Dragon Mage

by ML Spencer

  The screams of the dying assaulted his ears, and it was all he could do to kick the insect -like creature off his sword. He barely raised his weapon in time as the next one descended upon him. He swung his sword widely with all of his might behind it, cleaving the creature’s head off. Caustic ichor sprayed, saturating his face. Something cracked against his head.

  Then, there was darkness.

  An enormous dragon landed amongst the burning huts of the village, folding its elongated, batlike wings, scanning the battlefield with eyes blackened by shadow. Centuries before, it had been one of the Great Ones, a true master of the skies. But no longer. Now, it was something else, something tainted, and its blood ran dark and cold with hate.

  Lazair slipped from her mount and paused, stroking the dragon’s long, sinuous neck as she surveyed the carnage of the village through the T-shaped opening of her helm. All around, smears of gore that had once been men slicked the trampled grass of the prairie, a sight that gave her a sense of satisfaction. The horse-thralls had resisted long enough. It was long past time they were put to the sword. But the humans were not the reason they were here. She had come for those they warded, and now there was no one left to stop them. She could almost taste the blood of Elysium on her tongue, and the thought made her salivate.

  A tingling sensation came over her, and she sensed a presence she hadn’t felt in a very long time. Turning slowly, she stared out through the shadows of her helm, her gaze fixing on a lone stallion that waded toward them through the long grass of the prairie. The stallion was the color of burnished gold, its mane and tail like spun glass. It stopped and considered her with dark eyes that held no fear of death or pain. Lazair nodded acknowledgment of her opponent.

  The ranks of therlings parted to admit the lone stallion into their midst, and Lazair slipped her Baelsword from its sheath. It was the same sword that, ages ago, had slain Raginor, Lord of Eyries, and today would reap the soul of this far less worthy opponent.

  The Elesium’s silver aura swelled to brilliance, as though it sucked every drop of starlight from the sky and reflected it back. Lazair raised her Baelsword, allowing it to drink of the stallion’s essence.

  Still paces away, the Elesium paused. His ears laid back flat against his head, his teeth bared. One golden hoof stamped at the soil of the prairie. His distended nostrils blew warm mist into the cold night air, and his noble eyes blazed with wrath and fury. He was the embodiment of grace and all that was wholesome, and her sword hungered for his spirit.

  Trumpeting a challenge, the stallion tossed back his head and reared to his full height, pawing at the air. Coming down, he hurled himself at his enemy.

  Arrogant and ruthless, Lazair drew back her sword and waited to receive her charging foe. But before the stallion came within range, a brilliant light shot out from him, slamming into Lazair and hurling her backward. She landed hard on her back, and before she could regain her feet, the stallion reared and came down on her with its forelegs. Its hooves slammed into the black armor of her cuirass like a meteor crashing to earth. But the fortified armor held, only denting. When the stallion rose again, Lazair brought her sword up, blade angled at his chest.

  Another blast of solidified light hurled her body across the ground. She rolled, nearly losing her grip on the sword, but somehow, she hung onto it. The stallion came forward, lowering his head to charge, but this time, Lazair was prepared for it. When the force of the stallion’s great spirit slammed into her, she brought the Baelsword up to parry.

  The Elesium screamed in pain and outrage, wheeling away. Lazair lunged after it, determined to exploit the opportunity before her opponent could recover. In one impossible stride, she closed the distance between herself and the stallion and lashed out with her blade, slicing a deep wound across the stallion’s hide.

  The Elesium reared, battering Lazair with his forelegs while lashing out with his fortified spirit. The power that slammed into her would have been devastating, but she brought her blade up in time, absorbing the force of the stallion’s fury before swiping out in a counterattack.

  The Baelsword cleaved a gash deep into his flesh, opening his neck from jaw to shoulder. Hallowed blood showered the ground, raining like teardrops upon the plain. Releasing a sigh, the stallion staggered then slumped to his knees, head bowing to the ground, the radiant glow of his spirit fading as his lifeblood drenched the grass.

