Dragon Mage

by ML Spencer

  They flew for long miles over the mountaintops, until the plains came into view and they looked upon the encampment of the enemy below. They were approaching the fortress of Eld Anoth, which sat upon a tall bluff above the plains. It had an enormous curtainwall that enclosed concentric rings of battlements complete with bastions and towers. Inside the curtainwall, there was a long reservoir of water that extended all along the wall at the top of the cliffs, flooding a portion of the fortress’s interior. It was an intriguing feature, like a moat, though on the wrong side of the wall. On the other side of the reservoir were towers, some of them as tall as ten stories. One tower in particular rose above all the rest, slender, with a weathered copper dome.

  Siroth circled low over the fortress, picking out the best place to land. At last, he descended onto the top of one of the fortified towers above the main gate. Markus climbed from his back and stood leaning against him for a moment until the world stopped rocking beneath his feet.

  “I’m fine,” he mumbled at the dragon’s unspoken question. The flight had been a bit rockier than most, perhaps from Vandra’s added weight.

  He heard the sound of rushing feet, and a group of soldiers spilled onto the roof of the tower and stopped in front of them, raising their hands to their hearts in a gesture that Markus returned awkwardly. They were not Auld, but men with exceptionally dark skin reminiscent of the people of Odessia in the World Above. They wore quilted armor of bright colors and were armed with swords and quivers of throwing javelins. They stood in silence, gazing down upon the army below with grim faces that bore no trace of fear.

  Vandra walked forward, halting in front of a man that Markus took to be an officer despite any outward sign of his rank.

  “You came,” the man breathed, though the look in his eyes was anything but relieved. “Where are the others?”

  Vandra shook her head grimly. “There will be no others. None could get through because of their sorcery.”

  This, the soldier accepted with a resigned bow of his head, the way a man found guilty of murder might accept word of his conviction. After a moment, he looked up at Vandra and asked pointedly, “Then you came to die with us?”

  “Not if we can help it.” Vandra jerked her head toward Markus. “This is Warden Galliar. He is Impervious to magic, and by his virtue, so is his dragon. They cannot be brought down by sorcery.”

  The officer’s gaze slipped from Markus to Siroth, the lines of his brow furrowing. “One dragon will not be enough. They have four.”

  Markus looked out through the slots in the parapet at the army below. The officer was right. They would not be enough. He closed his eyes and silently prayed for Aram to hurry.

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  Markus stood with Vandra at his side, gazing out between the tower’s crenelations at the foothills below the fortress. The army of Kathrax was very visible in the morning light. The enemy had broken camp and were advancing up the slope that rose out of the plain, ascending the hill crowned by the walls of the fortress. From the ground, their numbers looked much more intimidating than they had from the air. The vanguard of the army was a hodgepodge collection of misshapen creatures that looked more at odds with each other than they did with their adversaries. Markus couldn’t help comparing them to the well-disciplined legions of the Abadian Empire, professional soldiers who fought and died for a living. The army arrayed on the slopes below them was something different entirely. There was no order to them, no banners or heralds, and they shared nothing by way of identity—not even uniforms—and he wondered what could possibly be holding together such unlikely allies.

  The insect-like creatures advanced at a faster rate than did the rest of the army, their spindly legs moving quickly at awkward angles, giving them a rigid, jolting stride. After them came a diverse group of void walkers: pale, misshapen creatures that resembled sick parodies of nature. There were hairless deer and foxes, wolves and antelope, hawks and eagles soaring on tattered wings. Behind them came what looked like an army of albino humans. Many appeared wounded, their stride faltering, while some leaned on others for support. Between them swarmed eel-like therlings: white, sinuous ribbons that rippled as they floated above the ground, mouths lined with jagged teeth.

  “Where did they all come from?” Markus asked, for when they had met this army before, it looked nothing like it did now. “How can therlings survive so long outside the void?”

