by Meg Cowley
“She will be seeking Bahr,” Farran said grimly. “She will know he has perished, and Kotyir will draw Her, for it contains the last remnants of his magic.”
They approached and dove into the roiling clouds sinking below them where they could spy Arandulus in the gloom. She marched inexorably north with her back to them, and the dragons stormed her at once, bathing her in swathes of fire. She turned and shrieked an inhuman sound of rage that grated on their ears.
“Spawn of Bahr!” she hissed, and turned her attention to them. Soren’s dragon—followed by those who carried his men—dove to the ground to land against the rising winds. They carried something else important, too: iron, and much of it.
“Encircle Her,” Soren shouted to each man and dragon pair. “Do not break the circle at any time. It will be our failure if you do. Do not touch the water. Stay out of her reach and beneath her notice and watch your heads,” he added, ducking to avoid a flying twig. “Am I clear?”
They all nodded, and quickly set to dividing the iron between them equally. Then, Soren was on his own with his dragon and his iron. For a moment, he stopped and looked up; and wished he had not. Arandulus towered above them, as tall as he could see. Her waters were white and dark, thrashing and tumbling over and amongst themselves.
Soren could see other things, too: trees, stones, and worse debris whipping round inside her form. Where her feet tethered to the ground, water rushed and surged, and Soren leaped onto his dragon so they could fly just out of reach of the water that snatched anything it could into its grasp, even as she plucked dragons from the sky and quenched their life in her wet fists.
Far above him on Farran’s back, Tarrell began the incantation, which was taken up by the mouths of his kin, and the dragons crooned, calling Brithilca forth. Farran stumbled and stopped as Arandulus reached a giant watery arm to grab him.
Farran dove out of her way, but was not quick enough, and she grasped his tail. He screeched in pain and flapped wildly, but he could not escape her. A shape blasted out of Arandulus’s side, a giant spray of water, as if she was flesh sliced by a sword.
She looked down, and, momentarily distracted, released Farran, who dashed away into the darkness to regroup at a distance. The water solidified into the huge shape of a dragon bigger than even Farran: Brithilca, though he was made of water, not flesh and scales. He roared, though it sounded strangely muted, as if he did so underwater, and attacked Arandulus mercilessly.
Tarrell resumed his spells as Brithilca harried Arandulus. With every second that passed, Arandulus grew more enraged and her assault grew more fierce. Dragons fell from the sky, their life quenched by her waters, to smash into the ground far below in a giant plume of sand.
Soren watched with horror, struggling to stand in the battering winds. It seemed like the tide of battle was turning, and they would not succeed as easily as he had hoped. There was little he could do but wait with his pile of iron, all the while suppressing the growing doubt within him.
Even though her assault was deadly and devastating, it seemed to fuel the dragons, and they rallied into performing even more daring manoeuvres to maintain their fiery attack. Brithilca’s watery form flew around her, darting towards Arandulus and creating giant, scathing cuts through her that dashed water out into the air as if she bled it. Her form diminished as her water was vaporized by the relentless dragon fire and contained by the Eldarkind magic that constricted her. Bands of glowing light and swathes of fire that moved under the control of the spell encircled her form.
Soren could not help but watch slack-jawed with the rest of his men. He started as the iron beside him clinked and looked down. It moved of its own accord, rattling together as horse shoes clinked with anvils and nails, and then it seemed they melted, into shining liquid drops. Just like in his visions of Beren. They shivered and leapt into the sky, and as he looked across the plain, he saw glinting droplets flying towards Arandulus from all directions. They hit the bands of fire with splashes that cascaded sparks and joined into bands of glowing, molten metal that encircled Arandulus.
“No!” she snarled, and her eyes blazed blue like lightening on a summer’s day. “No!” She struggled but could not snap the bonds. “Twice wronged, you shall pay dearly for this!” she raged at them, trying to stagger in any direction, but she could barely move.
Farran dropped from the sky with a thud behind Soren that made him jump, fearing he was about to be flattened by debris.
