by ML Spencer
She wasn’t a Champion.
She had done all she could.
But the soldiers from the world of Men kept coming, and there was no way she could keep them out.
When she felt the sword pierce her chest, her last regret was not for the people of her village. Her sacred duty was to protect the Anchor.
And in that duty, she had catastrophically failed.
“Wake up!”
Aram awoke to someone shaking him violently. He opened his eyes and stared groggily into the inky darkness of the dormitory. Someone shook him again, and he shot upright so quickly that he banged his head on the bottom of Jeran’s cot.
“What is it?” he gasped, rubbing his forehead and ducking out from under the cot.
“There’s been a rupture!” Calise’s panic-stricken voice sliced through the darkness. “The Heart of the Grove is under attack! Vandra needs you!”
“What?” Aram gasped, but Calise was already moving away.
He donned his pants and scooped up his sword. Pulling his tunic around him, he struggled to tie the laces while jogging after Calise down the corridor. They took the stairwell up to the eyrie, where Vandra waved him toward Narath, who welcomed him with a mental meeting of minds. Nodding his thanks at Narath’s rider, Aram climbed onto the dragon’s back and strapped himself in. The big dragon surged forward without hesitation and, in just a few strides, cleared the mouth of the eyrie and vaulted into the air.
Aram felt nothing of the thrill of flight he had the first two times he’d ridden dragonback. Now, his nerves were screaming with panic, and his stomach felt sickened with dread. The people of the Grove hadn’t had time to recover from the last attack. He shouldn’t have come back with Vandra. He should have stayed.
They flew on Ragath’s wing as the flight of dragons soared over the white peaks of the Kemeri Mountains. Even before they were over the forest, Aram could see a dark plume of smoke rising from the Grove. A great section of the forest had already been burned from the last fire—miles and miles of black and flattened earth—but this was a new fire, and he could see the tongues of flame snapping at the air even at a distance.
When they were close enough to make out detail, Aram felt his stomach lurch.
The Great Tree was engulfed by flames that gnawed at its trunk and consumed its branches. Beneath it, the domed canopy of Shinota’s people was ablaze.
Staring at the burning Tree, Aram felt a scream rise and then die in his throat, for he knew that they were already too late. Ahead, he saw the dragons of the Wing swooping down to land on the granite outcrop, dropping off their riders before vaulting back into the sky.
Narath brought him down with a great gush of displaced air. Before the dragon touched the rocks, Aram slid off his back, landing hard and drawing his sword as he ran after Vandra.
Markus gazed upward at the burning tree that rose higher than any tree he had ever imagined, tongues of flame ravaging its branches and scorching the air. All around him fires burned, some lit by sorcerers, others by the Imperial forces who accompanied them. He stood in a world he had never really believed existed, and that world was on fire.
It was appalling.
He caught movement from the corner of his eye and raised his shield just in time to deflect an arrow that was meant for Sergan.
From out of the burning forest poured warriors who ran at them with swords and spears, others loosing arrows from recurve bows. They looked to Markus like Vards, his own kinfolk, and yet they were clothed in garments that looked completely foreign. Whoever they were, they were not therlings. The men and women assaulting them were clothed in living flesh. And like all living things, they died easily when met with Exilari magic.
As soon as they broke into the clearing, the warriors started dropping. The Imperial footmen simply formed a shield wall and let them break themselves against it until there was nothing left to kill. The sight of the carnage turned Markus’s stomach, the screams of dying men polluting his ears. He stared across the glade at Peshka, who stood with eyes that blazed with sorcerous power, her arms working swiftly in graceful motions as they bound the aether. The sight of her was ghastly, an adulteration of the kind person she was meant to be. Never again would he look upon her in the same light. In her own way, she was just as corrupted as he.
Aram ran headlong through the forest following Vandra, sword drawn, heart pounding in his throat. He could smell the smoke and hear the crackling of the blaze even though he couldn’t see the Great Tree through the thick canopy. His heart ached, for he could feel its deep sorrow and anguish.
He heard the sound of fighting ahead, and he readied himself, pulling at strands of aether and gathering them around him. He was ready to fight. He was ready to die if he had to.
What he was not ready for was the sight of Shinota lying dead on the ground, her beautiful heart cut from her chest.
This was wrong, Markus realized, feeling ill. These people had no chance against six Exilari and an army of Imperials. He stood sweating, fighting nausea until his stomach revolted on him and twisted, emptying itself upon his boots. When he was done puking, he straightened and, as though in a dream, disengaged himself physically and mentally from the fighting. He lowered his sword and simply walked away.
“Markus!” Sergan called after him. “Get back here!”
Markus ignored him and kept walking.
Rushing footsteps made him turn.
He got his shield up just in time to block a spear coming at him. Then two warriors set upon him. With one, brisk motion of his blade, he had the first one down. Then he spun toward the second one and froze.
Aram stood in front of him.
Impossible.
It couldn’t be.
Markus gasped, his body and mind locking rigid.
Aram was dead. He’d gone into the void.
His heart wrenched, and his weapon sagged in his grasp.