  Beside him, Vandra stood with an arm draped casually over the dressed masonry of a merlon. She leaned forward and spat a glob of spittle over the parapets. “Kathrax has been draining all the Wellsprings he’s taken. Now we know why: he’s been building an army of void creatures.”

  “But that makes no sense.” Markus’s eyes studied the advancing figures below, wondering who and what those people and animals may have once been. Most of them had been lost from the world during the Sundering, he was sure. But why would they ally with Kathrax? And if they were being fed essence, then why did they look so hideous? The only explanation he could think of was that they were only being fed just enough to keep them alive this side of the void, but not enough to truly make them whole. These creatures were most likely slaves to those who fed them, forever hungering for more essence than their captors were willing to give.

  Markus stared down at the enemy forces in dismay, realizing that there would be no end to them. For every creature their own soldiers cut down, Kathrax’s sorcerers could simply bring more through the Veil. There would be only one way to truly defeat them: to kill the sorcerers who were creating and maintaining the ruptures.

  Markus’s throat felt as dry as desert sand. He didn’t stand a chance against a sorcerer without Aram. Alone, there wasn’t much he could do. Perhaps if he caught one by surprise, he could drive his sword through them before they realized he was Impervious.

  Turning away from the parapets, he drew in a long, regretful breath.

  “Dragonfire’s still our best strategy.” Vandra sounded grimmer than she had when they’d first arrived. “We have to find a way to reduce their numbers before they overrun the walls. Look at those things.” She gestured at the insect-creatures. “They don’t look like they’d have any problem scaling a wall. When the battle starts, send Siroth up to attack from the air. You stay with me.”

  “He’s going to need me—”

  Vandra shook her head. “He’ll be protected by the bond. What’s part of you has become part of him.”

  Markus didn’t argue, because it made sense. There was not a part of him that wasn’t intertwined with Siroth, as though they were two aspects of the same soul.

  “What would you have me do?” he asked.

  Vandra appeared thoughtful. “They don’t have siege weapons. They must plan to use their sorcerers to break the walls. Stay by me. We’ll defend the gate. Just remember—you’re not here to be a soldier. You’re here to counter magic. That’s it. So stay out of the fight.”

  Markus turned and scanned the fortress behind them, his gaze roving over an uneven landscape of concentric walls interrupted by thin towers made of limestone masonry. A warm breeze ruffled his hair that smelled of cook fires and nervous sweat. He hadn’t expected Eld Anoth to be as big as it was. The fortress was the size of a small city, and it must have been even larger at one time, for the buildings no longer filled the walls that ringed it. Within, there were dozens of pools and reservoirs flanked by trees and gardens, and the foothills outside the walls were cultivated with olive orchards.

  A shadow passed over him, drawing Markus’s attention upward. A small dragon flew by overhead with a rider on its back. Siroth gave a low and menacing growl, the spines on his back raising. Markus could feel his dragon’s loathing for this corrupted creature that had once been its kin. Siroth didn’t understand how any dragon could turn against men and was both confused and repulsed by it.

  As he stood looking up at the dragon flying over, a terrible cold gripped Markus, making his insides shiver. He gritted his teeth and clutch
ed a stone merlon for stability, feeling as though a bucket of ice water had been thrown over him. Beneath his feet, the wall shuddered. The battlements heaved with a terrible groan, raining pebbles and mortar down their faces.

  Magic.

  The dragon’s rider was a sorcerer and had attacked the wall on which they stood. Marcus had unwittingly repulsed the brunt of the attack, which was probably the only reason why the wall was still standing. All around him, the defenders were scrambling and looking to the sky, shading their eyes against the glare of the morning sun. Two more dragons rose from behind the advancing army, pumping their wings to gain altitude.

  “Let me take Siroth up,” Markus said. “We can go after them—”

  “No.” Vandra shook her head. “I need you here. When the fighting starts, send Siroth up alone.”

  Markus glanced nervously at the sky. Where was Aram? He clenched his hands into fists. Aram should have been there already, unless something had gone terribly wrong.