  Lazair knelt and scooped up a handful of hot blood fresh from the vein, bringing it to her lips. She slurped it down ravenously, licking her fingers clean as a shivering thrill electrified her body, making her gasp. She stood and raised her sword to administer the coup de grâce, but the sound of weeping made her pause. She turned toward the noise, lowering her blade.

  Kneeling on the ground, hands bound behind his back, one of the pathetic horse-thralls wept openly, a man with long gray hair and a scar upon his face. Lazair turned from the dying stallion and walked toward the old man, her heavy iron boots crunching on the charred bones of his fallen kinsmen. Pausing over him, she gazed down upon the old warrior for a long moment, taking pleasure in his grief.

  But it was another’s grief she was more interested in.

  Kneeling beside the horse-thrall, Lazair made sure the dying stallion was watching as she softened the flesh and bone of the old man’s chest and forced her hand through his rib cage. He threw his head back in a tortured scream, the tendons of his neck pulling taut in agony. One by one, Lazair grabbed hold of the man’s ribs and pried them out of his flesh, tossing them on the ground as the dying Elesium looked on.

  With a satisfied smile, she glanced to the south, where she felt the presence of another opponent, this one far greater, and a quivering anticipation passed through her.

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  “What do you need from me?” Aram asked Vandra as a servant in a floor-length robe set a plate of roasted coney between him and Markus.

  “Nothing for now,” Vandra said, nodding her thanks at the servant, who set another plate between Vandra and the woman seated next to her, Imal Padra, one of the newest members of the fighting Wing. Like himself, Imal seemed too young to have already earned the privilege of sitting at the head table. He’d seen her around the eyrie, but he didn’t know much about her. She was around Markus’s age, with long brown hair and skin darker than most of the Auld, so much so that he couldn’t help wondering if one of her parents were human. She cast a shy glance at Markus who, predictably, didn’t notice.

  “We’ll see if we hear anything by tomorrow,” Vandra said around a mouthful of meat. “If not, maybe you and Markus can fly to Winhome and make sure everything is all right.”

  Aram broke a leg off the coney then leaned back in his seat to clear a visual path between Markus and Imal. His gaze scanned the rows of tables that filled the room, looking for Calise, but he didn’t see her. A heavy weight settled deep in his chest, making it hard to swallow. He set the leg down and lifted his wine.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught Imal chancing another glance at Markus. At that point, there was only one thing a good friend could do: he prodded Markus’s foot with his own, nodding his head at Imal ever so slightly. At first, Markus frowned in incomprehension, but then his eyebrows flew up. After that, Aram had a hard time staying out of the way as his Warden squirmed forward and backward in his seat to get a better view of the pretty young windrider.

  By the time supper was over, Aram still hadn’t caught even a glimpse of Calise. He was still looking for her as everyone in the hall rose to leave.

  Before he and Markus could exit the room, they were accosted by their friends, who were all dressed in riding leathers and bubbling with exuberance. Aram smiled broadly, happy to see that at least they weren’t mad at him.

  Corley spoke first, “Eugan was wondering if—”

  “It wasn’t just me!”

  Corley scowled with an irritated glance at Eugan. “We were wondering if we could meet your dragon.”

  “Is it true he was
Daymar Torian’s?” Kye asked.

  “Why don’t you come on up?” Aram smiled, glad that at least some things were returning to normal. He glanced at Markus, but Markus wasn’t paying attention. Instead, he was staring across the room to where Imal lingered against the wall, talking to one of her friends.

  Markus muttered, “I’ll be up in a moment,” then walked away, making a beeline across the room toward Imal, who was conspicuously acting like she didn’t notice his approach. Seeing his trajectory, Corley prodded Iver with his elbow then nodded at Markus. Iver winced, rubbing his side were Corley’s elbow had jabbed into his ribs.

  Aram led them up to the level of the new eyrie, hoping that Agaroth wouldn’t mind being gawked at. As it turned out, the great dragon seemed to enjoy the attention, spreading his massive wings in display and even letting them touch him. Aram got the feeling that indulging human curiosity was nothing new to Agaroth, and indeed, the dragon flashed him images of he and Daymar surrounded by crowds of eager people.

