by Meg Cowley
Soren held up his hand to stem the flow of conversation. “So, am I to infer that as long as no Eldarkind interfere with your command, and as long as we have means to fight on our own terms the dragons who harry us, you will all stand for this?”
“Aye,” came the many-bodied response.
~
Soren rushed back to his quarters at once, having sent away the council to summon their forces to Pandora. He had one last thing to do before the ball would be set rolling, unable to be undone: invite the Eldarkind and the dragons to Pandora. The scrying mirror now worked, and Soren called forth the magic.
Tarrell was swift to appear, and they exchanged terse greetings.
“The worst has come to pass,” said Soren grimly.
Tarrell’s shoulders slumped. “I have been unable to scry these last days. Where?”
“Arlyn. Much of Arrow county. Now, the attacks continue, moving south.” He recounted the details once more.
Tarrell did not respond for some time and stood, shaking his head. “I knew the risks, but I did not expect this. Cies has gone over and above to exact his revenge. I feel responsible. If we had not driven them off, if we had killed them, instead, this would have been prevented.”
“Do not blame yourself,” Soren said. “Casualties in Arlyn were limited, thanks to Eve’s wards. It could have been far worse. There was no way to prevent it.”
Tarrell nodded, but his face was lined with grief and guilt. He stirred at last, from his reverie. “Your accounts match mine, at least. I scried Cies but a few minutes before you happened to call for me. He appears to be moving south, and swiftly. They follow the coast, but do not fly over the sea. I have spoken to Farran, and he is adamant it confirms his theory they fly south to warmer climes where they can grow stronger. The cold of our northern climate weakens them. Farran thinks we are rid of him for now, but that he will return.”
“Then we must act, before he does.”
“Agreed.”
“You are prepared to relocate to Pandora?”
“At once. We can arrive within but two days.”
“Then come without delay, please. We will host the dragons in the castle grounds and receive the Eldarkind at the castle.” Soren did not mention that was because he did not trust his lords to welcome their new allies.
“I thank you for your generosity, Soren. We will see you on the morning after tomorrow.” Tarrell drew back, about to end their connection.
“Wait!” Soren held his hand up. “Make a grand entrance,” he said. “My people have grown to fear the dragons greatly, and even your people to some extent. They will be suspicious. They will expect savagery. Make the grandest entrance you can, so we may persuade them otherwise.”
Tarrell regarded him for a moment, his expression inscrutable.
“I’m ashamed to ask what will be obvious to you, but there is no room for error.” Soren’s cheeks began to burn. It felt ridiculous to ask a guest to behave, as though they would not; especially, those as noble as the Eldarkind or the dragons, and yet Soren could not afford for this to go wrong.
Tarrell smiled sadly. “I hope the tensions between our three races will soon be behind us. Certainly, the dragonkin and my own kin are much closer after our shared battles. I am sure we can unify all three races once more, when we are together in Pandora.”
Soren hoped he was right.
~
Within a day, news spread through Pandora about their incoming allies and the forthcoming celebrations to welcome them. Soren hoped they would be treated with respect, not feared or harmed. He was nervous, though. The mood was still volatile, or so it seemed to him, but he kept second guessing himself until he was not sure of anything.
As the Eldarkind began to arrive upon dragon-back, making just a grand an entrance as he had hoped, Pandora’s citizens flocked to the streets to welcome them. At first, screams of fear rang out, for the approaching dragons were huge and fearsome. But as they alighted outside the city, and the Eldarkind dismounted and formed ranks for their civilised parade to the castle, the mood turned to celebration, much to Soren’s relief, as the citizens realised the dragons and the Eldarkind were no threat. In the light of day, their grand entrance into the city left no uncertainty; these were intelligent and benevolent races, not the terrifying savages that destroyed towns and villages.
The noblemen and women of the court greeted their new guests extremely civilly, much to Soren’s relief, and they dined and feasted that night in the great hall, with great braziers burning and the vast doors thrown open to the dragons. The dragon crowded in the courtyard to dine on fresh meat, out of sight of their human guests.
