by ML Spencer
Aram forced himself to relax but couldn’t help a last glance back as Markus led him away.
A new command pavilion was erected in the center of the camp, well back from the first, out of line of sight of the enemy. As soon as the canvas was stretched over the posts, Aram found himself ensconced within it, surrounded by the leaders of the various nations who had pledged their support to their campaign. Behind the tent rose the glimmering statue of the Anchor, a looming reminder of all they fought for and all they stood to lose.
Aram remained in the tent late into the night, listening to reports and discussing contingencies. He didn’t have much to add to the conversation, but found himself listening intently, learning from minds far more experienced than his own. Only when pressed would he offer suggestions that were grounded far more in intuition than knowledge. As the night wore on, Aram found that some of those feelings of intuition were becoming stronger and more urgent, and he wondered if his mind was learning to discriminate between what was just a hunch or an actual interpretation of the strands.
Betharyl, a grizzled woman who led the Ubedian Clan of the Senjian Waste, entered his tent with a contingent of guards and commanded his attention. Ubedid, apparently, was a matriarchy, and most of its leaders were women. Aram couldn’t stop staring at Betharyl, who was taller than all of the men gathered in the tent, and just as broad of shoulder. Looking at her, he couldn’t help being reminded of Vandra, and the thought made him sad.
“We don’t have the numbers, so why are we here?” she demanded.
Remaud, a leathery warrior with long hair and a scarred face, responded, “We’re here to fight a war. At least, that’s why the Kajidans are here—I don’t know about the Ubedians. I say we let the Wings pour dragonfire down upon them,” he urged Aram. “We have enough dragons to put them to the rout without having to waste an arrow.”
Aram tapped his knuckles against his chin, his gaze lowered in thought. He shook his head. “No. That won’t work.”
“Why won’t it work?” demanded Remaud.
“Because of their sorcerers. I can’t fight a battle and maintain light cloaks around all our dragons.”
“How many dragons do you think you can protect at once?” asked Markus.
Aram frowned, considering the question, at last offering a shrug. “It depends on how divided my attention is. If I’m sorely pressed, I can’t guarantee anything.”
The tent broke into a tumult of conversation. It took another hour, but at last they decided on a strategy that Aram thought had the best chance of success, which was to use the advantage of high ground and let the enemy come to them as much as possible. The dragons would be used to provide reconnaissance and harass the flanks of the enemy forces but would not be flown directly over the battlefield.
Eventually, the leaders dispersed to their respective commands. Aram and Markus remained behind, deciding it best to sleep in the command tent, just in case they were needed. One of the officers sent over a supper of roasted venison, which Aram couldn’t get down. Nerves made his stomach too tense, and his throat was too constricted to swallow. They sat outside the tent, under the light of the moon, Aram looking on as Markus attacked the meal ravenously.
“You need to relax,” Markus advised through a mouthful of venison. “It’s not going to do anyone any good if your thinking’s addled from hunger.”
Aram leaned back against the trunk of a white-barked sycamore. Its leaves carpeted the ground, providing a soft cushion upon which to sit. In his lap, his hands were occupied with a bit of twine, tying little knots over and over into the string, applying all his fierce concentration to it. Tonight, even the twine wasn’t helping, not when he knew what dawn would bring. The meeting in the command tent hadn’t helped. Too many people had looked to him for direction he wasn’t qualified to give. Doubts were beginning to plague him, and he found himself questioning his own judgment, uncertain of his part in any of this. He was terrified that he was going to fail, and that his failure would doom them all. He prayed that feeling was just simple nerves and not his awakening intuition.
The sound of footsteps crunching on leaves made him look up from his knotting to find himself staring into Luvana’s face. He was shocked to see her, for no one had told him she was coming. She must have flown dragonback, and he wondered which dragon would have condescended to carry her. Then he thought of Ragath, Vandra’s dragon, who would no doubt have wanted to come, seeking salvation or vengeance for his rider. Luvana’s expression made him drop the twine and spring to his feet.
