house all those people. What about the others?”
The servant frowned. “I’m not sure, My Lord.”
“Did everyone make it out of the city?”
He had helped the morning before, loading people into wagons and horses, handing them food to prepare them for their trek through the woods, but Master Roxell had called the nobles away to try and convince Ikar to go with the evacuees.
Ikar had argued with Roslen for hours to go, but she was stubborn. It was one of the many reasons he loved her.
“I will not leave,” she had huffed, “and you will not say another word about it.”
“There are those who refuse to go,” the servant replied, “but everyone else is gone. The last wagon left just before yesterday’s sunset.”
Ikar nodded as the man fixed the finishing touches on Ikar’s belt and coat.
A loud roar shook Ikar out of his deep contemplation of whether he should buy Roslen a gift when the war was over to celebrate their engagement. It was customary that the husband present their bride with a gift on their wedding day, but would it be bad luck to give her one beforehand? He had just opened his mouth to ask Briar what he thought when the deep bellow had shook the sky.
A black shadow fell over the crowd on the castle grounds. The green dragon landed just before the trees in the orchard. Its wings tucked into its body, and it bowed forward to let its passengers off.
It’s graceful for being such a large creature, Ikar thought idly.
Grant’s curls were wild and windswept, but there was a smile on his face.
“Dominikov, dragon-riding is the only way to travel.”
Ikar clapped his old friend on the back. He would never admit it out loud, but he was happy to see Grant. There was something nostalgic about seeing a childhood friend during troubling times.
Andalen looked green, and put her face between her knees. “That was awful.”
“Worse than the ship?” Grant wondered.
“So much worse.”
In rapid tones, the three of them began talking over each other. Ikar told them about Yvney and Alithane. Andalen shared her exchange with Nix and Arlen. Grant told them about finally telling Lonis he loved him.
Ikar still remembered the night Grant drunkenly told him and Roz that he was in love with his oldest friend. That had been two years ago.
“I’m happy you finally admitted your feelings,” Ikar said, crossing his arms over his slender frame. “I was ready to intervene.”
Grant rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, Roz had already tried--”
“Kel!” Andalen screamed, running towards a tall young man with light brown hair and pulling him into a tight hug. “I was so worried.”
Everything seemed normal, and for a minute, Ikar could ignore the dragon, the sound of soldiers filing into position around the castle, and the looming threat of the Mezerans. He was among friends. There was no war. Everything was fine.
There was a whoosh in the air, and the candle the Wood Witch carried with her lit itself. She closed her eyes, chanting, and when she opened them, she stared into the flame as if it were speaking to her.
Her face visibly paled. “The Mezerans have taken Alithane. They’re coming this way.”
Chapter
Twenty-Six
Grant hadn’t anticipated this. He didn’t think he would be separated from Andalen, Ikar and Lonis. He didn’t think it would be him on the back of a dragon, clutching a Dragon Rider for dear life.
He didn’t think he would be on the front lines.
“Is this first war?” Fedirij asked.
“How can you tell?”
“Your face is green.”
Grant adjusted the grip on Fedirij’s belt. “Thanks. It’s my natural pallor.”
Fedirij laughed. “In Lysic we’re born for war.”
“So I heard.”
The trees around them had turned orange and yellow. Leaves littered the browning grass, and a fog rolled in from the sea. Grant had always loved autumn, but it was hard to love anything when you knew that somewhere in the trees the enemy was waiting.
Around him, Elthare and Lysic’s best soldiers and men who have only held a sword once in their lives stood at the ready. The man next to him--only a few years older than Grant--shook with fear.
Some fifty-thousand men and women away stood Lonis.
Return to me, Sin. I’ll be waiting.
The words from Lonis' letter kept repeating in his head. It served as his mantra to not die in this Godsdamned war.
A twig snapped in the distance.
“They come,” Fedirij said.
Grant was too terrified to come up with a snappy comeback.