“Here!” Tarrell called, and he pulled out a knife.
Soren immediately understood and sprinted towards him in the growing gale as air battered and buffeted him. He hunkered behind Farran’s bulk as Tarrell jumped from Farran’s back, slashed both of their palms, and joined hands to mingle the blood. Soren bit back a cry.
Tarrell turned without delay to Farran, who tilted his head to offer the fleshy underside of his jaw. The knife nicked his hide swiftly, and Tarrell caught the giant purple drop of blood that fell, just as Falykas had in Soren’s vision. The three bloods mingled on Tarrell’s hand, and he closed his fist around the liquid and called the incantation again as Farran leapt into the sky to continue the battle.
“Foss anda Arandulus, ia kaskea uan att aslura, inge flytte, inge tenkir, inge endra, inge eiende i a feld. Ia sinuar uan yta detthe, mina ethera, a ethera ro mina Eldarkin, a jarn ro ungrkin, ja a styrkr ro dragonkin, asti a lok ro timi!”
Water spirit, I command you to sleep, unmoving, unthinking, unchanging, unyielding in the earth. I bind you with this, my energy, the energy of my kin, the iron of man, and the strength of dragonkin, until the end of time!
Tarrell’s words were snatched away into the wind and they could do little but watch as Arandulus shrunk inside the growing bands of fire and metal. There were chinks in her cocoon, and she sought to escape. Great, arching jets of water spurted from them, but each time, Brithilca snapped at them with his own watery jaws and they disintegrated or Arandulus snatched them back inside her prison.
The forms in the sky collapsed in upon themselves and Arandulus emitted a keening shriek that split Soren’s head. He closed his eyes as if it could shield against the sound, but even when he clutched his hands to his ears, he could not stop it piercing into his skull.
All of a sudden, the sound ceased and Soren opened his eyes again. What remained was a ball of twisting fire, molten metal, and pure light in the sky, shrinking into itself again and again. Arandulus still struggled to escape, but the loops of water spurting out grew less and less, and the watery form of Brithilca did not need to act before the force of the magic binding Arandulus pulled her essence back itself.
Soon, nothing was left but a ball the height of a man. Dragons converged on it from all directions, whipping their wings in a strange pattern. Sand rose from the desert into the maelstrom to form a vortex that shrouded Arandulus, and Soren could see it drove into the ground, boring a hole so deep he could not see the bottom. Through the flying sand, which was so sharp Soren had to half close his eyes to shield them, he watched as the orb descended into the hole.
The dragons changed to a new formation and a new pattern of beating wings, and the tornado of sand fell to the earth, now funnelled back to the hole from whence it came until the sand was settled again and nothing could be seen of Arandulus. Just a hump in the ground remained where she had displaced the sand.
Brithilca rumbled, soared over them, and disintegrated into a flood of water that plummeted from the sky as his spirit left its physical form.
Dragons roared with pride and joy, soaring into the sky and performing arcs and somersaults whilst others landed. Eldarkind slipped off their mounts and congregated by Arandulus’ resting place. Tarrell, Farran, and Soren rushed to join them.
Already, the storm clouds were disintegrating and cracks of sunshine became swathes of pale, hazy desert sky. Mud baked. Puddles sunk into the sand. And soon, there was no clue as to what had happened.
As the Eldarkind and dragons congratulated each other, Soren loo
ked up. On the horizon was the figure of a horse and a man. He galloped towards them and Soren jogged to meet him.
Soren was pleased to see that Janus was slack-jawed and speechless.
“You saw?”
Janus swallowed and nodded. His face was full of fear as much as it was questions, judging by the look of his twisted brows.
“Tell your father of this. I consider our treaty binding as of this moment.” With great satisfaction, Soren turned and walked away. Only when he was out of sight of Janus and amongst the dragons and the Eldarkind did he let his shoulders slump with a huge sigh of relief. Trust to the plan. We did it.