“What is it?”
Luvana didn’t answer at first. “There’s something you need to see.”
Markus followed Aram to his feet.
“Come,” the Dedicant Mother said, and walked away without answering.
Aram exchanged glances with Markus then hurried to follow Luvana as she walked swiftly back through the dark encampment, winding their way around cook fires and pitched tents toward the charred remains of the first command pavilion. There, a throng of hundreds of people had gathered along the ridge of the hill, all gazing down toward enemy lines. Cold needles of dread pricked Aram’s skin as he pushed his way forward through the crowd with a feeling of urgency.
They stopped when they reached the crest of the hill and looked down upon the plain below. The incline was sharp, and it offered a good view of the entire prairie. Below them was a long swath of empty ground between the base of the hill and the perimeter of the enemy encampment, twice the distance of a longbow’s reach. Beyond that, the campfires of Kathrax’s army danced like a shimmering sea of gemstones.
In the middle of the cleared area, a large pile of wood had been stacked, and within it, tied to a pole, was a restrained prisoner. Aram’s body went numb, his breath catching, when he realized he was looking down upon the scene of impending tragedy. All across the crest of the hill, the crowd of onlookers stood silent and still, clenched in the cold grip of dread.
Aram’s gaze went to the prisoner tied to the pole. Enemy soldiers were hauling in more wood, stacking it piece by piece around the prisoner’s feet as the woman hung limply from the bindings that held her. Wondering if she was already dead, Aram stared at her harder.
He gasped, realizing it was Vandra.
He had only recognized her because of her long raven hair. Blood and bruises covered her face, which was a cruel bastardization of its former beauty. Aram clenched his fists, a terrible, horrified rage hollowing his insides. The crowd around him shifted, and the silence faltered. From somewhere, he heard the sounds of weeping.
“Aram…” Markus whispered.
Below, an armored soldier holding a lit torch approached the woodpile Vandra was staked over.
“You have to do something,” Markus gasped.
But Aram was already gathering strands of aether. He started weaving, sending a violent gust of air across the field below, knocking the flame right off the torch. Banners crackled and billowed on their staves for just an instant, but then went still as the gust passed.
There was a long moment of silence.
Then the ranks parted, admitting a man wearing the blue mantle of the Exilari, who carried another crackling torch. He walked forward defiantly, his gaze fixed on Aram as though daring him to act. He drew to a stop before the woodpile and simply waited, torch in hand.
Gritting his teeth, Aram summoned another gust of air. It formed well behind them in the hills before unleashing itself upon the prairie, sweeping over the grass to slam into the encampment of the enemy, staggering soldiers and collapsing tents.
And yet, the Exilar’s torch remained undisturbed.
“He’s a Shield,” Markus whispered in a leaden voice.
Even as he said it, three more men and a woman stepped out from within the ranks of the enemy, positioning themselves between Aram and Vandra. All Shields, Aram knew. He felt the strength and courage drain out of him, for he knew he was defeated. He shook his head, tears of despair collecting in his eyes. Even with all
the power the gods had seen fit to give him, there was nothing he could do against that one, tiny flame.
With the slightest motion, the Shield tossed the lit torch into the woodpile.
The flames caught immediately and raced over the fuel, dark smoke pouring upward from the blaze. Vandra threw her head back and howled a hollow and raspy scream that sounded torn from a throat that had already screamed itself hoarse. She continued to scream as her form became one with the flames, just a shimmering distortion within the blaze. Her wails turned to shrieks that clawed piteously at the air.
Until they didn’t.
Then another noise rose above the crackle of the fire: the anguished, primal howl of a dragon who had lost its kindred soul. Behind them, Ragath launched himself into the air, spewing a font of white flames like a molten geyser. Enraged beyond sanity, the dragon couldn’t hold a course, but careened in a twisting, mindless path toward the enemy. A cloud of arrows rose above the field, arcing toward him, only to become vaporized by the heat spewing from his mouth. White dragonfire, roiling with intensity, slammed into the enemy ranks with the force of a pyroclastic blast, incinerating bodies and melting steel.
