“They are coming!” Goran said as he crouched behind the rocks. “Make sure your axes are in hand!”
“Make ready!” Sendoa ordered his archers. “They will feel the point of our resolve, or may they burn in their own flames before they get to us!”
Though the fields were ablaze in green fire, the Raven army advanced unabated and undeterred. They marched through the flames that were roiling and licking at the sky above them, and all of the Shaimiran troops watched in horror as not a one of their assailants were hindered by the blaze.
“What in the damnable dark?” Gvidus shouted.
“How is that possible?” Alon asked, his eyes disbelieving what they saw.
Oren held his flint to his lips and kissed it with desperate worry.
Abaddon shook his head, clearing the pain from his mind, and began to claw at the rocky terrain with his razor sharp talons, climbing towards the clefts where the woodcutters laid in wait.
Angrah lifted off the ground again, unleashing green flames on anything that wasn’t already burning. Men screamed and thrashed, trying desperately to extinguish the unholy fire.
“Now!” Sendoa called, and his archers let loose a thousand arrows into the ranks of the approaching army. The arrows found their mark, and a wide swath of Nocturnals fell without so much as a single protest.
“Again!” Sendoa ordered, and again a volley of arrows were loosed, piercing the muted armor of the invaders and cutting them down. But though they slew hundreds upon hundreds of the enemy, thousands more continued their march.
“There are just too many of them!” an archer called out.
“It does not matter how many they be,” Sendoa said as he surveyed the blood and the burning and all the horrors of war. “What matters is our resolve.” He handed the archer a fresh quiver of arrows. “And it matters that you loose these! We have got to take down as many of them as we can before they get to the base of the mountain.”
The young archer wiped his sweat-sodden brow and notched one of the new arrows in his longbow. “Yessir,” he said, falling into the rhythm of all those who defended this place.
“It matters!” Sendoa shouted against the sound of falling rock and screaming men. “Your arrow matters, guardian!”
“Yessir,” the archer agreed as he fired another at the incoming horde.
“What is your name, archer?” Sendoa asked.
“Dorey, sir!” the archer answered.
“Keep them coming, Dorey… it matters!” Sendoa said as he walked the line of archers. “And you, son?” he asked the archer next to him.
“Graunt, sir,” the young man said, never taking his eye off of the enemy before them.
“And you?” he asked the next in line.
“Khris, sir” the tall archer answered him.
“Jordain, sir!” came the excited reply of the next archer on the line, though he was not directly asked.
“All of you!” Sendoa shouted. “It matters! Your arrow matters! Your fight today means everything for our people! The enemy may be many … but they have not taken these mountains yet, and by your arrows and the grace of the Giver of Light, they never will!”
“ROOAARR!!!” came the enraged screams of the flightless Abaddon as he spewed forth his fury upon the mountain base. Arrows whizzed past him, deflecting with a hopeless plink as they bounced off the hardened scales of the serpent’s back.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“Cal!” Astyræ pleaded. He could feel the pounding of her heart against his back as she pressed into him, desperately scanning the crags and clay at the base of the mountain. “We have to do something, we have to help them!”
Cal turned his head, peeling his eyes from the mountain heights where he had been doggedly searching for a sign of the Stag. What he beheld made his stomach drop in utter fear. From this vantage, he saw the endless army of the Sorceress marching relentlessly towards the fire-riddled defenses of the Shaimirans.
“God, please!” he half-prayed and half-lamented amidst the horrific symphony of this last and brutal battle.
“They need us,” he said to the lord of horses.
This world needs you to seek and find the light, Calarmindon.
Cal’s eyes reluctantly went back to the rock face. The sky was dark, save the violet glow that their flickering hope managed to illuminate for them. Uriel, with mighty, outstretched wings, glided as close as he could to the stone, while Astyræ held onto Cal with one arm so she could turn to see the war behind them.
