Dragon Mage

by ML Spencer

  Slipping his leather gloves off his hands, Obriem came to stand in front of them with an intense glower. “What are we doing here, Sergan?”

  The sorcerer didn’t respond. Instead, he motioned for them to accompany him into the mist, away from the fielded army. Peshka shot Markus a questioning glance, to which he responded only with a shrug, for he was just as confused as she was. They followed Sergan as the mist swirled around them, at last parting to reveal a circle of tall standing stones. Sergan walked into the circle of stones, all the way to the center of the ring. There, he halted and waited for them.

  Markus let his gaze slip over the ring of monoliths as he entered the circle. They were like nothing he had ever seen, and they seemed to radiate a subtle and eerie power of their own. The entire place was ghostly, the feel of it giving him goosebumps. He didn’t know what the purpose of the stones was, but he knew he didn’t like it. When the five of them had gathered in front of Sergan, the sorcerer raised his hands and gestured at the stones looming around them like eldritch sentinels.

  “This is a place of power.” His gaze slid from face to face, lingering on each of them in turn. There was none of his usual, characteristic acidity in his tone, only a grave solemnity that prickled the back of Markus’s neck even more than the ominous stones surrounding them.

  “Circles of standing stones in this world mark the placement of Anchors in the World Below,” said Sergan. “Together, the Circles and the Anchors uphold the Veil that keeps the two worlds apart. But they are not perfect. As you well know, there are ruptures in the Veil. And wherever there are ruptures, therlings and void walkers pour through the rent, seeking the one thing they desperately desire above all else: the restoration of their essence.

  “Our Order was founded to protect our world from the ravages of these beings. In order to accomplish this, we have always relied on sorcerers armed with essence. But every year, the number of people in this world able to provide that essence has decreased exponentially, until we have finally arrived at a crossroads. The vials of essence we wear on our persons are likely all we’ll ever have, for it would seem that magic has finally gone extinct in this world.”

  Obriem mumbled something under his breath to Peshka that Markus couldn’t make out. His own mind grappled to understand what Sergan was telling them. Was it truly possible that this long legacy of magic could ever come to an end? That there could be no other people like Aram ever born to the world? He couldn’t fathom it, nor could he sort through all the possible ramifications.

  “Without magic, we have no way to combat the therlings or seal the ruptures,” Sergan went on, his tone grave. “After the last of our essence runs out, it’s predicted that within just a score of years, most of this continent will be overrun, and most of the population slain.

  “But it doesn’t have to be that way. Magic still exists in the World Below, a land that bleeds essence from its pores. It lies just on the other side of the Veil, a mere stone’s throw away. All we have to do is open a stable rupture and go through.”

  “What about therlings?” Markus asked.

  Sergan leveled his gaze at him. “We have allies on the other side who have found a way to tame them. But they cannot tame them all. We must break the Anchors that uphold the Veil. And we must do so quickly.”

  “What kind of allies?” Markus asked warily.

  “The kind we need,” Sergan assured him. “Those who share our values and our goals and are committed to helping our cause.”

  Obriem reached up and scratched his beard. “So, what, exactly, are we here for?”

  Sergan paused before answering, as though for dramatic effect. “Peshka and Eman will open and maintain a rupture. Obriem and Poda will defend them long enough for us to go through—along with the legions the God-Emperor has seen fit to supply us with.”

  Markus felt the blood drain from his face. “We’re going to the World Below?”

  Sergan nodded, sucking in a cheek. “We have to destroy the Anchor beneath these stones in order to make the rupture permanent.”

  Before anyone could state an objection or press him with questions Sergan snapped, “You have an hour to prepare,” and walked away from them, out of the circle of stones.

  Narath landed on the eyrie’s terrace with a lithe grace that belied his formidable countenance. The moment Aram was off his back, the dragon went immediately in search of his rider. Weary, Aram made his way off the terrace as the rest of the Wing landed around him. Walking under the vault of the cavern, he headed across the enormous chamber in the direction of the stairs, shoulders slumped and eyelids drooping. But before he reached the exit, his gaze was drawn to a commotion outside one of the alcoves.

