Dragon Mage

by ML Spencer

  Markus stared at him sideways. “It’s pretty unbelievable that you’re the same boy I plucked out of the mud all those years ago.”

  Aram chuckled, supposing they had both come a long way since that morning in Anai.

  When Markus came forward to take his arm, Aram shook his head. “I can walk on my own.” He took a step forward but then paused, wavering as the floor rocked beneath him. He looked up at Markus sheepishly. “Actually … I can’t.”

  With Markus on one side and Esmir on the other, Aram managed to walk out into the hallway and take the stairs down to the level of the Council chamber. There, they exited into a bustling corridor that served as a main artery between Hearth Home and the eyries it supported. Seeing people staring at him, Aram became nervous, wishing intensely that he wasn’t wearing the new uniform, which made him stick out. He pulled his arm out of Esmir’s grasp and squared his shoulders, making his best attempt not to appear as weak and anxious as he felt.

  As they walked through the corridors, people paused to let them by, moving to the side of the walkway and bowing their heads. At first, Aram thought they were just being kind, clearing a path for someone obviously infirm. But the further he walked, the more it became apparent that people were stepping aside, not out of courtesy, but out of respect.

  He glanced sharply at Esmir and asked under his breath, “Why are they doing that?”

  The old man muttered back, “Because you’re a Champion.”

  Aram felt his face pale. “I don’t want them to do that.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you want.”

  Aram didn’t like that answer, just like he didn’t like the clothes he was wearing. He opened his mouth to protest but then thought better of it, for Esmir was right. People were going to do what they were going to do, and he had no control over it. He continued in silence down the corridor, nodding at the people who stepped aside in deference. Even people he knew lowered their eyes, which made him feel even more uncomfortable, like an outsider in his own world.

  By the time they reached the Council chamber, he felt drained and dizzy. Nevertheless, when Esmir opened the door to admit them, he let go of Markus and walked into the chamber without support.

  As he entered, the people gathered in the room turned toward him. Most bore white hair and wrinkles, and many were hundreds of years old. Some, like Luvana, were over a thousand. And yet, at the sight of him, all twelve members of the Council rose to their feet.

  Luvana raised her hand, beckoning him forward. “Champion Raythe. Welcome. Your place is here.”

  She gestured at the woven rug laid out beside her. Stiffly, Aram made his way around the firepit. He was grateful to have a seat, for he was exhausted, and he didn’t think he could stand any longer without assistance. Markus lowered himself down at Aram’s side, removing his longsword and laying it behind him.

  Aram could feel the stares of the Council members upon him, though he tried to avoid eye contact. Even Vandra was regarding him with a kind of wary respect. Aram sat cross-legged on the rug and stared into the hearth’s dancing flames, struggling to keep his eyes open.

  “Let us begin,” Luvana said as the others took their seats. “Our first order of business is welcoming our new Champion and his Warden to this Council. It has been four hundred years since the places beside me were last occupied. I’d say it’s high time.”

  There were nods of acknowledgement from all around the fire. Aram had expected many of the Council members to bear him some level of resentment, for not only was he far younger than any other person in the room, but many of those gathered had opposed his training. He was surprised to see that there was no ill will in the looks he was receiving, which ranged from solemn respect to awe and curiosity. It was all so surreal, he almost wondered if he was still sleeping.

  “Thank you,” Aram said to Luvana, feeling some of his own resentment ease.

  For the first time, he was starting to realize what it truly meant to be a Champion, and the more he thought about it, the more daunting the role seemed. The members of the Council, even Vandra, seemed to be deferring to him, and Aram found their behavior deeply unsettling.

  Luvana said, “Wingmaster Vandra. You have a report for us?”

  “I do.” Vandra stood and stepped back from her place by the fire pit, positioning herself so that every member of the Council could view her easily. “The armies of Kathrax are advancing toward the Winmarch and are now a week out from Eld Anoth. They have expanded their ranks considerably since we met them in Altier, supplementing them with tamed therlings from Araghar. Also, they’ve acquired dragons.”