Back and forth they swept the mountainside, and yet they saw no sign left by the White Stag. “What if we are looking in the wrong place, Deryn?” Cal said, hopelessness entering into his voice. “I’ve seen nothing, not a glimpse or a marking … not since we passed through the Falls of Ammon. “
“I know,” Deryn reluctantly agreed. “I have seen nothing either, my friend.”
“What if we are supposed to be down there, with them?” Cal argued. “You saw what happened before … the light … the magic that stunned the dragons.” His eyes went back to searching the face of the rocks, but his words continued. “What if we can help … what if they need us?”
Just then, the sound of a familiar horn’s blast carried on the wind and caught Cal’s attention. “I know that sound … that horn.” He turned back to take in the battle below. “That is the horn of the woodcutters. Something is wrong. They need our help.”
“Alright then, groomsman!” Astyræ told him. “Let’s go!”
“Uriel!” Cal directed. “We are getting nowhere here. Take us to the woodcutters. It looks as if my quest will go through the heart of the battle, to save those whom I love.” Cal said unwaveringly. “Now please! To the woodcutters!”
Very well, though, in my heart, a shadow lies over this decision. Uriel spoke as he banked hard to the right and began his dive towards the men of Haven. I will bear you to your friends.
As they started downward, they saw the mighty Abaddon crushing rocks and boulders as he climbed up the hillside towards the fortifications on the mountain. The ground around him was scorched and littered with hurled stones and spent arrows. The woodcutters of Haven were hidden, huddled behind a large outcropping not three hundred paces above the vile serpent of Nogcwren.
At the same time, Angrah flew back and forth across the face of the mountain, drenching the defenses in a tumult of fear and fire.
Uriel was like a meteor hurled from the heavens above, barreling ever closer to the fire-breathing dragon below. Cal took in all the carnage, watching wave after wave of Ramsguard arrows loosed upon the approaching army. He saw the sickly green dragons’ fire consuming both men and mountain below him, when, all of a sudden, a glint of glowing, white light caught the corner of his clouded eyes.
“There!” he shouted to his friends. “I thought I saw something, a glow, maybe… over there!” His hand pointed to the cleft beside them.
“Where?” Astyræ asked as she followed his finger with her eyes.
“Right there! In the cleft of that rock, where it looks as if the mountain has been split in two!” he shouted against the rushing of wind. “Maybe we should turn around—"
ROOOAARR!!! The scream of Abaddon pulled their attention away from the rock as a flood of fire bathed the hiding place of the woodcutters.
Men of the dead tree. Why have you traveled half the world away only to die in the same manner as your brothers back home? But don’t worry. The sinister glee dripped from each mocking word the dragons spoke. Your bodies will burn just like theirs did.
Just then, a silver shaft pierced the wounded, winged shoulder of the beast, Abaddon, who let forth an enraged growl.
“Be gone, spawn of Šárka!” Deryn shouted, his tiny, azure blade outstretched and ready to do his worst upon any who would oppose him.
Cal looked back over his shoulder, but the faint, glowing light was no longer visible. He took note of where he had seen it, knowing that if he lived long enough to return, he would not waste even one m
oment more searching for it.
The Raven army pushed in further, following Angrah’s enraged blasts upon Sendoa's defenses that washed hundreds of archers in her unquenchable flame.
Cal drew his sword and pointed it at the beast below, the hilt of Gwarwyn aglow in silver and violet. The sight of the lord of horses and the sword of Caedmon bolstered the resolve of the woodcutters, so they grabbed their axes and steeled their hearts, knowing that their time had come.
With a mighty horn blast, nearly forty bearded warriors with axes brandished came rushing out to meet their enemy as they had met so many of their foes before: head on.
The dragon fixed his stare on Cal’s mount as he flew closer and closer towards him. All hail lord of the horses, last of your kind. His mouth curled in a snarl as he spoke, his fangs dripping with the blood of his vanquished enemies. Today I rid this world of your lesser kind, vermin of the sky!
Cal saw the eyes of the dragon grow wide with lust and hatred, and his own mouth went dry at the realization of what was about to happen. The sinister grin grew to a gaping, teeth-lined abyss, and green flame issued forth. Uriel collapsed his wings, then dove beneath the torrent of fire, hurtling even faster now towards the ground below them.