  There, several people had gathered around an injured rider, who was laid out on the floor, his dragon hovering behind him, clearly agitated. Aram determined to pass by the poignant scene without stopping to look, for though he felt sympathy for the rider, he knew his presence would be an intrusion. But then he caught a glimpse of Calise kneeling next to the injured man, her hands pressed against his bloody chest.

  Aram couldn’t help but stop and stare. Calise’s aura blazed golden like the sun, streaming rays into the air around her. The light traveled down her arms, suffusing the injured man. He watched in concern as she appeared to struggle, her face strained with the effort of keeping the man alive. With the exception of Sergan’s, Aram had never seen such an outright display of magic.

  And it was beautiful.

  He could see that Calise’s magic worked in a way entirely different from his own. Her magic came from within and had nothing to do with knots or aether and everything to do with the strength of the compassion that existed within her. It wasn’t the kind of magic that could be used in battle, but it was the kind that could mend the wounds after.

  Only, the wound she was working on was beyond what even her great heart could heal. When the glow of her magic faded, so did the dying man’s aura fade with it, and Aram knew that, despite Calise’s efforts, her patient was gone.

  A thunderous shriek echoed through the cavern unlike anything he’d ever heard before, or ever wanted to hear again: the keening grief of a dragon.

  People scrambled backward as the dead rider’s dragon reared back, spreading its wings and gushing fiery breath at the high ceiling of the eyrie. With mindless ferocity, it lashed out with its tail, dashing the screen of the alcove behind it and sending a stack of crates flying.

  People screamed and fled as the dragon shrieked its rage across the eyrie, spewing dragonfire everywhere in a great arc.

  And Calise was in the way of it.

  Rushing forward, Aram wove a shield of glisten aether between Calise and the dragon’s fury. White-hot flames, roiling with heat, gushed against the shield as Calise threw her hands up.

  But the heat did not touch her. Aram wouldn’t let it.

  Walking around her, he inserted himself between the rampaging dragon and Calise, and when the dragon’s gaze fell upon him, he felt the full force of the creature’s soul-rending grief. Their minds met, and it was all Aram could do not to scream.

  He understood.

  Never had he felt a greater sadness, a terrible, mindless ache. The dragon’s love for its rider went beyond any love Aram had ever experienced, far beyond even the love he bore for his parents. It was unbearable, as bad or worse than the tortures he had suffered in the cellars of the Exilari.

  He knew then that the dragon would not survive its rider’s death. The bond between them was too strong to be defeated. Their souls were intertwined and could not be separated, even in death.

  But underneath the weight of all that terrible grief, Aram felt another stirring of emotion, one he hadn’t expected: deep inside its great weeping heart, the dragon clung to a piece of knowledge that gave it some measure of comfort. The dragon believed with a certainty that its soul would be reunited with his beloved in the World Beyond, and that together they would continue the bond they had forged down through the gre
at expanse of eternity.

  It was the way of things.

  “Go ahead,” Aram said. “Take him. But don’t hurt anyone.”

  The dragon bowed its head, and Aram could sense its shame. It had never meant to be a danger but had lost its mind to grief.

  Aram moved backward just in time as the creature extended its mighty wings. Then, with one great leap, it scooped up the body of the dead man and, tucking him close against its breast, leaped for the cave mouth and plunged into the yawning crevasse.

  Shaken, Aram stood looking after them for a moment, his vision blurring. He felt a hand on his arm and turned to find himself staring into Calise’s stricken face. She was smeared with blood and grime, and she, too, had tears in her eyes.

  “They’ll be all right,” he whispered, his voice shaking.

  She nodded, wiping her eyes. Then her hand left his arm, and he felt her fingers intertwine with his. It was the most compassionate gesture he had ever felt in his life. He turned to look at her, his body trembling.

  “Aram!”