Chapter Thirty Five
It was a slower return to Pandora, but only just, for the dragons were battle weary, but there was still one urgent matter to attend to: the re-binding of all other elementals before they awoke. Soren considered that the pact was remade after facing Arandulus, but Brithilca had one last plan in mind that would not only seal the alliance between men, Eldarkind, and dragons, but rid them of the threat of the elementals forevermore.
There was no time to waste. As they arrived in Pandora, they flocked to the ruins of the cathedral where Brithilca’s indestructible statue still stood amongst the collapsed walls and the devastated structure. Only the tower remained almost intact whilst much of the rest of the building was razed. Cies’ damage of the columns holding the roof had done their job. It had collapsed almost entirely, pulling the walls down with it.
Stonemasons were already busy carting rubble away from the site and trying to organise the ruins, but it would be a process that would take decades to complete. As the dragons landed, the masons stopped work and stood back, watching curiously before they scrambled to sink into low bows when they recognised Soren. They made to down tools and leave, for the dragons overwhelmed their workspace, but Soren shook his head. “Stay. Witness this.”
Soren stepped through the rubble carefully, flanked by Tarrell and Farran. Dragons ringed them, sitting on their haunches with their wings folded neatly away and with Eldarkind intermingled. As one, the dragons began to croon. The sound never failed to send shivers down Soren’s spine, for magic flowed in their voices. The sound drew others, and before long, a growing crowd of Soren’s people accumulated around them, standing and watching in silence.
Soren halted before the dais on which Brithilca’s somehow miraculously undamaged statue sat, waiting. A crack rent the air, and a second, and a third, and Brithilca’s statue, inhabited by the spirit of the great dragon himself, slowly came to life as the dragons’ song died. Brithilca stood and spread his wings, flexing them and unfurling them so they cast a great shadow.
Soren dropped to his knees, as did Tarrell, and Farran raised his chin to the stone dragon.
“Brithilca-visir,” they murmured as one.
“Farran-visir. Tarrell-visir. Soren-visir. My kin and my allies,” Brithlica rumbled. His great head swung from side to side as he swept his gaze over the still growing crowd. “Once, in the days of old, there was a man-king, an Eldar-king, and a dragon-king. King Beren, King Falykas, and myself. We warred. The land and its peoples were scarred. Yet, a greater threat than each of us endangered us all. Gods, you humans called them. Elementals, they are known to Eldarkind and dragonkin.
“We saw no option but to unite against this common enemy. In doing so, we succeeded. Our enemy, the elementals who sought to destroy us all, were vanquished, but not forever. In the thousand years since, they have lain in slumber. An alliance between men, Eldarkind, and dragons was forged, and for a millennia it endured, but it was broken by the corrupted magics of the elementals as they sought to escape their bindings. Our great bond unraveled. Apart, we were as weak as we had been when war divided us. Apart, the pact failed.
“Today, we bind the pact anew, and stronger than before; with openness so that we may all live freely together in harmony and prosperity, safe in the knowledge that those who seek to rise and destroy us shall all remain bound to lie in slumber for aeons more, until our three races end.” Brithilca looked to Soren, Tarrell, and Farran. “Are you ready?”
Tarrell brought his knife to bear again, and cut into his palm once more. He had healed it before in seconds, as he had done with Soren’s and Farran’s cuts when they had faced Arandulus, but they had all three known it would not be the last time they gave their blood to the pact. He nicked Farran’s throat again, and sliced into Soren’s palm. Once more, he mingled their bloods and held out his palm to Brithilca, who sniffed it.
Tarrell took a deep breath and looked Brithilca in the eyes. “Thank you, Brithilca-visir,” he said softly.
Brithilca rumbled. “I have endured over a millennia now, trapped in an existence of darkness and an absence of sense and life. For a thousand years, I have been unable to feel the sun on my face, the wind beneath my wings, and the fire in my belly. I am strong, but I am tired. I gave my life once for the pact. I will do it again willingly, to see it endure for the life of our three races, and have my peace, too.”
Farran responded in a tongue Soren could not understand—the dragon’s own language, he supposed—and Brithilca replied in kind.