  “I just … I can’t believe it,” muttered Eugan, staring up at Agaroth with wide, incredulous eyes. Turning to Aram, he said, “When I first met you, I felt sure that Vandra was committing cold-blooded murder making you face the Trials. I really didn’t think you stood a chance.”

  Smiling, Aram admitted, “I didn’t think I had much of a chance either.”

  Eugan looked at him as though really seeing him for the first time. “How did you do it?”

  Aram had never thought about it. In his mind, he had just done what people had told him to do, whether it be Esmir or Vandra or Master Henrik. Then he remembered something Esmir had told him a long time ago: you’ll do it because it would be unthinkable for you not to, a phrase which pretty much summarized it.

  He shrugged. “I didn’t have a choice. So I just did.”

  Jeran came to stand next to Eugan, giving Aram a look he couldn’t interpret. Softly, he asked, “How powerful are you?”

  Aram answered honestly, “I don’t know.”

  “How don’t you know?”

  “I’ve never really been tested, outside of the Henge.”

  “Well, don’t you think you should find out?” asked Kye. “Before there’s a battle?”

  “I suppose I should,” Aram said thoughtfully. “I just don’t really know how.”

  Corley shot Iver a wry grin. “Maybe you can fix Iver’s broken heart. Ever since Maddy Paden broke up with him—”

  “I broke up with her!” Iver exclaimed, face red as a beet.

  “At least fix his nose so he’s not so ugly,” said Kye.

  Everyone erupted with laughter, except for Iver, who stood fuming, staring off to the side with his hands on his hips. Jeran tried to pat his back, but Iver just batted him away. Aram led them off the terrace, figuring the two dragons needed some peace. Settling his friends around the fire, he went and fetched a jug of whiskey.

  Iver took a swig from the jug then passed it to Eugan. Wiping his mouth, he asked Aram, “So, what’s going on between you and Calise?”

  Aram shook his head sadly. He’d been hoping to see Calise in the dining hall and wondered if she was avoiding him on purpose. He hoped not. He didn’t want to think that he made her feel so uncomfortable she couldn’t eat with her friends.

  “I shouldn’t have taken Zandril,” he muttered.

  “No,” Iver agreed. “You fucked up.”

  Nods and murmurs of consensus echoed from around the fire.

  “I fucked up,” Aram agreed, accepting the jug of whiskey from Jeran. He took a healthy gulp, wincing as it went down. It was strong and tasted terrible, and it burned his throat. He smacked his lips with a grimace, passing it along.

  The door opened, and Markus entered, a wide grin on his face. He came directly over to the fire and flopped down next to Aram. Accepting the jug of whiskey, he knocked back a healthy swallow.

  “How did it go?” Eugan asked.

  Markus glanced down with a sheepish grin.

  “Oh, come on,” Kye prodded. “You couldn’t have done worse than Aram!”

  Aram smiled, for it was true. Jeran thrust the jug back at him, hitting him in the chest with it. Taking a drink, Aram handed it to Markus. “So, did you do better than I did?”

  “I did. Sorry.” Accepting the jug, Markus upended it and drained the last of its contents.

  “That’s great,” Aram said. “She’s really pretty.”

  “Yeah, she is.” Markus had a distant and dreamy smile on his face.

  The sound of the door opening made Aram turn. One of the younger men from the Wing strode in, an apprehensive look on his face. His eyes wandered over the group of friends, at last coming to fix on Aram.

  “Vandra needs you,” he said, walking swiftly forward. “In the Council chamber.”

  Concerned, Aram rose to his feet. “What is it?”

  “There’s been an attack on Winhome.”

  Aram paused just long enough to gather up his sword as his friends jumped to their feet, erupting with questions. He didn’t wait but sprinted out of the room with Markus on his heels. They rushed down long flights of stairs to the level of the Council chamber, then dodged through the halls as people scrambled to move out of their way.

  Entering the chamber, Aram found a meeting already in session. He picked his way around the circle and took his place beside Luvana. Conversation stopped as he entered, all eyes going toward him and Markus. Aram took a seat as quickly as he could, muttering an apology for being late.

