by David Rice
Cinn’s mind tried to shrink from the horror of that image but could not. Alvilas might have been right after all. If many drakes came, Longwood would burn.
***
Ulimbor’s eyes were full of purple fire and his heart was drunk with exultant rage. He advanced alongside his strongest troops, pushing the lingering flames away with a crimson tinged sparkshield. It was necessary for him to enter Longwood alongside his troops. They must see the victory as his and not the drake’s.
Above, the massive form of his beast flung itself through the air, pounced on towering trees, and sheared their crowns away with its pummeling wings. Its breath ignited the falling crowns. When they shattered upon the ground, they exploded with a numbing force that spread new fires in all directions.
Already, a wall of smoke stretched from the mountains in the west towards the hills of the east, and skyward to scrape at the bellies of the moons themselves.
Ulimbor swung his staff in a circle above his head and a northerly wind answered his call. As the wind grew in strength, it pushed the flames higher and made them race with furious appetite from tree to tree and then ridge to ridge.
Over the growl of the blaze, Ulimbor could hear intermittent bursts of screaming from his own warriors as they were caught offguard and consumed. And he did not care. Drakefire was a blessing upon his new world. It purged his land of the weak.
***
Orweh found Galen and Dorak leading a score of forestwards towards the Heartwood. Already the northern horizon was a wall of smoke, and the smell of Longwood’s destruction was undeniable. She trembled with the effort to speak. “A massive army—of lifebane—accompany the drake. They march— alongside—the fires.” She paused to catch her breath. “Cinn and Jiror are falling back and trying to delay their passage.”
“The lifebane may be delayed, but not the fires,” Dorak commented grimly. “I will take the forestwards and safeguard the Heartwood for as long as possible.”
Galen grimaced. “Tell those that follow to change course. Until the fires are quelled and the lifebane driven back, our only refuge will be in the passes of the Whitemantle Mountains.
And tell them under no circumstance to use the weave. We must not be detected by any drakes.”
“What of the Heartwood?” Orweh’s voice broke. “We can’t abandon our home.”
Dorak turned to face the younger forestward, his eyes gentle and resigned. “We will not. Your duties are elsewhere, and crucial. You will preserve our home until we can rejoin you.”
“But Longwood is our home,” Orweh pleaded.
“No,” Galen responded quietly. “Our home is wherever our people live as one.”
“We will rejoin you, young one,” Dorak added. “Until then, you are being given the task of leading.” Dorak wrestled a small wooden band from one of his fingers and pushed it into
Orweh’s palm. “Show them my ring and they will not question your claim.”
“But, Dorak. I am not worthy—”
“Nonsense,” Galen replied. “The One has you here, now. Your worth is already recognized by all—except, perhaps, you. But I know that in the coming days even you will recognize your worthiness.”
Orweh pushed back tears and bowed. “I shall honour your examples every day.” Then, quaking with the effort, she transformed into a sparrow and departed once more. “A fine student,” Dorak smirked briefly.
Galen sighed and turned a serious eye to his friend. “What will you do?”
“I will safeguard the archives from the flames. You?”
Galen bit his lips. “I will assist Cinn and Jiror. I only hope that I will remember my oldest unpracticed sparkweaving.”
“Be wary,” Dorak smirked once more, “Lest you add drakecaller to your list of exploits.” Galen almost chuckled.
“Cinn is closer. Go to him first,” Dorak encouraged. “Take five of my forestwards with you.”
Galen reached out suddenly and embraced his old friend. “Be safe,” he said.
Dorak squeezed back and then backed away. “You know me,” he said. Dorak transformed into an owl and with a haunting cry flew eastward, his younger forestwards transforming into their own favored shapes and following swiftly.
Galen brushed at a tear. “Yes, my friend,” he whispered to himself. “I know you too well.” And with a wave to the remaining forestwards and a pulling upon the weave for strength,
the elder dashed northward to join Cinn and his defenders.
***
“Fall back!” Jiror yelled, but the billowing smoke and the rippling blast of the flames dried each breath, swallowed all voices, and deafened every ear.
To the right of Jiror, five of his wardens had become separated and were being pushed farther away by the leaping purple fires that sought to encircle them. On their far right, lifebane warriors flashed into view, illuminated briefly by the harrowing purple blaze and then vanishing in shadow and smoke once more. Arrows flew in both directions, and Jiror watched helplessly as two of the distant wardens fell. The flames were on them in moments.
The First Warden turned to the wardens near him and gave the order he thought he would never utter. “Run,” he yelled. “Rally at the Heartwood.”
The wardens stood their ground until Jiror slapped their shoulders and pointed vehemently. One by one, regret leeching their spirit, they retreated. Only when the final warden had disengaged, did Jiror turn, raise his bow and back pedal through the underbrush that was already smoking in the heat. Mark, fire, move, he repeated to himself as he struck down each lifebane he saw. Mark, fire, move. Mark, fire, move. And then the choking smoke was all around. The roar filled his ears. The heat split his skin and drowned his cry. Then the sprinting purple flames were upon Jiror and the lifebane alike.
