Dragon Mage

by ML Spencer

  “Would you hold onto this for me?” he asked.

  Staring down at the necklace, Calise nodded, her eyes growing moist.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. Then with a last, apologetic smile, he turned and made his way toward the portal.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  The world obscured and faded to murk.

  Aram still stood within the ring of standing stones, though now the Henge was empty of other people and suffused with a dim, surreal twilight. A putrid glow emanated from every direction at once, and the craggy faces of the monoliths glowed of their own accord with an odd, vacillating light that made them writhe like tormented things.

  Glancing down, Aram saw that he was no longer clothed in the ruined tunic and cloak. Instead, the Overseers had seen fit to supply him with his own dragon-scale armor and his star-steel blade. The elegant sword hung suspended in its lacquered scabbard from his belt, along with a matching dagger he had never seen before.

  Curious, Aram drew the sword and was surprised to see that the blade glowed with an ethereal blue light that rippled like ribbons of blue flame. At first, he didn’t understand what that flame was or what it meant, and it took a while for its implications to sink in.

  For this Trial, his Gift had been unlocked, and his blade burned with the fierce power of the magic within him. The Overseers had supplied him with the best of everything he could possibly need: his own weapon, his own armor, even his own magic. Apparently, they thought he would be needing it all.

  It was a harrowing thought.

  Glancing around, Aram paced warily toward the center of the circle. There was something about the muted light that reminded him of the first time he had entered the Shadow Realm, when the Overseer had attacked him and set him on fire. That time, the Henge had been filled with the same nondirectional light that came from everywhere and cast no shadow.

  But this time, the Overseers were nowhere to be seen. The stillness stretched, and the longer it did, the more anxious he became. It was the anticipation that was disarming, for he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of foe would require all of his weapons and the sum of his magic to defeat.

  When the attack finally came, it was without warning.

  A humanoid shadow appeared in front of him, wielding two thin swords: one longer, the other shorter. It did not pause a second before attacking, coming at him with both swords at once. Aram parried the longsword and dodged the shorter blade, twisting back. But the shadow-creature didn’t give him a chance to recover. It came at him like a thousand knives tumbling toward him all at once. This time, he didn’t try to block, but retreated across the circle of the Henge, backing away as fast as he could.

  His shadowy opponent was too skilled. Even if it had possessed only one blade, he would have been hard-pressed to defend himself. With two blades, this foe was unstoppable. Aram realized why the Overseers had unlocked his Gift for this test. Martial skill alone wouldn’t be enough to defeat this adversary.

  He reached out with his mind, seeking the colorful strands of aether that made up even this shadowy world. They were all there, strung out before him like the fibers of a loom, waiting for his mind to start weaving. He grasped a handful of strands and started binding, spinning them instantly into a net that he threw over his adversary, hoping to at least slow it down.

  But his opponent merely cut the net to shreds with its sharp blades and set upon him with renewed determination.

  Backing away, Aram reached for the dagger at his waist, drawing it just in time to block the long sword even as the shorter blade sliced at his throat. He danced backward, yielding more ground, using both dagger and sword together at once.

  Attacking with the sword and defending with the dagger, he unleashed a crisp sequence of attacks that his foe evaded effortlessly. The dagger was no match for the short sword, just as he was no match for his inhuman opponent.

  In the end, he wasn’t going to win.

  Desperate, Aram reached again for the colors of the world and started weaving an elaborate braid. He tied it off then lashed out with it like a whip. The air between them erupted in an explosion of light and roiling flame.

  His adversary merely absorbed the flames, sucking them right out of the air. Then it pressed forward with its twirling blades, and it was all Aram could do to move fast enough to dodge and deflect the attacks.

  He couldn’t evade them all. He felt the bite of the short sword slice through his armor and score a deep cut in his side.

  Aram didn’t have time to react to the injury. The blades coming at him were relentless, and he couldn’t keep up with them. He realized there was no way he could win this fight. He hadn’t once even grazed his opponent, and now he doubted that he even could, for how does one cut a shadow? The Overseers had given him every weapon in his arsenal to defeat this foe, and yet none of them worked.

  Which meant weapons weren’t the answer.

  Retreating, Aram considered the sickening twilight around him that came from everywhere at once. All it took was one glance at his opponent to make him understand that it was the light he fought in this place, not the shadow. It was the magical energy of this plane that was his true enemy.

  Reaching out with his mind, he grasped at the strands of aether that made up this world and started ripping them apart. There was a terrible shriek that echoed from every direction as his enemy reacted to his attack.

  The shadow-man started forward to press its assault, but then it wavered, its twin blades faltering. Aram didn’t hesitate, but ripped and tore the energy right out of the world. Gradually, the light around him faded like the horizon after sunset, until a starless midnight fell upon them.

  With a ghostly moan, his shadowy opponent disappeared, swallowed by the darkness. Aram dropped his sword and clutched his side, which stabbed him with fire. He stood for a moment panting, glancing around at the lightless world he had created.

  Then the ground beneath him heaved, and he was wrenched somewhere else.