  Her words provoked a flurry of questions and whispered conversation, although Aram was not surprised, for when Vandra had taken him to the place where the Elesium had been slaughtered, he had seen visions of enemies mounted on dragons.

  “They were once ours,” said Vandra, “struck down in battle. Somehow, Kathrax or his sorcerers found a way to corrupt them.”

  “How can that be?” asked a craggy man with a hawk-like nose, his hair streaked with silver. “Dragons are soul-bound to their riders!”

  Aram said quietly, “He has a Baelsword.”

  Every person in the room turned to look at him.

  “What was that?” Vandra asked.

  “Kathrax has a Baelsword,” Aram repeated, remembering the sword that brought down his father’s dragon. “He claims the souls of his enemies…” he glanced down, “and he severs the bonds that connect them.”

  The Council members stared at him with expressions of disbelief and horror.

  “How do you know this?” asked Luvana, her voice tight.

  “I saw it. During my Trials … I experienced things.”

  “And do you trust these experiences?”

  “I do.” His knowledge of the details of his father’s death spoke to the truth of the visions. He glanced over the faces in the room and saw that there was no trace of doubt in the eyes that regarded him. Just yesterday, his claim would have been questioned and probably dismissed. Not today.

  Face pale, Luvana addressed the Council, “They are marching toward the Heart of the Mother. We can’t let them enter the Winmarch.”

  Vandra bowed her head solemnly. “I’ll send riders to reinforce the fortress of Eld Anoth.”

  Luvana turned to Aram. “Do you have any advice for how we might defeat this enemy, Champion Raythe?”

  Aram was taken aback that she would ask his opinion. Out of every person in the room, he had the least experience with such matters. He thought back to his Trial in the second portal, where he had been in command of an unknown army and had ordered the sacrifice of a large group of refugees. He had no idea if that vision had been real or not, whether it had been his own skin he was wearing, or someone else’s. At the time, he had known things he couldn’t have possibly known, and he assumed that knowledge had been planted in his head by the Overseers. Nevertheless, he still retained some of that knowledge. Perhaps it had been left there for a reason.

  Looking at Luvana, he said, “Our forces are inferior, and they control the skies, so that eliminates the advantage of our dragons.” He paused in thought, staring deeply into the flames of the hearth. “Kathrax has dragons and Exilari and a Champion of his own—as well as an army of creatures from the void. We cannot rely on the strength of Skyhome to win this war. We need numbers. We need bodies. Send riders to the corners of the world. Call on the Dedicants.”

  Looking up, he saw the dismay on many of the faces looking at him. In truth, he didn’t know where any of those words had come from—they had flowed from his mouth of their own accord. He was about to apologize for overstepping his place, but he was suddenly hit with a terrible feeling of weakness. His vision darkened, and he caught hold of Markus, struggling not to pass out.

  “What is it?” Luvana set a hand on his back, her expression concerned.

  Aram scarcely noticed her, for while his eyes were still staring into the fire, his mind had gone to another
place. An image of the void dragon filled his mind.

  He could feel it. It was alive, though barely. It was reaching out to him with the last of its strength. It had waited as long as it could, but it could wait no longer, for it needed him desperately.

  And he needed it.

  Dizzy, Aram brought a hand up to mop his brow, which was suddenly cold and drenched in sweat.

  “Aram?” Markus asked.

  “Excuse me, please,” Aram whispered.

  He rose unsteadily amidst a chorus of whispers. Markus rose with him, taking his arm, his face darkened by concern. Aram leaned on him heavily as he exited the chamber, every stare following his progress with looks of stunned shock.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Sergan leaned against a picket, sweat dampening his skin and saturating his clothes. He despised this Southern heat. The only time of day that was livable was the first hour after sunset. By noon, it was unbearable. And it didn’t let up but continued relentlessly after sunset. Nights were the worst, for he’d lay awake sweating in his tent, unable to sleep, denied even the simple comfort of a breeze. One night, he’d actually dragged his bedroll outside and quickly learned why tents here were a necessity. The mosquitoes were rampant, along with other, larger bugs that were drawn to the light of the campfires.

