Dragon Mage

by ML Spencer

  Althea closed her eyes, absorbing the name of this tremendous soul who felt so comfortingly familiar, as though she had known him all her life. She drew in a deep, lingering breath, and held it in her chest for heartbeats. Then she turned to face the contingent of radiant spirits that surrounded them.

  Opening her eyes, Althea raised her hands and voice and cried, “Mighty Elesium! A son of Raginor has returned to this world! Let not your heads be lowered nor your hearts despair, but come forth and greet Aramon Raythe, who has arrived to Champion our cause!”

  At that, each of the Great Horses neighed loudly, then bowed in deference to the only mortal worthy of their homage. The young man stiffened, his face paling, as though appalled by their behavior. Raising her hand, Althea took his arm.

  “Be not ashamed, for it is a great honor they pay you.”

  The young Champion nodded. “Tell them thank you.”

  Althea smiled. “There is no need to thank.”

  The radiance of the Elesium swelled, and their ranks parted. When she saw who approached, her heart stilled. “Look,” she whispered in incredulous awe. “He comes!”

  The ring of Elesium cleaved to admit one of their number, a stallion of purest white that gleamed with an argent light. He strode toward them at a stately pace, the grace of his stride matched only by the pride and majesty in his face.

  “Madiveron,” she whispered, “Steed of Raginor, Father of Horses.”

  The fierce young Champion sucked in a gasp as Madiveron drew up before him, the stallion’s gaze regarding him piercingly. Hesitant, Aramon Raythe rested his palm against Madiveron’s mighty brow and closed his eyes. A shiver passed over him.

  “He wants me to ride him,” he said in a tone both solemn and shaken.

  “Then you must do as he wills, Champion Raythe,” Althea said, moving back.

  Aram ran his hand over the stallion’s gleaming neck, dazed and overawed. The coat beneath his fingers didn’t feel like horsehair, for it was as soft as velvet, and the Elesium’s long mane had the appearance and texture of spun glass. The muscles rippled beneath his touch, and the stallion nickered at him softly.

  Overwhelmed, he glanced back at Agaroth, and saw that his dragon’s attention was fixed on the mouth of the ravine, his golden eyes narrowed dangerously. Aram felt through Agaroth’s senses the presence of something nearby. Something evil. He took hold of Madiveron’s mane, and the stallion started forward, striding toward the mouth of the ravine without any prompting. Behind him, Agaroth bared his teeth and emitted a low growl.

  As they headed toward the gap between ridges, the host of Elesium fell in behind them, their combined radiance illuminating their passage. The rocks closed in around them, and the air seemed to stiffen with tension. The ravine was narrow and winding, but it wasn’t long. Eventually, it opened onto a wide escarpment that flowed downhill onto the plains below. The night deepened as the rock walls opened up, and Aram squinted into the shadows that confronted them.

  The stallion halted.

  Spread out across the plain were thousands of creatures, none of them human. Most had the look of bulbous arachnids with thin, hairy legs that ended in a pair of dagger-like talons. They rocked as their legs seem to dance beneath them, the joints of their dark, chitinous bodies making clacking sounds that buzzed like the roar made by a swarm of bees. Within the ranks of the spider-things were pale, eel-like creatures that Aram recognized, for it was the teeth of such a monster that had savaged his leg when he was a boy. There were other such creatures, too, pale things with rent flesh, that once might have been natural before they had been warped into something profane.

  One and all, these were monsters of the void. The spider- and eel -like therlings had originated there. But the others—the pale and tormented things—were void walkers and had once been creatures of this world.

  He thought of Agaroth. His dragon had been like them. Perhaps, like Agaroth, these distorted creatures could also be saved from their obscene existence. He couldn’t imagine how much essence it would take to return to them the life or death that had been denied them for so long. Far more than he had within him, certainly. But before pity got the best of him, Aram reminded himself that no matter what these creatures had once been in life, they were now the enemy, and he could see the hunger in their eyes as they looked upon him. One and all, they wanted to feed. On him. On the Elesium. To drink their lifeforce.

  He shivered.