It went as well as Soren could have hoped, and he formally welcomed the Eldarkind and the dragons to Pandora. In turn, Tarrell and Farran went to great lengths to state their peaceful and friendly intentions; Tarrell much more wordily than Farran, as was his nature. Soren breathed a huge sigh of relief as the day was done.
Chapter Twenty Six
Soren, Tarrell, and Farran met the following day in the great hall; the only place in the castle that Farran could fit through the doors. He basked happily before the huge open fire, rumbling with contentment as they reflected with relief at the success of their arrival.
“Perhaps, there is little to fear now that we are here,” said Tarrell.
“I am glad you are here regardless,” replied Soren. “We are in need of hope as much as help. If my people see you as our allies—and I hope they already do—it will give them great hope to know that we fight fire with fire.”
Farran grinned, revealing great, jagged teeth. “Fight we shall. I look forward to the day I next meet that cowardly worm, Cies. It shall be his last.”
Soren was not convinced by the dragon’s bravado and confidence. He looked to Tarrell. “Can we do this? Is it possible?” he asked frankly. “I have trawled through our oldest records. Nowhere can I find mention of how dragons can be defeated. Rather, the opposite. The only way we could survive, judging by records from King Beren’s reign, was to ally with the dragons.”
“It is possible… with our help,” said Tarrell. He explained their strategy from the previous battle with Cies, and, most crucially, how the old blue ice-fire magic had crippled their enemy. “It is a weapon most fearsome that it seems they cannot stand against. This, and working together, are our best hopes. We stand a good chance.”
Farran rumbled his agreement.
“How do we procure some of this ice-fire magic, and what is it?” asked Soren.
“Is is fire infused with ice magic, and it has the power to quench a dragon’s inner fire. In large quantities, I have no doubt it could kill. In the quantities we have, it physically hurts them. It allows our blades to pierce their hides with ease, which human weapons cannot do at all.
“This magic is a lost art in some ways; our oldest blades are created with such spells imbued. We no longer have the knowledge, or the time, to create such weapons before they shall next be needed. However, my smiths have already experimented successfully to create the essence of the ice-fire in isolation. It can be used to coat non-magical weapons and thus, gives them the capabilities of an ice-fire blade until the effects wear off.”
“This means that we could use it?” Soren leapt at the chance to have a weapon that could make a difference in this fight. He felt helpless otherwise.
Tarrell hesitated. “It is a secret of the highest nature. Moreover, it is not given freely away, for it has the power to harm other living things, also. We cannot give it into hands that may misuse it.” He fiddled with his furs, tugging them closer and folding his arms.
“But we need it,” Soren replied. His brows furrowed. “Without it, we are as near as useless. We won’t be able to fight Cies. We’ll be nothing more than sitting ducks! I won’t have my people fight to die, but neither can I command them to retreat. They will not allow you to fight this battle for us. Sharing this weapon could give us a fair chance. Without it, we have no hope of success.
Will you not afford us the chance to defend our homes and our people?”
“I appreciate your problem,” Tarrell replied delicately. “However, humans have not exactly demonstrated that they can be trusted to the level we would require to share a weapon of this nature.”
Soren’s frustration spiked as Tarrell continued.
“We are… intuitive of human nature. We can see how distrustful and fearful your kin are of us—of both our races,” he said with a glance towards Farran. “Even now, when they know we are no threat to them. Humans, armed with a weapon that could kill dragons? This could backfire on those who are their allies.”
“I beg you, Lord Tarrell. We need this. Without it, we will be utterly useless in the fight to come; nothing more than spectators waiting for our own doom. Please, allow me to show you we can be trusted. I will see to it personally that it is given the highest security and secrecy. On my shoulders be it, if any mishaps occur.” Soren stood tall and straight, bearing Tarrell’s scrutiny and Farran’s, whose great orb of an eye watched him unblinking.
Eventually, Farran huffed, and Tarrell sighed. “We will hold you to that. It is greatly dangerous in the wrong hands.”