“Hold on!” Cal shouted to his friends.
Goran and his brothers charged the beast, and because his attention was fixed upon the flying warrior, he did not notice the company of axes that bit into his talons and legs. Abaddon shook his head in pain, and his fire quenched for a moment. He lunged for the woodcutters, sweeping his tail back and forth, trying to rid himself of these men with axes.
THUANG! Another silver arrow buried itself in the opposite shoulder. Twin screams of pain could be heard as Astyræ found her mark yet again.
Goran’s axe bit hard and cleaved two toes from the rear foot of the dragon. Fire came flooding the ground, and the woodcutters that were not consumed in the fury scattered.
Angrah found a ballista and ripped it from its moorings, hurling it into the huddled defenses below to defend her brother.
Uriel was nearly upon the wounded dragon again, and Abaddon turned his head to meet his foe with fire. As he did, the lord of horses turned hard and to the left, and Cal leapt from the saddle with the blade of the dragon slayer brandished before him.
Goran saw what was about to happen and blew his horn, calling his brothers that were still left to turn and run towards the fight.
“Is that Cal?” Alon shouted with a shake of his head and proud smile upon his singed face.
The shouts of the woodcutters came as they rushed to the aid of their friend. The dragon roared and screamed his fury, and in trying to find the horse lord, he did not notice the man in forgotten, feathered armor with an ancient blade soaring through the air and crashing into his scaled side. Cal landed hard, the jolt nearly knocking the teeth out of his head, but the blade found its mark and plunged past the inky, impenetrable scales like a hot knife through butter.
He held on with two hands as the screams of the dying dragon shook the mountains themselves. The beast writhed in agony, sending his assailants scattering.
It burns! It burns sister!
The dragon’s twin crashed into the side of the mountain, the pain of her pierced brother stalling her destruction with its horrific intensity. She slid down the side of the mountain and gained her footing on the ground beneath her. Shaking her head to clear it of her brother’s pain, she narrowed her eyes at the fight that ensued about the wounded beast.
Deryn flew to Cal’s side, sword out and worry etched on his face. “Are you alright?” he shouted.
“I don’t think I can hold it much longer!” Cal shouted through gritted teeth and held tightly to the pommel of the sword that was buried to the hilt in the flank of this vile beast.
The blood that leaked from the wound was as black and as molten as the evil that lived within the dragon; as the beast rocked and writhed, the blade dug deeper in. A spray of the blood burned Cal’s forearm and he partially lost his grip. Managing to hold tightly to the hilt with his remaining good hand, he fell and took the blade with him.
Cal landed on the ground in a heap, his sword falling from his hand and skittering on the rock below. His arm was burned badly, red and angry from the boiling, black blood of the dying dragon that had begun to spray like a geyser out from his wounded flank.
Abaddon reared up on his hind legs, blood gushing from his wounds, his face a mix of fear and fury. If I am to die, at least it will be with the satisfaction of knowing I killed you first, relic of Terriah and bastard of Éimhear!
Cal stood to his feet, his arm furious in agony. He grabbed the sword with his other hand, bracing himself for whatever might come next. Deryn remained at his side, continuing to protect his charge no matter the danger.
Deep from within the ranks of her Nocturnal army, Nogcwren screamed in furious protest, her yellow eyes burning with offended rage as she watched the attack on her dragon.
The dragon tried to breath its fire, but instead of a torrent of green flame, a choking cough erupted. His eyes narrowed with even more rage at his impotence.
“Cal!” came the far-off voice of Astyræ.
He turned, taking his gaze off of the hulking serpent that stood before him. As he looked up, he saw the most beautiful sight he had ever beheld. The blonde hair of his beloved billowed in the wind behind her as she loosed the last of her silver shards into the belly of the dying beast. The arrows found their mark and buried themselves effortlessly past the armored scales, piercing the bowels of Abaddon with their righteous intent. The dragons screamed again in horrifying unison, their pain shared through the spilling of the black blood.