  A shrill cry knifed through the air, echoing down from the sky. Aram glanced up just as a black dragon swooped down and landed in the space between the army of therlings and the line of Elesium that had formed to either side of Madiveron. A helmed figure in dark armor slid from the dragon’s back and stalked toward him with long, arrogant strides. A resounding roar trembled the air, and Aram glanced back to see that Agaroth had settled upon the high cliffs above them and stood crouched forward with wings swept back, as though ready to pounce upon this new foe.

  Madiveron snorted and pawed at the ground, laying his ears back at the approaching figure. Aram caressed his neck and dismounted. As he did, he felt a stab of apprehension from Agaroth. His dragon did not trust this foe. Neither did Aram. He walked toward the figure at a measured pace, hand on his sword, nerves stretched thin. He did not halt until he stood before the stranger. Reaching up, he undid the buckle of his chinstrap and pulled his helm off his head.

  His opponent followed suit, removing off a barbute helmet and releasing a waterfall of silvery hair that rivaled Madiveron’s lustrous mane. Aram’s breath caught as he realized he was confronted by a pale, striking woman, taller than himself and delicate of build, her eyes full of intelligence and yet steeped in shadow. Looking upon his face, she smiled a confident and gloating grin. Her aura blazed with purple brilliance, a color that screamed corruption and wrongness.

  “The boy-Champion has come to stand against us this day,” the woman said, her eyes glinting, a sneering smile on her lips. “How fortunate. My master desires your soul as much as he craves the flesh of those you ward. Today, he will feast on both.”

  She patted the weapon at her side, and for the first time, Aram recognized the sword for what it was: a Baelsword, like the one Kathrax had wielded in his vision. This sword was different; its hilt was carved of dark bone into the distorted likeness of a panther. The sword had an aura of its own, and it gleamed black like the breath of night, coruscating over the length of the scabbard.

  Aram’s eyes burned with anger. “Tell your master his armies will find only defeat in the Winmarch.”

  The woman sneered, tossing her hair. “The defeat will be yours, child. You have surrounded yourself with the vanquished. I see behind you the coward Steed of Raginor, who fled the field when his master was slain. And the dragon who failed Daymar Torian and didn’t have the decency to die. Where is your Shield, Champion? Was he vanquished too? Who will protect you from the thirst of my blade?”

  Aram ground his teeth at the sting of her insults. He was used to taunts, for he had known them all his life. What he could not suffer were affronts to his friends and allies.

  Fear is your enemy, his father’s voice echoed in his mind. Don’t surrender to it.

  “I don’t fear you,” he growled, and donned his helm.

  “You should, boy.”

  Ignoring her, Aram started back across the ground to where Madiveron waited with the glowing line of Elesium.

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  He had gone only a few steps when he heard the unmistakable metallic rasp of a blade being drawn. Aram bared his own sword and whirled, barely avoiding a blow that almost severed his hand from his wrist. His sword glowed with the blue light of the power within him, and it met the woman’s Baelsword with a sound impact that jarred through his body, rattling every bone and nerve.

  He staggered, feeling an instant of panic. This was no woman he fought, but something far more insidious. Magic suffused her, lending her an inhuman strength that no mere mortal could oppose. The blade
of the Baelsword in her hands was like a black wound in the world, sucking light and life from the air around it.

  A thunderous roar exploded around him as the two sides engaged in battle. The Elesium fought with the might of their hooves and souls, and he could feel their presence bolstering him, lending him their strength.

  Aram struck out with a downward slice, infusing his weapon with aethereal strength. But his opponent was just as fast and just as powerful, and the Baelsword deflected the strike and continued upward, seeking his neck. Aram was quick enough to turn her blade aside, but the pommel of her hilt struck him in the head, a blow that would have incapacitated him had he not diverted magic from his sword to his helm at the moment the strike impacted.

  Still, the blow was enough to ring his head, and his next reaction was delayed.

  The woman struck out with an armored boot, kicking him forcefully in the thigh, at the same time pressing forward with a lightning-quick barrage of cuts. Aram staggered backward, blade raised defensively to absorb the blows. It took every drop of magic his mind could weave to hold back the torrent of dark steel raining down upon him.