The air was filled with the screams of the burning, as though in augmented parody of the grisly execution. Reaching the end of the enemy encampment, the dragon wheeled in the air, spewing fire across the sky, coming back around for another attack.
A strobe of lightning jabbed upward from the ground, spearing Ragath through. Flames gushed from the rent in his chest, and the dragon tumbled from the sky, trailing smoke and fire behind him like the tail of a comet. He crashed at full speed into the center of the encampment, tumbling in a fiery ball that mowed down soldiers and tents, at last coming to a blazing rest.
Both on the hill and on the plain below, a horrified silence fell, and for a long time, the only sound in the night was the crackling of flames. Aram stood gasping, throttled by grief, unable to look away from the blazing mass of the slain dragon. He watched it burn for seconds, transfixed by the spectacle, his vision blurring.
“Aram,” Markus said, setting a hand on his shoulder.
Markus’s voice finally broke him from his stupor. Wiping his eyes, Aram whirled and trudged away, pushing his way back through the stunned crowd.
Chapter Ninety-Five
Aram slumped down beside the campfire, leaning back against the trunk of an oak tree and staring upward at the black silhouettes of branches above him. He was trembling, aching with a gut-twisting combination of guilt, grief, and horror. Vandra had been his mentor and his friend. She had respected him right from the first and had believed in him even when he didn’t believe in himself. She was a formidable warrior and an inspiring friend.
He should have been able to do something. Anything.
His eyes burned, and he felt physically ill.
“It’s not your fault,” Markus said.
Aram’s lips compressed, and he stared hard into the fire, letting the world diminish until the flames blotted out all his other senses. “It was just a torch. What good am I, if I can’t put out a single torch?”
He could hear the echoes of Vandra’s screams in his mind, and the tormented cries of her poor dragon. The image of Ragath plunging from the air kept repeating over and over in his mind. For some reason, the dragon’s death bothered him just as much as Vandra’s, maybe because of the appalling shock of it.
“You’ll make a difference tomorrow.” Markus picked up a stone and turned it absently in his hands. “We both will. Tomorrow, we’ll pay them back.” He, too, was gazing into the flames, but his expression was vengeful. His dark hair hung in his face, plastered there with sweat, even though the evening was cool.
Abruptly, Aram rose.
“Where are you going?” Markus asked, twisting around to look at him.
But Aram didn’t answer. His throat had tightened to the point that any answer he could have given would have come out a croak. Leaving Markus by the fire, he trudged off into the night, winding his way around tents and campfires. He walked with his head bowed, trying to hide his face so he wouldn’t be recognized. The few times people greeted him, his only reply was a nod or a coarse mumble, for he couldn’t conjure anything better. He was too tormented by emotions, and there was only one thing in the world strong enough to give him comfort.
He walked as fast as he could toward the outskirts of the encampment, where he knew Agaroth waited. He could feel his dragon’s presence in his mind, and he knew that Agaroth was just as troubled as he was. He, too, had been rattled by Vandra’s death, though not for the same reason as Aram. He was much more concerned about the number of enemy Shields he had seen, and the threat they posed his rider.
When Aram reached him, he collapsed against his dragon’s side, running his hand across Agaroth’s red scales and pressing his cheek against him, taking comfort in his presence. He let his dragon’s strength seep slowly into him, making up for what he lacked of his own.
“If I fall in battle tomorrow, I don’t want you to do what Ragath did,” he whispered. “Promise me you’ll survive. Promise me you’ll find another to share the bond with.”
Agaroth growled low in his throat, dismissing the notion contemptuously. He would be powerless to do anything different, and to try to act against instinct would be a shameful attempt to deny nature her wisdom. Their souls were intertwined for a reason, and that reason extended beyond the mere bounds of mortal life.