Cal and Deryn jumped out of the way just as the felled beast collapsed in a heap. They rolled in the dust, and the debris of the deadly collision barely missed them. They could hear the cheers of the archers and the Ramsguard, but it was the sound of boots running towards them that woke them from their daze.
“Cal! Are you alright?” Goran asked, his mighty chest heaving with worried breath.
“I think so,” he said as he rose to his feet, dusting off himself. He winced as his raw and wounded arm growled in protest. “Is he dead?” Cal tightened his grip on the hilt of his blade.
“I think so!” Goran said, beaming with pride. “That lass of yours found her mark alright!”
In the distance they heard Angrah’s scream of outrage as she struggled to get up off the ground.
“Seems when you killed him, she fell as well,” Goran explained. “Though it doesn’t look like we were lucky enough to actually injure her, too.”
The dragon climbed up from out of the rocky lands just below the Ramsguard and into the air. Hundreds of arrows deflected off her hardened scales as her wings beat against the sky.
“Come on, brother!” Goran urged. “The whole damned Raven army is nearly upon us; you don’t want to be food for those carrion, do you?”
Cal grabbed his blade, and with strength from where he knew not surging through his veins, he walked closer to the fallen dragon. He surveyed the carnage all about him: the approaching army, the screaming men, the fire and blood and broken bodies. Then he looked at the sword of the dragon slayer, and thought about the man who had long ago guarded the realms of men and Sprites by the bite of its very edge. Suddenly, both the tarnish and the weight vanished as Cal approached the beast.
“Your reign of terror ends this day, spawn of Šárka,” he said with an authority that was not his own as he raised Gwarwyn over his head. “Go back to the dark abyss with the rest of your vile breed!”
Abaddon’s eyes shot open in a dying wash of sickly green.
Fool! You should have taken her gift. The end has come for you, Cal-ar-min-don.
Without a moment for another word, Cal swung the blade of Caedmon and freed the serpent’s head from its hideous body. Black blood began to pour out like a river, catching rock, grass, and tree alike in unholy fire.
The beating of wing
s upon the air suddenly sounded a bellow of doom, and he looked up with horror to see Angrah hovering over the flames of her fallen brother.
“Cal!” Goran shouted. “Run!”
Cal stood there, frozen, his mouth dry with fear.
“Cal, come on, brother!” the other woodcutters called out to him.
Angrah narrowed her furious gaze, her teeth dripping with the spilled blood of the brave soldiers of Shaimira as she spoke, her voice oddly singular.
How dare you! I shall feast on your flesh, in retribution for your foolish insolence!
Cal tried to run towards the outcropping of stone where his woodcutter brothers took shelter, but the dragon cut off his escape with a stream of fire. He ran back the other way, and yet again more fire hemmed him in.
Angrah laughed.
I will have my revenge; and it will be the last thing you see and hear and feel before I devour you and all of this world with fire.
“Deryn!” Cal shouted against the roar of the blaze. “What do we do now?!” He whirled around, desperately looking for an escape from this fiery snare. “This is all my fault! We should have just kept searching for the mark!” he shouted again. “Now we will never find the light!”
“Cal!” his Sprite guardian called, flitting up to catch his gaze.
“I don’t see a way out, Deryn!” he continued. “I failed them … I failed Him.”
“Cal!” Deryn said again as he fought for his charge’s full attention. “This is not failure!”
Arrows rained in upon the approaching army, and the few remaining ballistae took their aim upon the hovering dragon, though her scales repelled the massive, black darts. Navid signaled to the Ramsguard to mount their beasts and secure their helms, preparing them to charge the Nocturnals.
Across the field of battle, Nogcwren smiled a serpentine smile as the pieces of destruction were nearly now all in place.
“Deryn!” Cal shouted, softer now, resigned to the fire that awaited them both. “Thank you, my friend … for everything.”
The Coming Dawn: Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 3 Page 29