  Untying his white scarf, he used it to dab at the perspiration on his brow then returned his attention to the makeshift arena some of the soldiers had improvised. It turned out that the tribes of the North had a rather tenuous alliance. It was only due to the officers’ harsh imposition of order that they were able to fight a common enemy instead of one another.

  When they weren’t on the battlefield, their thirst for the blood of their rivals was appeased by permitting gladiatorial fights whenever time permitted. It turned out to be a brutal pastime that Sergan found himself enjoying. During the afternoons and evenings after the days’ march, he had watched—and even bet on—hours’ worth of bloodshed.

  The arena they had constructed today was a simple corral about a hundred paces wide. The ground within had been trampled and darkened by the blood of the defeated. Dozens of bouts were usually fought every evening, and sometimes there were deaths. Even the weakest Northern warriors were capable of skull-crushing blows and tearing limbs from sockets.

  The last fight of the evening turned out to be more of a coming-of-age rite than a grudge feud. The challenger, a young man of the Raven Clan whose skin bore only the first of the many sets of tattoos he would gather throughout his adulthood, had selected a much older opponent, a leather-faced old warrior of the Wolf Clan. Sergan figured that was a mistake; even his untrained eye could see that the old warrior’s age belied the threat he posed. The Wolf Clan warrior walked with a confident stride toward the arena and ducked through the posts like a man half his age. He reminded Sergan of a gnarled but solid oak, and he looked like he still had a few good years of trouncing challengers left in him.

  Seeing his young opponent climb into the arena, the oaken-faced warrior hawked a glob of spittle onto the sandy ground. He was clad in a leather jerkin and greaves, and he bore a broadsword and a small round shield. He rolled his shoulders and rapped his sword against his shield, circling his foe slowly.

  The younger man wore a similar outfit, though his jerkin was ornamented around the neck with raven feathers, and he carried a curved blade. He didn’t seem troubled by the older warrior’s display of aggression, for he came strutting and swaggering into the center of the arena, casting a sneering sidelong grin at the crowd.

  The gathered mob was already baying for blood. The arena master wasted no time bringing his hand down in a chopping motion, starting the fight.

  The younger man darted forward, closing the distance between him and his opponent rapidly, leaping the last five paces to thrust his sword toward his opponent’s heart. The blade thunked off the metal boss of his foe’s shield, and the old warrior’s sword came in under his guard, angling for his gut. The younger man snarled, and the crowd roared. Sergan couldn’t tell if the slice had landed, but by the audience’s reaction, he would guess some amount of blood had been spilled.

  The young man staggered back, raising his shield to deflect a barrage of blows as the old warrior glided effortlessly from one form to the next. He brought his sword down hard, punching through the younger man’s shield, raining splinters and shards of wood upon the sand of the arena.

  The younger man leapt away with terror in his eyes, for he had to know with certainty that he was done for. And his fear was proven justified not five seconds later, when the sword of his opponent drove through his collarbone and down into his rib cage. The younger man’s sword slipped from his grip, and he fell. He lay prone, one foot drumming the dirt, his lifeblood feeding the sand and the audience’s bloodlust.

  Another victory for the Wolf Clan.

  Sergan nodded respectfully at the old warrior as he exited the arena then turned away with a smirk on his lips. Almost, he regretted not placing a wager on the match. Wiping his brow, he turned away from the sight of the boy’s body being dragged away through the dirt. The men of the Raven Clan erupted in fury, while the Wolf Clan shook their spears and howled like their namesakes.

  Sergan turned away and started back toward his tent, having had enough of dust and swelter for the evening. As he walked, a shadow passed over him, blocking out the moonlight for just an instant. He glanced into the sky and saw a black serpentine body attached to a pair of bat-like wings. One of Lazair’s tame dragons came slithering gracefully out of the sky to alight on the ground in the center of the encampment. This one had come from the North, from the direction of Araghar. Curious, Sergan made toward it, wondering what kind of dispatches the rider brought.