  This woman had to be their Champion—there was no other explanation for the strength and proficiency of her attacks. With the Baelsword lending her its might, she was far more powerful and competent than he was. Had Markus been there with him, Aram thought he might have stood a chance. But now, he feared he did not. Little by little, she was overpowering him, wearing him down. It was just a matter of time before he reacted too slowly or made a fatal mistake.

  A black mote of darkness the size of a fist shot out of the woman’s hand, taking him in the face. Aram cried out as he felt the heat of it burn his skin. Reflexively, he disengaged and staggered away, bringing a hand up to his face. She charged him, closing the distance in a heartbeat, her obscene blade thrusting for his chest.

  Aram managed to turn her sword aside, but he lost his footing. His ankle turned, and he fell to the ground. She was on top of him in an instant, her demon-blade pressed against his neck. Aram stared up into her face, aghast, realizing he had lost the fight.

  The woman went flying backward, hurled off of him with a scream.

  Aram scrambled to stand, gaping at Agaroth, who lunged past him. But just as the dragon’s mouth was ready to close around her, the woman brought the Baelsword up, its blade raking across the scales of Agaroth’s neck. The dragon hissed in pain, recoiling, blood pulsing from the wound.

  Enraged, Aram thrust his hand out, gathering fibers of aether and bending them to his will, forming them into a massive fireball that shot toward her.

  The tangle of aether exploded, engulfing his opponent in a wreath of flames. The pale woman screamed and dropped to the ground, rolling and weaving darkness to extinguish the blaze. The fire hissed out of existence, but the damage had been done. Her beautiful white hair had been burned to black char that clung to her heat-ravaged face.

  Aram heard a whistling scream and turned in time to see an Elesium go down, its belly torn open by a dagger-length claw. He cried out in horror, but it was too late to do anything. Its scorpion-like attacker whirled toward him, stinger raised and oriented at him.

  Agaroth pounced, catching the creature up in his jaws, his teeth crunching on the hard carapace. Black ichor sprayed from the creature’s abdomen as the dragon shook it back and forth the way a wolf snaps the neck of a hare.

  Aram whirled back around, but the woman was gone. He turned slowly, glancing every which direction, but didn’t see her. Suddenly, her dark blade came from out of nowhere, slicing through his armor and opening the top of his arm.

  Aram hissed in pain, going cold as the bite of the Baelsword took more than blood out of him. Even the mere split-second of contact had been enough to sap a good deal of his strength, and his next motions were sluggish. Before he could bring his blade up, the Baelsword was already coming back again.

  He dodged sideways, though not quickly enough. The motion of the Baelsword had been a feint, and the woman’s gauntleted fist hammered his jaw with the might of a sledgehammer. Aram staggered, dazed, and reflexively wove a net of energy in the air between himself and his foe.

  The net saved his life.

  It caught the Baelsword as it was coming around for him. Reaching out, Aram knocked the sword from the woman’s hand. Before she could react, he lashed out at her with a solid gust of air that slammed into her, flinging her to the ground.

  Without hesitation, Aram rotated his blade to high guard then brought it down with the full strength of his magic behind it.

  The woman screamed and threw her hand up, but his sword cleaved through her arm and continued downward, colliding with her breastplate, which was made of fortified steel, designed to withstand such a frontal attack.

  It split anyway.

  With a terrible crunching sound, Aram’s star-steel blade ripped right through her cuirass and buried itself deep in the woman’s chest, slicing right through her breastbone.

  Wrenching his blade out of her, Aram stepped back just as something slammed into him with horrendous force. He was lifted off his feet and hurled backward. He landed hard against the ground, the wind knocked out of him. Before he could recover, a heavy foot kicked his helmet, ringing his head like a bell. He tried to roll away, but another kick took him in the ribs and, suddenly, he was being trampled.

  There was a ferocious roar, then bodies started flying off him. Agaroth’s head snaked down, his teeth closing around Aram’s body and yanking him off the ground.

  The dragon dropped him at his side, and Aram scrambled to get his feet under him. He grabbed hold of Agaroth’s harness, taking a moment to recover his balance and get his bearings. Seeing a wall of insect-creatures pouring toward them, he shouted a warning to the Elesium.