Mezerans broke through the trees. Thousands of them, hundreds of thousands. They walked shoulder to shoulder. Axe blades hitting together in a rhythmic, metallic clang.
“Prepare yourself!” Fedirij said, and then hummed.
His dragon, ShadowCloud, rose into the air. Grant gripped Fedirij tighter around the middle.
The Mezerans watched, as one by one, ten dragons took to the sky.
The trance broke, and they charged towards the Elthare and Lysin soldiers.
Gods, I’m going to die.
No. You will not. Mikhial’s voice filled his mind. Somewhere below, his brother was fighting. Grant was slightly annoyed that Mikhial was using his powers instead of concentrating fully on the Mezerans. You will fight, little brother.
Get out of my head, Mik.
Then fucking fight!
“Get me closer!” Grant shouted to Fedirij.
The dragon hovered lower, and Grant readied his bow, launching arrow after arrow into the fray. He wasn’t as good a shot as Andalen, but as long as he hit some Mezerans, he didn’t think it mattered.
Fedirij made ShadowCloud rise higher into the sky. He hummed again, and the dragon opened its mouth, setting fire to the line of trees the Mezerans were still spilling from.
Grant scanned the ground. He needed to find Lonis.
“Closer!”
Fedirij complied, and Grant swept the field until he saw Lonis, fighting side by side with Ikar. They were surrounded by five Mezerans. Grant pulled his padares from the sheath on his back. He stood on the back of the dragon and jumped as Fedirij got close enough to the ground.
Grant rolled into the grass, slicing out with his weapon as a Mezeran tried to drive an axe through his skull. His padaré sliced through the man’s thigh, severing the femoral artery. The man screamed, clutching his leg. He dropped his axe in the process. Grant placed one of his padarés back into its sheath and picked up the discarded axe, and ran towards the area where he saw Lonis and Ikar.
He kicked, slashed, dodged and spun out of harm’s way. He remembered every bit of training Lonis had taught him over the years, and he didn’t have to think when a Mezeran tried to slam his fist into Grant’s face. He blocked the blow by crossing his arms, and then spun, bringing his arm down while twisting the Mezeran’s arm up. A sickening crack filled the small space around them.
He was only twenty feet from Ikar and Lonis when something hit him from behind, and his head slammed into the ground.
Andalen was with the archers on an old wall that had once been part of a fort during the late 1600s. She loosed arrow after arrow into the melee, hitting each target she aimed for.
The tree line was on fire, and the Mezerans had slowed, but there were still more. They were trying to find a way around the flames, but to the left was a lake, and to the right there were the archers.
The Mezerans hesitated only a moment before they began to charge the fort.
“Father!” she yelled. Her father and others were on the ground, pushing the Mezerans back from reaching the archers.
Her father turned and led a small group to head the other Mezerans off. Andalen commanded the archers along that section to provide them cover.
She turned her attention back to the battlefield. Below her, the Mezerans were getting closer to the wall. They attacked with no remorse. Their eyes were lifeless but wild, almost like a diseased, crazed animal.
Andalen drew her sword. “Keep firing!”
She ran behind the archers to the stairs that led out to the grass. Her father swung his own blade, stabbing a female Mezeran through the heart.
He turned his head when he felt her approach. He and two others were the only ones left standing.
“Get back up there!” he yelled.
“You need help!”
“Andalen!”
A Mezeran cornered her against the stone wall, swinging a crude weapon with a blunt head. She ducked, and the weapon hit the stone. Large bits flaked off and landed in her hair. She stabbed her sword upwards, digging her blade under the man’s ribs.
His eyes flew wide, and Andalen felt bile rise up in her throat.
She had killed plenty with her arrows. She had seen the points strike true, but there was something unnerving about seeing death up close. She felt her blade vibrate slightly as it sliced through him, warm blood trickled on her fingers.
“An--” her father’s words were cut short.
A large weapon with a head that looked much like an anvil was stuck in his skull. His eyes flew wide, his mouth open as he had tried to say her name.