  Aram staggered out of the portal, his side pulsing with heat. His sword and armor were gone, but somehow he retained the dagger. The cut his opponent had given him slicked his hand with syrupy blood.

  He glanced up as Markus and Esmir rushed toward him. Markus caught hold of him, and Esmir bent to press wadded bandages against his wound.

  “I’m fine,” Aram said, gritting his teeth. “It’s not that deep.”

  “The hell it is,” snapped Markus. He glanced worriedly at Esmir. “Do we have time to bind it?”

  Retracting the blood-saturated cloth, Esmir shook his head. “He’s got to go.”

  “Wait—”

  Ignoring Markus, Aram sprinted across the Henge toward the second portal and dove through the opening.

  He stood on a hill above a battlefield.

  The rage of battle and the screams of men clawed toward him through the air. Below, the soldiers of three armies were engaged in melee, while hundreds of unarmed civilians looked on in terror, their fates to be determined by the outcome of the fight.

  Looking down at himself, Aram saw that he was robed in a golden tabard and mantle. In his hand was a recurve bow that gleamed with the silver aura of an untainted soul. He didn’t know how he knew that, only that he did. Below, the army of Nimarae was being swallowed by the combined forces of Sor and Demalkia. The knowledge came to him with a wash of dizziness, and he wavered for a moment, bringing a hand up to steady himself. He had no idea why he was here or what he was supposed to be doing. All he knew was that something inside him was unlocking, opening wide like a vault, and information he had never known was being revealed to him … though it felt more like he was remembering something long forgotten.

  He started to turn but winced as the motion brought a sharp stab of pain. Looking down, he saw blood spreading across his golden tabard from a deep injury he barely remembered receiving. Aram cursed. He had no time to have the wound tended. People he loved were dying.

  Down below on the field, the battle he
was commanding had taken a turn for the worse. The ranks of defenders were collapsing, an entire wing of his army caught in a pincer between two larger forces. Even more heartbreaking was the plight of the civilians they fought to protect: refugees from the fallen city of Tel Aru who had traveled a dozen days to reach the fortress of Eld Atai, only to die in sight of it.

  He didn’t have the resources to protect both the civilians and the fortress.

  Now he found himself in the dreadful position of having to decide which to sacrifice.

  Walking to the very edge of the cliff, he looked out upon the flagging battle below. He could smell the blood from where he stood; the field was flooded with it. Dark clouds of birds circled the skies, landing in droves on the piles of bodies still moving with wounded. Horns sounded and dark smoke clotted the air, and still the killing continued.

  An explosion near the refugees threw up a large cloud of dust, raining bodies and debris across the field. Screams erupted from the column of civilians and part of the Nimaraean line collapsed in disorganized chaos. There was another explosion, followed by another. His gaze scoured the battlefield, trying to determine the source of the attacks.

  And then he saw it: across the field, one of the Disavowed sat upon a white horse, encased by soldiers of his personal guard. The Archon flung his hands out, and yet another explosion tore deep into the Nimaraean ranks, hurling soldiers into the air and rending flesh.

  Aram clenched his jaw and tried to concentrate, but the pain in his side throbbed worse with every heartbeat. His tabard was wet with blood.

  Sweat rained from his brow as frustration got the better of him. He would have to make a decision. The civilians down there were his own people, but the fortress was a strategic position they couldn’t afford to yield.

  “Father Ahn, forgive me,” he muttered then turned to his general. “Order a retreat. Fall back to the fortress.”

  “But, Lord! The civilians!”

  “The fortress has to be our priority.” He squeezed his eyes closed, feeling the weight of the decision crush his heart.

  “Lord! Please!”

  “You’ve heard my command,” he snapped, knowing that he had condemned the civilians to death … along with his own soul. He stood bleeding as the order was relayed to the drummers who thundered the death-knell of the people of Tel Aru across the battlefield.

  The hill beneath him jolted.

  He staggered and almost lost his footing. The ground lurched again, knocking him off his feet.

  Aram spilled out of the portal, collapsing to his hands and knees in the sand. He quickly pushed himself up but staggered, weak and disoriented and drunk on self-loathing.

  What had just happened? Had that been real? Had his word just condemned hundreds of people to death?

  Seeing Markus rushing toward him, he raised his hands to fend him off. Both of his hands were now slick with blood, his clothing saturated with it. He had no idea what had just happened in the portal, and he didn’t have time to come to terms with it. He was already weak from blood loss, and he still had two tests left to go.

  Backing away from Markus, he turned and jogged toward the third set of Portal Stones.

  Aram squatted in the darkness. Casting his hands out, he felt cold walls around him, close on either side. The feel of them brought a shiver of fear rushing up his spine toward his neck. Hands groping, he pushed himself upright.

  He heard the sound of a latch, and a door opened.

  A wash of torchlight spread over him, illuminating the close space he was in. When he recognized where he was, cold panic nearly ripped his mind from him.

  He was back in the essence cellars.