Soren’s spirits lifted with hope. “When may I have some to test?” His fingers twitched with enthusiasm. “I want to try it on swords and arrows, see what can be done with it.” His imagination teemed with ideas.
Tarrell held a hand to stymy him. “I have not decided yet. I will consider it.”
Soren was forced to swallow his pride and accept Tarrell’s decision. Patience, he cautioned himself. It is not a no.
Their conversation turned back to Cies and where he might be. No further reports had arrived from Caledan that hinted to his whereabouts, but his trail of destruction implied his destination.
“So, you believe he moves south from Caledan, then?” Soren mused once Tarrell and Farran had explained their theory. “Will he attack Roher?”
“He may yet travel that far south, but our best guess is he will return to us to seek out the personal grudge he had on Farran and the clan who remain here in Caledan.”
“Wherever he roams, he will be back,” growled Farran.
Soren stilled. “I heard reports from the steward yesterday that trade lines are disrupted from north Roher of late. Goods once plentiful are now scarce—and their prices high—and some of the usual traders have not arrived at all this season. We are unable to find certain wares at all. Could Cies and his dragons have something to do with this?”
Tarrell and Farran shared a meaningful look.
“It could be,” said Tarrell.
Soren narrowed his eyes. What is he not telling me?
“I think needs must. I must scry Cies, and… Arandulus.”
“Aye,” agreed Farran ominously.
Who? wondered Soren. He discovered soon enough as they retrieved Soren’s scrying mirror at Tarrell’s behest. A nonplussed servant carried it to the top of the tower where Farran could land to join them, for he could not fit inside the castle.
“Leitha Cies,” Tarrell said. The mirror swirled black and cloudy until the image cleared, revealing Cies flying over hills of sand and arid desert plains. His scales were dazzled by the sun and in all directions, all that could be seen was an ocean of dunes and barren hills undulating to the horizon.
“He is north of Roher.” Tarrell frowned and squinted, leaning into the mirror to try and see any details he could. “Alas, I cannot fathom where. From the direction of the sun, he flies east.”
“He flees,” Farran scoffed. “Come. He is not worth our time. Search for Her.”
“Who is it you seek?” Soren asked, his curiosity thoroughly piqued.
“Arandulus of the Water,” Tarrell replied sombrely. “I spoke to you of the elementals rising from their bindings? Bahr was but one. The bonds holding Arandulus in slumber are weakening, and I know She struggles to rise from Her prison. Arandulus sleeps north of Roher, where the sea of sand stretches as far as the eye can see. It is remote, so no human would ever stumble upon Her. And yet, if She has arisen, She could easily cause enough chaos to disrupt the Roherii trade routes.”
“Does Cies seek Her?” Farran lifted his head and growled.
Tarrell allowed himself a bark of laughter. “He will not know She sleeps there; or that he passes Her so close. If he did, he would flee as far as he could. She has no love for dragonkin. Arandulus would destroy Cies in a heartbeat, whether he sought to ally with Her or not. He bears the gifts of fire—of Bahr—and that is enough to earn her enmity.”
Farran rumbled, darkly amused. “That would save us much trouble.”
“Lessa.” Tarrell turned back to the mirror. He took a deep breath. “Leitha… Arandulus ro foss.”
Once more, the mirror plunged into darkness and Tarrell waited with bated breath as it cleared. Soren leaned forward and Farran snaked his head closer.
A great storm. Flashes of lightening upon a darkened landscape that ought to have been bright sunshine, and the glint of light on water where there should have been none. Soren’s skin prickled. The mirror sharpened, and he gasped as he saw the watery figure as tall as the heavens stalking through the dunes, followed by a flood of epic proportions.
“No…” whispered Tarrell.
“It is too late. She has risen,” growled Farran.
“I don’t understand,” said Soren.
Tarrell tore his gaze away from the mirror where the figure blazed a trail of watery destruction to Soren. “It is worse than we warned. I told you of the threat from the elementals, but now that they are awakening, it lends even greater urgency to us all. We must defeat Cies to be able to rebuild the pact. And we must mend the pact before we can bind the elementals anew.”