  Vandra’s harsh voice made him jump, and he tore his hand away from Calise. He gaped with startled eyes at the Wingmaster, who stood looking at him with a peculiar expression on her face, one too complex for Aram too decipher.

  Bringing a hand up to her brow, Vandra shook her head wearily. “Go get some sleep. That’s an order!”

  Feeling empty, Aram started immediately toward the door.

  “Wait!” Calise called after him. He halted and looked back.

  She opened her mouth to say something but then appeared to think better of it and shook her head instead. “Never mind.”

  Aram smiled at her sadly then walked toward the stairs.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Markus stood beside Poda within the ring of standing stones, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword, the other clasped around the handle of his shield. Sergan stood before them, a thumb hooked in a leather baldric that crossed his chest that was ribbed with finger-length vials of essence held in place by woven straps. Behind them, the first four cohorts of the Imperial legions had drawn up close and were waiting just to the other side of the standing stones.

  Sergan scraped at the ground with his boot, kicking up a divot of grass. Gazing down at it, he said calmly. “When the rift opens, therlings and walkers will spill out quickly. Be ready.” He looked up at them, his eyes boring into each of them with a dark intensity. “At all times, you must remember what we are dealing with. These were creatures ripped from this earth and flung into the void. Many used to be Auld or human. But it doesn’t matter what they once were—things that go into the void are no longer what they seem. It doesn’t matter if they are man or beast or even a child—they want to kill you. You must not hesitate. Void walkers don’t bleed, and they don’t feel pain. Remember: these are creatures that will never know the peace of death unless you bring it to them. Keep that in mind. It makes it easier.”

  As Markus looked on, the sorcerer withdrew one of the glass vials from the baldric. He stood holding it in his hand as his eyes surveyed the soggy, mist-laden ground in the center of the ring. Markus couldn’t take his eyes from the vial, feeling his stomach tighten in revulsion. Sergan used his thumb to pop the cork and raised the vial to his lips, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. Markus watched the sorcerer’s throat move as Sergan swallowed the essence down, at last lowering the vial with a slight smile and a contented sigh. Then he popped open another container, downed its contents, then drank another, tossing the spent vials over his shoulder.

  At his side, Peshka and Eman were doing the same. When they had each saturated themselves with essence to the point that the very air shimmered around them, Sergan raised his hand.

  No matter how many times Markus witnessed the sorcerer use stolen magic to amplify his own pathetic affinity, the sight still took him off guard. Like an opium addict, Sergan’s pupils constricted to pinpricks then disappeared altogether, swallowed by a haunting blue light that glowed from deep within his eye sockets. Beside him, Peshka’s eyes took on a similar glow, as everything that was beautiful about her fell away like a veneer. Eman, his eyes glowing with unholy light, walked forward to stand at the side of the two other sorcerers, all three of them together linking hands.

  A brilliant flash of voidfire lit the circle of stones for just an instant, overwhelming Markus’s vision and sending motes dancing before his eyes. Then a powerful white flame burst upward from the ground, burning back the mist and crackling into the sky.

  “Get back!” Sergan ordered in a voice that didn’t sound anything like him, resembling the creaking moan of an ancient corpse.

  Together, the six of them retreated backward through the ring of stones as the brilliant intensity of the magic before them took on a golden sheen and expanded, dominating the circle, crackling like a bonfire.

  “Be ready!” Sergan shouted.

  When the first therling emerged from the rift, Markus stepped in front of Sergan, dampening the light of his shine. Filled with essence to the point that it leaked from his body in visible waves, Sergan would stand out like a beacon of flame to any therling coming through the rupture and, in their hunger, they would seek him desperately. This was the primary reason sorcerers had Shields: to make them less of a target. Then there was also the other reason, seldom spoken of: to protect their sorcerer from other Shields.