  Below, smoke rose from the orchards. The ranks of the enemy had reached them, and they were setting the trees ablaze. The insect-things spilled through the orchards first, pouring impossibly fast over the ground like waves breaking upon a beach. They moved with a blurring roar that sounded like thousands of blades pressed against grinding wheels. They reached the bottom of the cliffs that supported the fortress’s walls and then continued straight up the cliff face.

  Immediately, the defenders began raining rocks and hot sand down through murder holes, which seemed to have little effect. For every bulbous body knocked off the rock face, three more scampered upward to take its place. The buzzing roar grew louder, became deafening. Markus had to resist the impulse to cover his ears. He raced to the edge of the parapet and looked down, trying to see the therlings advancing on his own position, but the wall hung too far out from the cliff, and he couldn’t see what was straight below them.

  The parapet beneath his feet heaved.

  The tower across the gate from them erupted in an explosion of fire, spilling rocks to the courtyard below. Screams cut through the sounds of mayhem as men burned, falling to the ground in balls of fire. The day around them flared brilliant white for only an instant, then the wall was jarred by a deafening thunderclap.

  A barrage of lightning strobed the air around them, stabbing down like needling lances at the square behind the gate. Soldiers screamed and fell to the ground, writhing in smoldering anguish as electricity clawed over their bodies.

  A horrendous cold gripped Markus, making him stagger. Clutching himself, he glanced up just in time to see one of the enemy dragons gliding by overhead. Feeling every hair on his body rise, Markus saw that all the soldiers along the wall were staring at him with expressions of awe. They all realized that he was the reason why they hadn’t met the same fate as their counterparts in the courtyard.

  Vandra turned and shouted, “Abandon the Ward! Go! Get the hell out of here!” Then she turned to Siroth and pointed up at the sorcerer’s dragon slithering across the sky. “Kill that damn thing!”

  Siroth immediately spread his wings and vaulted into the air, gaining altitude quickly to avoid the arrows of the enemy. Markus watched Siroth bank toward his foe, his throat clenching in anxiety. Siroth was just as fierce a warrior as any, but he hated not being there to fight at his side.

  “Let’s go!” Vandra’s voice broke Markus’s attention from his dragon.

  She started toward the tower steps, her dark hair fluttering behind her in the wind. Raising his sword, Markus followed her toward the steps to the courtyard. There, they stumbled over debris and smoldering corpses toward the gate, which was cracking and shuddering under whatever force was being applied to it. It couldn’t be a battering ram, so Markus guessed that there was probably a sorcerer on the other side, attacking the gate with magic. The defenders had propped wooden beams at angles against the gate to reinforce it, but even those were starting to give. Dozens of men lent their own body weights to the effort, pushing with all their might against the thundering gate with their backs to it.

  Up in the sky, Siroth roared a challenge to his foe. Markus glanced up just in time to see him swoop toward the enemy dragon. The two collided in the air and tumbled in a fiery mass through the sky before breaking apart. Before the smaller dragon could flee, Siroth vaulted after it. He caught hold of it by the neck and tore into it with teeth and talons.

  “Markus!”

  The gate exploded. He was picked up and slammed to the ground, shards of wood spearing the courtyard all around him and ricocheting off his armor. An enormous cry went up, and then a horde of black-armored creatures came spilling in through the gap left by the gate.

  Markus barely had time to get his sword up before he was being assaulted by spear-tipped legs that stabbed at him like lances, and his only defense was to swing his sword as widely as he could, clearing a space around him while trying to fall back. Their position was quickly overrun, the soldiers in the courtyard dropping dead, skewered by stingers and spike-like claws, their faces chewed by jagged mandibles. Reinforcements rushed forward from the ward behind them, flooding through sally ports.

  The tide of the battle changed as the defenders gained ground, driving the creatures back. Markus found himself falling into a rhythm of slashing and dodging, driving chitinous bodies back out of his way. His blade severed legs and antennae, splitting heads and blinding compound eyes. Vandra fought at his side, swinging her sword with all the strength of a burly man twice her height.