~
Tarrell came to Soren that night as pensive as he had been that afternoon upon discovering Arandulus was free of Her bonds. Soren received him, surprised he had come. Wordlessly, Tarrell handed Soren a small black pouch made of a woven material he had never seen.
Soren opened it and pulled out the small, clear, stoppered bottle inside. It was filled with a blue substance like no other. Neither solid, not liquid, nor gas, it emitted its own blue-white light that undulated around the bottle of its own volition like a living flame, though starved of air it must have been in the container. Soren looked at Tarrell, the question clear in his eyes. The gravity of what he held was not lost upon him.
He was solemn as Soren had not seen him before. “With this gift goes my trust,” said Tarrell quietly. “This is but a small sample of our ice-fire. I have my kin preparing more night and day so we shall be ready when the time comes. In the meantime, I entrust this to you for your use only, for any testing you may wish to carry out. Look inside the bag.”
Soren did as he was instructed and pulled out two gloves, made of an identical material to the pouch.
“The pouch and gloves are the same material. They are woven of both cloth and spells of protection, so the bottle shall not break, even if you dropped it from the highest tower of this castle. The gloves are a necessary precaution. Wear them when you handle it, or you will come to great harm. Skin is no match for the ice-fire. It will harm dragons and men alike, it is so powerful.”
Soren made to put the gloves back in the bag, though he was still captivated by the beauty of the ice-fire. Tarrell caught his wrist before he could move. “Do not let anyone touch this, promise me.”
Soren nodded, and held it more gingerly, still worried about breaking it. “I promise I will keep it safe. The Lord Steward will know of somewhere it can be kept, where it shall not be taken or tampered with.” He placed the bottle in the back and tightened the drawstring handle, holding it carefully. From the outside, the bag was nondescript; something that the eye would easily pass over. That would serve discretion well, Soren hoped.
Chapter Twenty Seven
Soren inspected the dragon’s wound cautiously. She radiated warmth in strange contrast to the chill held by the last winds of
winter that crept inside his furred cloak. He pulled it closer as he bent forward to peer at the clean rend through her scarlet scales—which oozed violet blood—and the sparks of blue ice-fire that lingered on her still.
She growled, a constant low rumble of discontent, occasionally whimpering with the pain and snarling when the Eldarkind working to heal her prodded too hard, or for too long.
“Tell me what happened, Iolanta,” Soren asked.
Iolanta opened one of her ruby red eyes just a crack. “The human threw the essence of ice-fire at me without provocation.” She snarled. “I should have roasted him where he stood.”
“But you did not,” said the Eldarkind, not looking up from her work. “For I was on hand to stop it. An eye for an eye never ends well.”
“You are not the one being poisoned by your very bane,” Iolanta snarled.
“Peace,” her healer whispered, and placed a hand softly on Iolanta.
Iolanta huffed unhappily and smoke puffed from her nostrils.
Soren suppressed a cough. “What happened next?” he prompted.
“I immobilised the pair of them,” said the Eldarkind, as if it was as simple as that. “We were in the gardens. I was admiring the view over the great lake from the treetops when I saw the human behaving most furtively. I climbed down to follow him. I recognised the pouch of ice-fire at once, for I have been helping to create it. Before I could ask what he was doing with it, Iolanta appeared and the human attacked. I alerted Lord Tarrell and Farran-visir at once—and yourself by our trusted messenger.” She met Soren’s eyes almost apologetically.
Soren suppressed a scowl. It did not need to be said that a human messenger would not have acted with discretion on this matter. “Where is the perpetrator now?”
“In the dungeons,” said Behan as he arrived with ruddy cheeks. He leaned heavily on his walking staff heaving great breaths as he recovered.
Soren turned immediately. “Do we have his identify? And how on earth he came to possess ice-fire? I charged you to protect it!” he gestured sharply at Behan. “I vouched personally for our good conduct.”