***
From Nerrod’s perspective atop his stallion Sakhlyn, the fires were crawling uncomfortably close. Scores of lifebane were pouring round the edges, rushing to stay away from the blaze, and their focus was so much upon the danger of the fires that they gave no consideration to the safety of their open flank.
Nerrod looked left and right. Atop their ridge, he waited alongside hundreds of Crystal Marsh lifebane, and a dozen Swift Current horsewardens who were focused upon every grim gesture of their clan hero, Ballok.
The swarthy warrior sneered. “Wait till we see the biggest part of them pass us. Let the flames do their worst, first.”
Down the line, Deven, High Shaman of the Crystal Marsh warriors, called upon the weave to draw the wind towards him, and them sculpted its gusts with glib precision until pockets of lifebane were gathered and consumed one by one. Still the horde came on, emerging in a never-ending swarm from the wall of smoke that marched southward.
Nerrod had never before imagined so many lifebane, had never seen such a number even when his own clan had been destroyed. He hoped that Ballok would fight like a horse warden, ride in, strike, and disappear. But he didn’t think that was the way of the Crystal Marsh clan. And he knew that no horsewarden would retreat if their allies of the moment remained to fight.
Even without the drake, he recognized, Longwood stood no chance of survival. He shivered. What difference would their paltry numbers make against such a force?
Ballok apparently didn’t share those thoughts. He held up his hand and waited, studying the enemy’s movements no differently than a hunter might watch a herd on the steppes. As Deven’s strength began to wane, the flames surged eastward once more, pushing the stream of lifebane ever closer, and increasing the likelihood of their ambush being detected.
Ballok’s hand came down and his laughter split through the distant roar of the blaze. “Now!” he screamed. “End them all!”
Ballok’s stallion was a bowshot ahead when the rest of the line surged after him. The height of the ridge added to their speed. The growl and the smoke of the growing firestorm masked their head-long rush.
The full weight of their charge was a mighty wave that crashed into Ulimbor’s unsuspec
ting flank. Nerrod lost himself in the buzzing frenzy of clashing blades and misting blood. Then the fires were all round.
***
The lifebane were advancing with little discipline, seemingly more afraid of the flames than Cinn’s archers. Cinn kept his wardens moving rearward in small staggered groups. One group fired upon the lifebane while their paired group fell back, and they were causing casualties. When the flames leapt forward, Cinn ordered shadowsparks to be cast. Then they dashed madly to their next position to repeat the process.
Unfortunately, they were down to their last few arrows, and the lifebane seemed to replace every fallen warrior with two more. Their only relief, Cinn recognized, was that the fires were sweeping unpredictably upon groups of lifebane, cutting off their progress, killing many, and terrorizing many more.
It was a wonder, Cinn realized, that his own wardens had not broken and run in the face of such catastrophe. But now seemed to be the time if the Heartwood was to stand any chance at all. He gave the hand signal for full retreat and his wardens knew what to do. They sprinted away, already knowing their rally point. Cinn pushed away the urge to remain and fight. They needed him alive to lead. He joined his wardens and ran, hoping they would be faster than the fires chasing them all.
***
The smoke was so thick, Ulimbor could no longer see his drake. And the fires were growing so strong that even his sparkshield was not quelling their intensity. He decided that, with the woods thickest to the southwest, a move to the east would give him more freedom to manoeuver. Soon he found himself alone, separated from his best warriors, and trudging through patches of flaming wasteland where trees older than himself lay like ashen ghosts upon the ground. White bones, melted swords, and blackened flesh rose from the baked umber mud like fingers insulting the sky.
As he emerged from the shrouds of smoke, he caught sight of his drake and smiled. Then his smile faded. It wasn’t his drake. It was smaller. And there was more than one. He kept counting, surprised that he had forgotten until now the chilling tang of horror. Their growing numbers swarmed like a cloud of black flies upon the eastern horizon. Flashes of purple light danced within the cloud, and the cloud was drifting incessantly closer.
Ulimbor frantically scanned the corrupted sky for his drake, saw nothing, and, for the first time, felt utterly isolated.
***
Only a few survivors rose from the slurry of death. None were lifebane. As the patches of purple fire played themselves out, Nerrod stood, shivering from a handful of flesh wounds. He saw his stallion and choked. Biting his lip, he staggered over to the poor creature as it laboured to stand despite its two broken legs, leaned down with his blade, and gave brave Sakhlyn a merciful death.
Nearby, a horsewarden was helping Ballok back into his saddle. Farther north, he spotted the young shaman Rybaki at the centre of a circle of her people. Staggering towards her, he could see the High-Shaman burnt and shivering, unable to rise beyond a crouch.
Rybaki turned to face him as he approached. Nerrod noted that Ballok had pushed his frothing stallion to a gentle walk and circled the perimeter, eyeing their perimeter with a weathered cynicism.