“But it doesn’t have to be that way,” Aram argued. “You survived losing Daymar, and you can survive without me too. You’re the last of the Great Ones, and this world needs you far more than I do.”
He knew the moment the words left his mouth that he had voiced the greatest reason why his dragon would never outlive him. Agaroth was the last of his kind, just as Aram was the last of his, and he could never endure in this world without a soul as great as his to cleave to.
At last understanding, Aram slammed a fist against his thigh, cursing the undeniability of nature. His dragon curled his neck around him, and the warmth of Agaroth’s body felt good against his back. But even the dragon’s touch could not keep the recurring image of Ragath’s fall from haunting his mind.
Eventually, he fell asleep, his dragon curled around him. But it was not a restful slumber, as it was disturbed by frightful dreams. When Aram moaned and thrashed in his sleep, Agaroth drew nearer, resting his head against his chest. Eventually, both dragon and human found some measure of rest, though not peace.
Dawn came.
Only, it was less of a transition from night into day than it was a shift from tension to action. Aram awoke before sunrise and returned to Markus, but the rest of the encampment was already stirring and preparing for the coming battle. Warriors were sharpening their weapons and donning their gear, gathered around campfires eating what may be their last meals.
The sun rose darkly, obscured by thick clouds that threatened rain, a reflection of the grim storm brewing beneath them. Lightning flashed and flickered on the horizon, the sight making Aram shiver. It reminded him of the sorcery that had brought down Ragath, and he knew other dragons would die this day.
Markus looked up from where he sat beside the campfire, acknowledging Aram with a nod. There was no sign of resentment on his face, as Aram had feared, though seeing him there all alone brought him a pang of guilt. Aram sat down at his side. Markus held a wood spit in his hand, roasting strips of meat above the flames.
“I’m sorry,” Aram muttered.
“It’s all right,” said Markus. “Esmir came by and kept me up late into the night. It’s probably better you weren’t here. At least you got some sleep.”
“Esmir’s here?” Aram asked. He hadn’t seen the old Warden.
Markus tossed a stick into the fire. “He came with Luvana.”
Aram shook his head, wondering what Luvana had been thinking, bringing Esmir here, of all people. He reached up and rubbed his eyes. When the meat was done, Markus pulled the spit out of the
flames and blew on the meat to cool it down. He tried to pull off a strip but jerked his fingers back.
“Want some?” he asked, shaking his hand.
“No, thank you.” Aram didn’t understand how Markus could be eating; his own stomach had enough things to handle.
After the meal, they geared up, then Aram waited as Markus kicked dirt over the fire.
Markus drew a deep breath, raising his eyebrows. “Are you ready?”
Aram somehow conjured a weak smile. “Does it matter?”
Markus didn’t smile back. “No. I suppose it doesn’t.” His face grew somber. “Years ago, Master Ebra charged me with protecting you, and I promised him I would. So far, I haven’t lived up to that promise very well.” Markus’s eyes hardened. “Today, I will.”
“You’ve always been there for me,” Aram differed. He held out his hand, and when Markus clasped it, Aram drew him into a hug. He was profoundly grateful, for Markus was the best friend any man could ever ask for.
Markus clapped him on the back. “Come on. Better get going before this battle starts without us.”
“Oh, it’s not starting without us,” Aram said bitterly, stooping to pick his sword up off the ground. “I’m not that lucky.”
Together, they made their way toward where the front line was forming along the ridge overlooking the plain. There, the soldiers were forming up, archers in the front, arrayed along the swells of the hills. Aram’s gaze fell on a woman standing at the end of a row of tents.
Calise.
She stood under the shadow of a maple tree, her arms folded in front of her. Seeing her, Aram felt a rush of joy that bordered on euphoria, and he jogged over to her, taking her in his arms and kissing her softly. When they parted, he stood staring into her face, trying to read the expression in her eyes. It wasn’t an emotion he recognized, perhaps a mixture of several.
“Are you upset?” he asked, suddenly wondering if he’d done something wrong.