  As soon as the Great Horses retreated, Agaroth opened his mouth and disgorged a great gush of flames that saturated the battlefield. Creatures shrieked and screamed as they burned, writhing in the inferno. The dragon stalked forward, dousing the enemy ranks in a wash of roiling dragonfire. Everywhere Aram looked, therlings succumbed to the heat, their meat cooking inside their shells. Only the Elesium were unaffected, withdrawn beyond the radius of the flames.

  Emboldened, the Great Horses pressed forward, spilling blinding radiance as they waded into the inferno, which didn’t seem to affect them. Spinning a cooling web of aether around him, Aram raised his sword and walked ahead of them.

  They passed through the wall of flames and emerged unharmed on the other side. There, the insect-things were regrouping, collecting into a mass like a ball of fire ants. Aram swept his sword back over his shoulder and swung it like a club, using the star-steel as a conduit to unleash the full force of his magic.

  A blinding flare of energy shot out from the sword that impacted with horrendous force into the enemy ranks, ripping limbs from torsos and shredding meat, spraying ichor across the field. Aram swung again, slicing through a line of therlings, their bodies yielding like stalks of grain before the farmer’s scythe. Agaroth paced at Aram’s side, gushing white fire, while Aram swept his sword in deadly arcs of magic, mowing down the enemy before they could escape.

  But eventually exhaustion overcame him.

  Aram halted, panting, and stood looking around, blinking and disoriented. When he realized that all of their enemies were dead, he staggered, the strength leaving him. The amount of magic he had woven on the battlefield by far exceeded anything he had ever imagined he was capable of, but it had taken its toll. His knees buckled, and he slumped to the ground, landing in a heap of gore.

  Markus stood at Siroth’s side, one hand on his dragon’s smooth and muscular neck, waiting for Vandra to return. The Wingmaster had gone to inform Luvana and the other members of the Council of the threat to the fortress. If Eld Anoth fell, then there was nothing that could keep Kathrax’s main host from advancing into the Winmarch.

  Vandra had been gone a long time. Markus had been expecting her back before now. His gaze kept
darting to the mouth of the eyrie, hoping for Aram. He was starting to get nervous. Aram had been gone all night, and Winhome wasn’t that far away on dragonback. But every time he looked out onto the terrace, it was always empty.

  Vandra returned, jogging across the eyrie toward him, carrying an enormous sword.

  Seeing the sword, Markus guessed her intent. “Do you think Siroth can fly us both?”

  “Siroth’s a big dragon,” Vandra responded. “He can handle two people on his back.” Reaching Siroth’s side, she gave him a friendly pat. “We’ll fly down there and help organize their defenses. Hopefully, Aram will show up before anything happens. If not, I’m going to need you to help counter their sorcerers.”

  Markus’s stomach tightened, for he knew that meant he might be facing Sergan again. All it would take was for the sorcerer to toss a boulder at him, and he would be just as dead as any other man. All he was good for was blocking magical attacks—he wasn’t supposed to be a mage-assassin.

  Through words and images in his mind, Markus communicated their mission and the importance of it to Siroth. If dragons could frown, then Siroth would be glowering. An image of Markus alone surrounded by thousands of insect-like creatures crossed his mind like an accusation.

  “Don’t worry.” Markus smiled fondly. “I don’t intend to die today. And you’re not allowed to either.” He glanced worriedly at Vandra. “Are you certain he can carry us both?”

  The question earned him a rumble of reproach from his dragon, making Vandra cock an eyebrow at him.

  “There’s your answer.”

  Markus smiled nervously. “I guess it is.” He mounted and waited for Vandra to climb up behind him. As soon as they were secure, the dragon leapt from the terrace, spreading his wings to soar over the gorge.

  Markus resisted the impulse to take one last look back, hoping for a sight of Aram. He had to stop worrying and focus his thoughts on the mission at hand. As Siroth banked toward the mouth of the gorge, Markus leaned forward, gripping his dragon’s spines with his hands. Siroth didn’t seem strained by the weight of two riders as he glided down through the winding canyons, tall sandstone bluffs rising around them on every side. Dipping and weaving, he flew through the eye of a natural rock arch then banked swiftly as the canyon veered ahead of them.