“FATHER!”
The Mezeran laughed as he removed his weapon with a sickening squelching sound from Lord Amadon’s skull.
“War is no place for a little girl.”
Andalen didn’t respond. She hefted the sword Gellen had gifted to her years before, bringing it down in a wide arch. The Mezeran swung his anvil, breaking her sword in half.
Out of shock, she dropped the handle.
She looked up at the Mezeran’s wild eyes and pulled two daggers from her belt. From overhead a rain of arrows showered down in front of her.
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
Beautiful, messy chaos. There was no other way to describe a battle. It was beautiful in the unity of soldiers banding together to combat a common enemy. It was beautiful in the dance of ducking, diving, blocking and stabbing. Messy with the blood spraying from severed limbs and stab wounds, and the metallic tang of new death filled the air. Chaotic with screams and shouts ringing through the foggy morning.
Overhead, a dragon bellowed before setting fire to a row of Mezerans.
Ikar spun from a Mezeran’s grip, his tunic ripping at the neck. He was graceful in his movements, fluid like water.
“Gods!” Grant shouted from somewhere near him. Ikar looked over in time to see several Mezerans fly through the air by an invisible force. “It’s never-ending.”
“Keep fighting,” a soldier commanded, covered in blood and entrails. His white coat was more red than cream. “We’re going to push them back towards the east.”
Another dragon whipped through the air, lighting the grass only feet away from Ikar ablaze.
“Watch it!” he yelled up to the rider.
His protests were met with a war cry.
Ikar rolled his eyes and focused his attention on the several Mezerans that advanced. “Lonis!”
Lonis turned after killing the two attacking him, and ran to Ikar just as the six men and women approached, their eyes rolling and wild.
“Something’s wrong with them,” Lonis said.
“Like what?” Ikar asked, blocking a woman’s fist and driving the hilt of his sword into her kneecap. She roared in pain. “Besides the fact that they are trying to kill us.”
Lonis paused. “I don’t know.” He seemed distracted, and Ikar knew why. Not ten feet away, Grant was battling a Mezeran. He looked to be losing, but Lon
is couldn’t help. For every one Ikar killed, two more popped in place. He needed the extra pair of hands.
The Mezeran Grant was battling suddenly fell. The man’s heart hovered in the air in front of Grant. Blood dripped from the ends of Grant’s curly hair. He surged forward to help Ikar and Lonis, and the heart dropped into the grass.
As suddenly as he lurched forward, Grant came to a halt. He tilted his head to the side, the way dogs do when they hear a noise. His eyes flew wide.
“Mikhial.”
“Go!” Lonis demanded, growling when a dagger cut his shoulder. He spun, driving his elbow into the man’s nose. “Grant, go find your brother!”
Grant only hesitated for a moment, his eyes clashing with Lonis' before he turned and disappeared into the carnage.
Ikar was exhausted. He felt as if they had been there for hours. His muscles burned, and he felt sticky with sweat and other substances he would rather not think about.
He chanced a glance out to the open field. Bodies--Mezeran, Lysin, Eltharian--littered the grass. Thousands on each side still stood, and the clang of metal against metal vibrated in his ears.
He still had hope. He had to, or else the pessimism would drive him insane.
“Ikar.” Lonis' voice was low, confused.
They had defeated the Mezerans in front of them, but Lonis' attention was turned away, to Ikar’s left.
Yvney stood with a small group of Mezerans. He wore their clothes: fur-lined cloak and boots, and he held a crude, large war hammer in his hand. His smile was cruel. Ikar had seen many of his brother’s smiles over the years, but he had never seen one like this. He seemed to be enjoying the killing, basking in the smell of blood in the air.
“IKAR!” Yvney bellowed, running forward.
As he got closer, Ikar could see the same wild, but lifeless look in Yvney’s eyes as the other Mezerans.
The last words Yvney spoke to him echoed through his mind. I never truly hated you.