  He reached the dragon just as Lazair did. The pale woman shot him a smile that was both welcoming and poisonous at the same time. She had a unique way about her. If she’d been just another woman on the street, he would probably find her irresistible. As it was, he thanked the gods every day that he wasn’t tempted to risk such a dangerous liaison.

  The emissary from the North handed her a wooden scroll case. Lazair opened the end of the tube and shook out the scroll within, unrolling it and holding it vertically as her eyes scanned the leather. Sergan stood behind her, looking on over her shoulder, and was instantly fascinated by the script, which flowed in a single column of elaborate logograms down the page. The leather they were written on was like nothing he had ever seen before, thin and almost translucent, more reminiscent of lambskin than cowhide.

  “Is that human skin?” he asked, genuinely intrigued.

  Lazair nodded absently as her eyes scanned the page, at last rolling the scroll back up and returning it to its case. She turned to Sergan with a severity in her eyes that he’d never seen before and yet looked thoroughly at home on her face.

  “Bad news?” he asked.

  “The boy passed the Trials and has become a Champion,” she informed him. “My master wants him taken alive.”

  A shiver of excitement passed over Sergan. In a way, he felt vindicated, for his early suspicions of the boy’s talent had been confirmed. Yet it was also grave news, for it complicated matters terribly.

  “How did he pass?” Sergan asked. “I thought you had a bargain with the Overseers.”

  “The boy killed them,” Lazair stated flatly.

  Sergan’s eyebrows flew up. “That’s possible?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so.” As the dragon launched back into the sky, Lazair turned and walked away. Sergan had to hurry to catch up with her.

  “I want him, Lazair,” he said. “You asked me to name the price for my services. This is it.”

  “No. He’s ours. Pick something else.” The tone of her voice brooked no argument, and neither did the hardness in her eyes.

  “I’m the one who found him to begin with. He was my apprentice—”

  She stopped to regard him with cold ire. “And what would you do with him, Exilar? Stick him back i
n your essence cellars? You tried that once before, remember? How did that work out for you?”

  But that wasn’t Sergan’s plan for the boy. Rather, he wanted to consume every drop of Aram’s essence himself. A yearlong magical orgy. Drink him dry and then wallow in his power. Not only would such an experience prove more euphoric than any drug, he was certain that much essence would sustain him the rest of his life. He could operate independently of his Order. He would have no trouble making a place for himself at the Imperial Court, the place his own father had denied him when he’d disinherited him all those years ago.

  “You told me to name my price,” he reminded her. “This is what I want, Lazair. I want Aram.”

  The woman crossed her arms and stared at him rigidly. “My master has plans for him. He will not negotiate.”

  Sergan wanted to grind his teeth. Lazair carried her master’s Baelsword at her side, and she was not a person Sergan wanted to argue with.

  He sighed heavily. “Then give me Markus.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he cut her off quickly. “You’ve got to give me something.” Markus was a True Impervious, one of the rarest people in the world. Perhaps, with the right leverage to control and motivate him, Markus might be of some use to him.

  She stared at him hard a moment longer, at last nodding. “You may have Markus.”

  Sergan sighed. “Fair enough. Out of curiosity, why does your master want Aram?”

  A breeze stirred her hair. She smiled slightly. “Kathrax desires to drink his soul and devour his flesh.”

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Aram sat on the terrace of Esmir’s eyrie, the spray of the waterfall misting his face as he stared out across the canyon toward the cliffs on the other side. The fissure that cracked the earth was called an abyss for a reason. It hadn’t been made by the action of a river, but by the Sundering, a great crack that had almost physically split the world in two, or so it was said. He didn’t know what was down there, for he had heard conflicting tales and had no idea which ones were true. Some said the fissure descended all the way into Senestra’s lair, and that it was the brimstone of that world that flavored the breath of the abyss so powerfully with the smell of rot. Others said it led to a great volcano way down deep within the earth, and a lake of lava was down there. Others had different explanations. Some thought it led to the void, while others thought it led to the World Above. Aram had no idea which to believe. All he knew was that he had to find out.