  Luvana sat in her usual spot, her head covered by her blue headscarf. Before her sat a wiry man with braided gray hair, a wool blanket thrown over him as though he were ill or infirm. To Aram, he looked familiar, but it took him a moment to remember that he had seen this man before, when he had visited Winhome with Vandra. Then, Aram had gotten the impression he was one of the leaders of the village.

  Luvana raised her hand, indicating Aram and Markus. “Elder Hammon, this is Champion Aram Raythe and his Warden, Markus Galliar.”

  The old man grimaced. “I know who he is.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Aram. “You promised you would help.”

  Aram went cold, for he knew what the man was talking about. He had promised Mandrel that, after his Trials, he would find the people who had slaughtered the Elesium. But with all that had gone on, he hadn’t had the chance.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, forcing himself to look the man in the eyes, even though it was almost painful to do so. “I hadn’t forgotten, but—”

  Elder Hammon bared his teeth. “Dedicant Mandrel is dead, along with all of the men of Winhome.”

  Exclamations of fury erupted all around the council fire, and Vandra raised her hand in an effort to instill calm. She turned to Elder Hammon. “Champion Raythe only passed his Trials last week, and he did so far sooner than anyone thought he could. He is not to blame.”

  The expression on Hammon’s face did not change. He sat glaring at Aram as though he held him personally responsible for the tragedy that had befallen Winhome.

  “Please, Elder Hammon,” Luvana said. “We want only to help you. But first, we need to understand exactly what transpired.”

  The old man at last broke his stare away from Aram and turned to address the Council. “A raiding party from Araghar descended upon us. The women and children escaped with the Elesium, but our men stayed behind to ward their flight. Dedicant Mandrel sent me to you, to bear word.” His gaze swept around the room, traveling from person to person. “I went back. I shouldn’t have, but I did. They were all dead. Every one of them, slaughtered, along with an Elesium stallion. Dedicant Mandrel…” He bowed his head.

  Aram felt a great sadness, for he had thought highly of Mandrel, and he couldn’t help but blame himself.

  “What of those who fled?” asked Vandra.

  “I do not know. I came straight here.”

  Which meant that his people could still be in terrible danger—or dead already. Aram couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t have more de
aths on his conscience, especially not women and children and Elesium.

  “What of the armies that were gathering? Are they anywhere nearby?”

  “They’re close,” Vandra informed him.

  Aram turned to Luvana. “I’ll fly to Winhome. I’ll read the strands there then go find the refugees and make sure they’re safe.”

  “No,” said Vandra immediately.

  Aram started to protest, but Vandra cut him off. “The main body of Kathrax’s army is nearing the fortress of Eld Anoth, which guards the entrance to the Winmarch. We need you here.”

  One of the older men raised his head, a look of defiant pride smoldering in his eyes like banked embers. “Eld Anoth is the most defensible fortress in the world. Not once in history has it fallen.”

  Elder Hammon’s stare fixed on him, his eyes narrowing. “Do not take them lightly. You have not seen what I have seen.”

  Looking at Luvana, Aram argued, “I can make it to Winhome and back in a few hours.” He would have more than enough time, especially if he left immediately.

  “We need you here,” Vandra insisted. “Only you and Markus can fly over their army, and we need reconnaissance. We must stop them at Eld Anoth, before they reach the Heart of the Mother.”

  Aram clenched his fists in frustration, for every fiber of his being was opposed to that idea. Something inside him was pulling him toward Winhome, and he knew it was the kind of feeling that he couldn’t ignore. Looking at Elder Hammon, Aram held the man’s gaze firmly. “Markus and Siroth can surveil Kathrax’s army without me. I need to go to Winhome.”

  Markus sat bolt upright. “I go where you go—”

  Aram refused to be deterred. He turned back to Luvana. “We need to know why this happened, what their objective is. I’ll just go read the strands and then return. That’s all.”

  Luvana at last sighed. “You may go. But return immediately. Do not engage them.”