“Have we proven ourselves now?” Rybaki spat. “Ulimbor is still out there. And beyond his filth, the drakes.”
Nerrod coughed as he saw that Deven lay prostrate at his daughter’s feet. He was glassyeyed, caked in blood, and skewered through the chest by a polearm. Slowly, Nerrod’s mind framed words. “I am sorry that our victory has cost so much.”
“Proud,” Deven quivered through a bloody smile with a voice nearly unbodied. “Un— vanquish—able—” And died.
Rybaki sobbed once, cut off a brief snarl with a choking sound, then leaned over her father’s body to close his eyes. When she stood, she seemed taller, and all of her people were looking to her.
“Three score is what I count,” she said. “Three score of the Crystal Marsh.” Her clansmen shuffled and rocked uncertainly. “But three score or three, The One has chosen us to honour the sacrifice of our betters. Search this ground and heal who you can. Give mercy to the rest.” She looked north. Her kin slowly filtered away to carry out her wishes.
Nerrod approached and bowed when her eyes lit upon him. “I am sorry. No one should live through this.”
She acknowledged his gesture with a softening of her tone. “No one should have to live through this twice.”
Of course, Nerrod agreed.
Ballok approached gently for his stallion’s sake. “Look east,” he prompted. “Dozens of drakes.”
Rybaki and Nerrod spotted the distant cloud and its purple flashes.
“Hide in the mountains?” Nerrod suggested.
Rybaki sighed. “We came to stand with Longwood if they allow it.”
Ballok bit his lip and spoke slowly. “My brother has a saying. Desperation is the only mother of change.”
Rybaki chuckled. “Your brother is wise. You were First Warden of Longwood. Will they accept us?”
“Galen has a soft spot for strangers,” Ballok commented. “And if we’re going to fight drakes, I’m going to need a fresh horse.”
Rybaki measured the approaching speed of the drakes, and the pace of the fires.
“There’s still a large drake flying about. The one that started these fires. If we avoid calling any notice to ourselves until the time is right, we might see the end of the day.”
“The lifebane won’t be expecting anyone to follow them,” Nerrod answered. “If we could only come upon their leader in this mess, we could end it all quickly.”
Rybaki grimaced. “Ulimbor is a horror. He fought and destroyed a score of our most powerful shaman. He raised the bloodflame spirit that ended the dwarves. He infected the realms with the plague. He sacrificed thousands of our people to do this. Even his own eldest son. Only my father had the will to stand against him. And now—”
“If he comes within range,” Ballok snarled. “I’ll put an arrow in each eye.”
Rybaki snorted but said nothing. She turned to gather her clansmen and continue their march southward.
Nerrod faced Ballok. “Let’s scout ahead?”
“Nah. Ulimbor and that kind, they never lead from the front,” Ballok grumbled. “We’ll trail and cover the rear. Catch stragglers.”
Nerrod grudgingly accepted Ballok’s reasoning.
Ballok stared long at Rybaki before turning away. “She’s got a spine, that one,” he whispered to Nerrod as he rode away. “Glad I haven’t had to kill her yet.”
Nerrod looked horrified. “We are allies now,” he exclaimed.
Ballok just laughed.
***
Ulimbor was tired of waiting. Once more, he closed his eyes to call upon the weave, and reached out to the spirit of his son that, weak and fragmented though he was, still inhabited the mind of the great drake.
Again and again, he plucked chords upon the strings of the weave, a thrumming that penetrated earth and sky, demanding that his son come to him. Come to him—Now!
When the sky was split with its ferocious cry, Ulimbor laughed and raised his arms. Thundering to the ground came the great drake, its eyes fierce, its breath hot, its mouth saturated with the ruin of others.
“Bend your neck so that I may ride,” Ulimbor commanded. He slammed the staff upon the ground the same way he had first driven its concealed blade into the body of his son.
The drake quivered and twitched, its eyes a black void, and a purple ball of fire roiled in its half open mouth.
Ulimbor stood patiently and waited.
The drake slowly lowered its neck, its eyes constantly upon the All-Father, its muscles quivering with restraint.
Ulimbor smirked and climbed into a hollow of scales at the base of the drake’s monstrous neck. “Take me to Longwood,” Ulimbor instructed. “To their Heartwood. So that all may see me, and despair.”
The drake shook its head as if to dislodge a tick but Ulimbor had already focused another spark upon melding his clothes
with the drakes’ scaly hide.
“You cannot toss me, and you cannot reach me to bite, but you must remember how my staff can still sting,” Ulimbor taunted.
The drake roared and unleashed a huge fireball that reignited the nearby remnants of the forest.
“Fly,” Ulimbor commanded, and the drake rose slowly like a tyrant approaching a feast.
***
Dorak and his forestwards arrived at the archive tree at the same time Cinn’s wardens emerged from the undergrowth. They swiftly organized a defensive line.