Seeing his hesitation, the thing that looked like Aram sliced out with its sword. Markus brought his blade up just in time to block the strike. When he swept out with a counterattack, his opponent dodged backward.
Markus froze, gaping in horror at the face that haunted him, both sleeping and awake.
But the youth that stood before him couldn’t be his friend. It was as Sergan had warned him: things that went into the void came back corrupted. The creature in front of him might once have been Aram, but it wasn’t anymore. Aram was now a void walker, and the kindest thing Markus could do for him was bring him the mercy and peace of death.
With a cry of despair, Markus charged his best friend.
The thing that was no longer Aram brought its sword up just in time, deflecting the cut Markus threw at him.
Desperate, Markus arced his sword around, determined to deliver Aram to the afterlife he deserved.
Somehow, the void-Aram dodged his blade but lost its footing and fell.
He didn’t have time to recover before Markus raised his sword for a killing blow.
And froze.
Syrup-covered blood streamed from a cut on Aram’s brow. Markus gaped at him, halting the blade even as it fell.
Therlings don’t bleed.
Aghast, Markus dropped his shield and released his helm, revealing his face.
“Markus?” whispered Aram, only his lips moving, as though every other part of him was paralyzed.
Markus could only stare at him, mouth open, tears clouding his eyes.
“You’re alive…” he whispered.
The youth on the ground gazed up at him, eyes wide and lips quivering.
“What have you done…?”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Aram blinked slowly as he stared up into Markus’s face, unable to believe what he was seeing. His heart had beat into his throat, and his stomach had capsized. He was reunited with the best friend he’d ever had—only to find him taking part in the slaughter of innocents.
Repulsed, he scrambled away from him.
“Aram!”
Markus rushed forward, holding out his hand. But Aram shot to his feet and edged backward.
“You killed them!” he cried, tears of heartbreak streaming down his face. “Why did you kill them?”
Markus shook his head. “I didn’t! I swear, I didn’t! Please believe me—I didn’t kill anyone!”
“You were part of it! They were good people!”
“I didn’t know!”
Aram stared hard into Markus’s eyes, wanting desperately to believe him. But the dead that littered the ground made believing hard. He glanced back and forth between Markus and Shinota’s body, trembling in despair and indecision.
“Markus!”
Looking up, Aram saw Sergan Parsigal storming toward them, a terrible light in his eyes. The sight of that horrible man filled his gut with cold revulsion. Before he could think, he was dodging around Markus with his sword raised, vision red with hatred.
“No!”
Markus caught Aram by the shoulder, pulling him back behind him and shielding him with his own body. Raising his sword, Markus shouted at Sergan, “Don’t come any closer!”
Behind Sergan appeared a line of Imperial foot soldiers, weapons poised. The sorcerer stopped and a small smile blossomed on his lips, eerily disturbing when combined with the haunting blue fire in his eyes.
“You have one decision to make, Markus Galliar. Do you want Aram to die quickly? Or atrociously? I’ll give you ten seconds to think about it.”
Aram glanced from Sergan to the soldiers. He could use magic to defend them, but there were dozens of soldiers, each holding a weapon. There wasn’t much he could do against so many. And then there was Sergan, a sorcerer of renowned capability.
“Five,” said Sergan. “Four, three, two—”
“Be my Shield!” Aram gasped, sheathing his sword and wrapping his fists around handfuls of aethereal strands.
Tying them into a form that resembled a cat o’ nine tails, he lashed out at the soldiers, multiplying the tails as they whipped through the air. Armor shattered as tongues of air connected with the front line of footmen, and men and weapons went flying.
Sergan uttered a growl and threw his hands up, summoning a crackling blue sphere that sizzled in his palm. With all his might, he flung it toward them, but Markus merely raised his shield, deflecting the magic easily.
The remaining soldiers charged them and, at the same time, Sergan conjured a lightning-fast torrent of projectiles that riddled the air around them. Markus dropped to one knee, bracing against the oncoming charge, and raised his shield in defense of Aram.
But just before the first soldiers reached them, a raging wind howled over the glade, forcing the men back and beating Sergan to his knees.
Aram drew his sword and sprang forward, determined to take advantage of his adversary’s weakness. As he did, someone lunged toward him and caught his arm. Aram struggled, bringing his sword up to belt the man in the face with his pommel, but the man caught it easily. Grappling for control of his blade, Aram lifted his fist to bash him in the face.
It wasn’t a man.
It was Vandra.
All around them, dragons were landing, the gusts of air displaced by their wings keeping the soldiers at bay. Aram turned back to see Sergan’s face lose its color all at once, the light of the unholy fire dimming in his eyes.
“Come with me!” Vandra shouted, taking his arm and pulling Aram after her as she retreated toward Ragath.
But Aram twisted out of her grasp and darted back to where Markus stood, staring slack-jawed at the flight of dragons dropping from the sky.
Aram clutched his shoulders, shaking him. “Did you kill anyone? Anyone?”
Markus shook his head vigorously, tears raining from his eyes. “No!”
Aram believed him.
He turned and shouted at Vandra, “I’m not leaving without Markus!”
Vandra’s face darkened in confusion that gave way quickly to anger. “Get on Narath!” she commanded, striding toward him. “That’s an order!”