  A scream tore from his throat as a human-shaped silhouette reached in and grabbed his arm, jerking him forward. He struggled and fought, but his body was weak with emaciation and blood loss, and there was little he could do. His fists beat pathetically against an iron cuirass, succeeding only in producing a dull clanking noise. Desperate, he reached out for the strands of aether—

  But he couldn’t touch the aether, not to save his own life. There was nothing he could do but flail and scream as he was lifted and carried to the extraction chamber. As they buckled the leather straps about his arms, legs, and torso, he sobbed in anticipation of the agony.

  Oh, gods, please … let this not be real.

  Let this be a hallucination…

  In the end, it didn’t matter.

  The pain came immediately. He arched his back, jerking against his bonds and screaming until his throat burned raw. The pain intensified, relentless and merciless. His fingernails bit the palms of his hands and his toes curled, but still the pain clenched him and wouldn’t let him go. His skin burned and cracked and the fat beneath it sizzled. Acid melted his insides to jelly, and dull spikes drove all the way to the center of his brain. He begged the gods for the pain to stop, for his heart to stop, for his mind to shatter.

  Anything, he didn’t care.

  Anything to take away the agony.

  At last, hours later, the pain subsided.

  Hands were upon him, tightening the buckles of his restraints.

  “Welcome home,” said a voice he recognized. It was one of the Extractors, an older man who had been present at almost every one of his sessions and seemed to take great pleasure in watching him scream.

  “Please…” he wheezed, his voice raw from screaming. “No more … No more! I can’t stand it…” His voice collapsed into choking sobs.

  CONCEDE.

  The words rocked his mind with all the fury and thunder of an avalanche.

  Oh, gods, that was them. That was the Overseers, giving him a choice. Giving him a chance. All he had to do was concede and the pain would stop. It would all go away. He would either die or go insane, but either would be better than this. So much better.

  The Extractor raised a glowing-hot poker, leveling it at Aram’s right eye.

  “I…” His throat clenched.

  He let out a strangled sob.

  “No,” he croaked. “I won’t concede. I won’t … oh, dear gods…”

  He screamed as the poker drove toward his face.

  Aram opened his eyes, shocked that he still had eyes.

  He lay on his belly in front of the third portal. Tears drenched his face and dark blood coated his skin. He was shaking so hard, he could barely get his hands under him to turn himself over.

  He heard footsteps running toward him.

  People surrounded him, helping him upright.

  He looked up, startled, into Markus’s face, and shook his head wordlessly.

  “That’s enough,” Markus gasped, catching him up in a strangling embrace. “You gave it your all, but you don’t have any more to give. You did your best.”

  “No,” Aram wheezed, shuddering. “I’m not done.”

  Markus drew back, clutching him by the shoulders. He glanced behind him. “Esmir, help me get him up.”

  “No.” Aram pushed himself to his feet and took a staggering step backward.

  Fear on his face, Markus reached for him, but Aram shook his head.

  “I have to do this. I have to.”

  Markus stood unmoving, his face contorted with grief. At length, he issued a slight nod, and Aram knew he understood. Then he turned away and, with the leaden steps of a condemned man, walked toward the fourth portal.

  He stood on a cliff above a vast expanse of forest.

  At first, he thought it was the Eldenwood, but then he realized that it couldn’t be. This woodland was still alive and vibrant, and he could feel the health of the land below him. A calm layer of mist clung to the air above the forest, spreading over the trees like a soothing blanket. Rolling mountains were painted in pastel against the horizon, the sight of them almost lost to the haze of distance.

  Somewhere down in that forest was a Wellspring. Aram could sense it, even from far away. The entire forest was suffused with the Wellspring’s essence. Or perhaps the entire forest was itself the Wel
lspring.

  He saw that he was clothed once again in the charred and tattered robes the Overseers had given him. Only a common, dulled practice blade hung at his side. It was as Esmir had warned him: in this last portal, everything he needed would be taken from him.

  Including his lifeblood. He was exhausted and trembling, his body cold, his pulse weak and racing. If he didn’t pass this final test quickly, he wouldn’t be leaving the portal.

  A murderous growl made him turn.

  Behind him crouched a magnificent black dragon, bigger even than Siroth, with fearsome horns and fangs the length of daggers. Its wings were mantled, and the air in front of the dragon roiled with the heat of its breath. The ground around it shimmered, as though the dragon stood in the midst of a mirage. It was either injured or defending something—or both; he couldn’t tell. Its attention was not on him.

  Aram followed its gaze.

  He stood beside a narrow cleft in the earth. The rock around it was charred and battle-scarred. Red magma bled from the fissure, as though it were a wound sliced into the hide of the world, from which hot giant’s blood gushed. Aram could feel the heat of it on his face, the kind of heat that radiated from Onsel’s forge. The wound in the earth looked recent, the product of whatever events were taking place around him.

  He was in a precarious situation, caught between the dragon’s scorching breath and the smoldering scar in the ground.

  He heard a groan.

  The dragon had shifted enough for Aram to see what it was guarding. A man lay in the shadow of its wings, by all appearances gravely injured. He wore a dark cuirass of dragon-scale armor, and at his side was a blade that glowed dimly blue. A star-steel blade, just like his own.

  Aram stood there for a minute, taking in the scene through the fog of blood loss, letting it slowly penetrate. A black dragon. A wide forest, and an injured man who was almost a Champion.