  For the first time, Markus understood the nature of Vandra’s Talent. Not only did her sword move with the power of Auld magic, but her mere presence seemed to lend courage and resolve to the men and women who fought around her. Black ichor coated her face like tar, mixing with blood from a wound in her scalp. Her eyes blazed with battle-rage. No foe could stand before her.

  A lightning strike lit the world around them, dropping a score of defenders where they stood. Many more scattered, running for cover as panic claimed them. Markus glanced around, frantically seeking the sorcerer summoning those deadly spears of magic.

  Through a squirming mass of bodies, his gaze fell on two people wearing blue mantles, walking unmolested through the battle: an Exilari sorcerer and their Shield.

  Clamping his jaw tight, Markus started toward them, cutting his way through a clot of insects. He was almost within striking distance when the Shield must have sensed him, for he whirled toward Markus, sweeping his weapon back.

  Markus halted, frozen mid-stride.

  It was Poda.

  His old friend stared at him as though looking at an apparition, mouth open and eyes wide. At the same time, the woman at his side turned, and when their eyes met, Markus found himself gaping into Peshka’s glowing blue gaze.

  Markus stayed his blade, for he had only known Poda as a kind and gentle friend. He couldn’t bring himself to strike.

  So Poda struck first.

  Markus threw himself backward, but not quickly enough. Poda’s sword impacted with his shoulder, not hard enough to penetrate his armor, but hard enough to hurt. Markus almost lost his grip on his sword. His chest froze with ice as he repulsed a magical attack from Peshka, and Poda’s blade was coming back around for another swing.

  Markus dropped to the ground and struck out with a kick, taking Poda in the knee, at the same time reaching for his dagger.

  Poda fell, landing on top of him and trapping Markus’s dagger against his chest with his weight. Markus struggled, grappling with Poda for control of his sword. Poda brought a fist back and clubbed Markus in the face through the opening of his helm.

  Markus rolled, pinning Poda’s arm against the ground as he struggled to get the dagger out from between them. Suddenly Peshka was there, kicking him in the head, her heavy boot clanging against the thick iron of his helm.

  He shifted just enough to free the hand holding the dagger. Wrenching upright, he thrust it through a gap in Poda’s armor beneath his arm, plunging it down through his chest a
nd into his heart.

  Poda’s back went stiff, his eyes widening, his sword arm slowly wilting like a droughted stem. And then he slumped backward as Peshka scrambled away from him with a soul-wrenching cry. Scooping his sword up, Markus rose and lunged at her, burying his blade in her chest and silencing her scream.

  She slid backward off his blade, collapsing like a ragdoll to lie on the ground, groping at the rent in her chest.

  Markus staggered, his stomach heaving as the horror of what he’d just done slammed into him. He brought a hand up to his mouth, choking, unable to break his eyes away from the pathetic sight of Peshka gulping for air like a fish caught in a net.

  He heard his name.

  Whirling, he glanced back over his shoulder. Across the courtyard from him, Vandra stood with her hands clutching her neck, her face turning a deep shade of red. Markus sprinted toward her, but before he could cross half the distance, she collapsed, and Markus saw the man standing behind her.

  Sergan Parsigal.

  “No!” Markus cried, sprinting forward and drawing his sword back over his shoulder.

  A smile grew on Sergan’s face as his eyes met Markus’s. Raising his hand, the sorcerer clinched it into a fist. On the ground, Vandra thrashed and moaned.

  All Markus could think about was sinking his sword hilt-deep into the sorcerer’s chest. Just as he leapt over Vandra to run Sergan through, something thundered into him, bowling him to the ground. A heavy weight slammed into the side of his helmet, then the entire world bucked and went dark. It took a moment for the light to fade back again, and when it did, he found himself lying on his back, staring up into Sergan’s face. The sorcerer was standing over him, smiling down, eyes blazing with the terrible light of sorcery.