“No.” Aram shook his head. “Not without Markus!”
“Narath can’t take you both!” Vandra growled, then her eyes widened at something behind Aram.
Aram glanced back to see more soldiers advancing toward them, a pair of Exilari in front. Sergan sprinted to join them, tilting his head to quaff a mouthful of essence as he ran. Aram felt a powerful dread creep over him, realizing that their situation was quickly becoming dire. Glancing around desperately, he noticed a woman lying dead beside a green dragon that still hovered over her, shedding its grief in gouts of flame.
Aram released Markus and ran toward the dragon, practically careening into it with the force of his desperation. The meeting of minds was brief and anguishing: the shattered heart of a creature begging for release and the pleading of a young man desperate to save his best friend. The dragon moaned a low, keening groan, lowering her head.
An accord had been reached.
Loranth would set aside her grief to take one last flight before returning to die at her rider’s side.
Motioning for Markus, Aram called, “She’ll take you! Hurry!”
Looking horrified, Markus stood as though rooted, licking his lips and looking ready to run the other direction. He glanced back over his shoulder just in time to see a ball of magic arc toward them. Lifting his shield, he deflected it. Then he scrambled toward Aram and climbed onto Loranth’s back.
The green dragon barely gave him a chance to grip its harness before vaulting into the sky in a gust of wind and swirling dust. Then Narath swept in, alighting to pick up Aram.
As soon as he pulled his leg over the dragon’s back, someone shouted. He glanced up to see a crackling lance of magic streaking his way, and there was nothing he could do about it, for he couldn’t lift a hand to defend himself.
At the last instant, Narath vaulted into the air and, with one great stroke of his wings, lifted them clear of the attack. Taken by surprise, Aram was almost flung from the dragon’s back. He fell forward, holding on desperately with his arms wrapped around Narath’s neck. Ahead of him, Vandra’s brown dragon angled sharply upward into the sky, Markus and Loranth flying at her wing. Looking back, Aram took a last glimpse of the Great Tree burning behind them before it was lost in a black cloud of billowing smoke.
As they flew, his thoughts returned to Loranth and the rider she had lost. Part of him wanted desperately to try to intervene, to do something to convince her that her life didn’t have to be over. But he had glimpsed the mind of the dragon, and he knew that Loranth could not stay. He would respect that. For this was the way it was meant to be.
When they landed, Loranth waited only as long as it took Markus to slide down from her back before taking wing. Aram watched her go with a heavy heart, wishing her godspeed. But then his gaze fell on Markus, and he couldn’t restrain the joy he felt at seeing him here. Seeing him alive. Running toward him, Aram crashed into Markus with a great, euphoric hug.
“I thought you were dead!” Markus cried, stepping back to look at him with eyes wide and incredulous.
Aram opened his mouth to say the same thing, but his voice broke, so he laughed instead. He wiped tears of joy from his eyes and hugged Markus again, thanking the gods for returning his best friend to him.
He shook his head. “I can’t believe—”
The sounds of running footsteps cut off his words. Turning, Aram put his hands up at the sight of a dozen men with swords and spears spilling forward to encircle them. Before he could react, Vandra swept past him, tackling Markus and knocking him to the ground. One of Vandra’s men kicked Markus’s sword away from him and pressed his spear against his neck.
“Stop!” Aram cried. “He’s my friend!”
“He’s one of their sorcerers!” Vandra snarled.
She straddled Markus’s back, pinning him down with her weight and the strength of her thighs while one of her men tossed her a rope to bind Markus’s arms behind his back. Standing, she hauled Markus to hi
s feet and shoved him toward two of her men, who caught him by the arms.
“He’s not a sorcerer!” Aram shouted. “He’s a Shield! He’s my friend!”
In two forceful steps, Vandra was in his face, shoving him backward with all of her weight. Aram staggered, but before he could fall, Vandra clamped a muscular arm around his neck and grabbed a fistful of his hair.
“Take him!” she snarled at her men, who led Markus away while Vandra restrained Aram with arms that felt like pillars of marble.
There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t even turn his head and watch Markus go.
Vandra hung on to him for minutes after they were gone, the rest of her men dispersing, going back to tend their wounded and their dragons. At last, Vandra released him, flinging Aram away from her with such force that he fell onto his stomach.
“Report to Esmir!” she shouted.
“Please…” Aram begged, eyes welling with tears. “You don’t understand!”
Vandra pointed at the stairwell. “Get the hell out of my eyrie! NOW!”
Picking himself up, Aram retreated. He fled the eyrie at a run and took the stairs up to Esmir’s quarters.
He found the old Warden on the floor, leaning against a wall of his cave, legs splayed in front of him, a text folded open in his lap. His mouth was open, and he was snoring loudly.
Aram threw himself down at the table and buried his head in his hands, tears wetting his cheeks. He could not bear it. Markus had risked his own life to save him more than once, and yet there was nothing Aram could do to save him. He had no idea what Vandra intended to do with him, but he feared for Markus’s life.
With nowhere else to go, he went to Esmir and shook the old man awake.
“What!” Esmir rasped, opening his baggy eyes.