  He interlocked his shield with Poda’s and Obriem’s, forming a solid wall that blocked the magical auras of the three sorcerers behind them. The first therling, an eel-like creature, made it only half out of the rupture before it was sliced in half by a ray of magic that cleaved down upon it like a guillotine. The second, a hairless horse with a milky-pink body, came charging out of the rupture. It stumbled and fell only feet away, rolling once before sliding through the dirt, coming to a halt at Markus’s feet.

  Then, people emerged.

  They spilled from the blazing glare of the rupture, twisted silhouettes, walking toward them with purpose in their strides. As they neared, the shadows folded back enough to reveal their features. Most looked like decomposing corpses. Some had hair; others didn’t. Some retained their clothes, garments of a style unlike any Markus had ever seen. One of the walkers seemed whole and healthy, and Markus could imagine meeting him on the street. A more recent victim of the void, perhaps.

  All in a line, they pressed forward toward the lure of the essence they could sense but could not locate, for the glow of the sorcerers who wielded it was cut off by the impregnable character of their Shields. One by one, the undead walkers were cut down, some sliced in half, others exploding in clouds of raining flesh. Some simply slumped to the ground and lay dead, while others thrashed in their death throes.

  Then the dragon came.

  It was smaller than the void dragon that had taken Aram; nevertheless, the sight of it filled Markus with an anger and hatred almost as great as his contempt for Sergan. When the dragon bore down upon them, disgorging voidfire, Markus stood before it, shield raised, repulsing the roiling flames that heated the air around him. The force of it nearly drove him to the ground, but he lowered his center of gravity, refusing to go down. The air around him heated to blistering, and he could smell the odor of his hair starting to singe.

  Right before the might of the dragon could overwhelm him, all three sorcerers struck out with an attack that cleaved through the dragon’s neck like an executioner’s sword.

  Spewing fire, the dragon’s neck flopped on the ground like a headless snake, its spasms gradually subsiding before halting completely. Then, to Markus’s surprise, the corpse of the dragon began to harden, turning to stone before his eyes. The stone began to age, cracking and rupturing. Pieces sloughed off, raining down in brittle chips of rock until, at last, the stone dragon collapsed and crumbled to dust. Panting, Markus looked back over his shoulder to take in the sight of Sergan’s glowing eyes.

  “That’s it,” the sorcerer said. “Let the soldiers through.”


  The six Exilari retreated, relinquishing their position as Sergan signaled the officers of the army behind them. As one, the first cohort of foot soldiers advanced toward the rift, swords drawn and shields interlinked.

  “What happens now?” Markus asked, donning his helm.

  Sergan looked at him with his glowing blue eyes. “Now we destroy the Anchor.”

  A terrible feeling of foreboding made Shinota glance up from the injury she was tending. Dropping the bloody cloth, she rose to her feet and took a step forward, gaze fixed on a charred section of the dome. The strands of aether around her flinched as though wounded—though she could not see them in color, her turquoise eyes could see the threads vibrating like a spider’s web that had trapped an insect.

  She took another hesitant step. Then the entire fabric of the world recoiled as though a knife had been thrust through the weave of it, severing thousands of threads at once.

  “A rupture!” she cried.

  Before the words were even out of her mouth, the canopy above her started to shudder. Leaves and charred branches rained down from above, and there was an ear-splitting drone, like a million cicadas all screeching at once. As she watched in horror, the dome overhead eroded. A large branch collapsed just in front of her, raining leaves and flowers. A war cry rose from hundreds of throats, and then uniformed soldiers were pouring toward them.

  She rushed toward where one of their warriors stood with a bow, but she didn’t make it to him in time. He was quickly overwhelmed, cut down where he stood. All around, the screams and shrieks of her people assaulted her ears.

  Shinota raised her hand and started weaving the air.

  She wasn’t a True Savant, but she knew enough to be deadly. Calling for her people to flee, she wove a wall of flames that engulfed a group of soldiers advancing toward the huts. Then she struck out at another group of men hacking their way through a cluster of her people. Shrieking a cry, she walked forward, weaving the threads of air as quickly as she could, using what skill she had. But very soon exhaustion set in, and she started dropping threads.