Last of all, Brithilca turned to Soren. “The dragon throne will be no more, and neither will the crown. You understand that the value of neither of these things lies in the item, but in you. Beren would have approved of the choices you have made.”
Soren swallowed and blinked away the tears. All those years sitting before this immobile throne dreaming of adventures with dragons, and now, he had had an infinite amount more to do with Brithilca than he had ever thought possible—more than anyone else. It was still not enough, and still too dear to part with. So much I will never know.
His respect for the great spirit was even greater than that he held for the dragons and the Eldarkind, and he had not known Brithilca had suffered so over the years. It added to the ache in his heart for the sacrifices Brithilca had made, and the sacrifice he was about to. For, as Brithilca had informed them, he had the residual strength and magic to ensure that the pact could be rebound for as long as their three races endured, and, most importantly, the bonds upon all the elementals would be re-wrought at once. But in lending his strength, he would end his existence; trading his life, for all of theirs.
Tarrell approached Brithilca, who bent his head so that Tarrell could place his palm and the three bloods on Brithilca’s muzzle. Tears streamed down his face as he spoke. “Storr andas, ia kaskea uan att aslura, inge flytte, inge tenkir, inge endra, ja inge eiende. Ia sinuar uan yta detthe, mina ethera, a ethera ro mina Eldarkin, a jarn ro ungrkin, ja a styrkr ro dragonkin—” Tarrell’s voice cracked, “—asti a lok ro timi! Vid innsigala okur sattmala yta dreyri ja fjolkynngi, att lengi sem okur thrir tegundir pola; ungrkin, dragonkin, ja Eldarkin.”
Great spirits, I command you to sleep, unmoving, unthinking, unchanging, and unyielding. I bind you with this, my energy, the energy of my kin, the iron of man, and the strength of dragonkin until the end of time! We seal our pact with blood and magic, to endure as long as our races; mankind, dragonkin, and Eldarkind.
As he spoke, the dragons crept into song once more. Their crooning now sung of loss and ends, and reverberated through everyone there. The Eldarkind wove their own melody into it, rising high to the dragons’ low tune, speaking of binding and forging, of sleeping and mending. As Soren watched, all of them glowed with an inner light, and magic tingled upon his own skin. Sparks danced through the air, and when Soren squinted, he was sure he could see a river of light flowing around them all.
Soren stepped forward to place his own hand atop Tarrell’s, and Farran joined them. Soren’s mouth opened, and he sung, too, though he did not know the words or understand them. His mouth was not his own; magic found the song for him, and soon sound swelled around them as it spoke through the watching men, women, and children in a tongue they did not know.
The light grew brighter and brighter around them, forcing Soren to shield his eyes. Before them, the sto
ne figure of Brithilca grew warm, and then hot to the touch, and began to disintegrate into sparks, just as he had done a millennia ago, as Soren had seen through Beren’s eyes. This time, however, Soren knew there would be no spectral remnant of the great dragon. His heart ached with sadness and gratitude for Brithilca’s sacrifice, and, at last, he let tears spill down his face unashamedly.
In but a few moments, Tarrell’s and Soren’s bleeding handsraised into mid-air, as last of all, Brithilca’s head disappeared and one last trace of his voice echoed around them. “Thank you…”
Their song crescendoed and faded. First, the humans faltered, and then the Eldarkind, and last of all the dragons until all that remained was silence. The air was thick with magic and sparks floated upon the breeze. The tingle of it lingered upon Soren’s skin, and he could see trails of light glistening over Tarrell and weaving across Farran’s scales.
They shared a look heavy with sorrow. It was done. The pact was remade, and the threat to the three races extinguished for as long as they would endure, with all elementals rebound to sleep. They had wrought a peace that would last many millennia more, but there was no joy in that moment, as there ought to have been. Not even relief, for the cost had been great. Almost too great to bear.
Soren looked to the damaged throne sitting upon the dais. It looked bare and small and vulnerable without the figure of Brithilca guarding it.
Chapter Thirty Six
Even a few weeks had made a difference as stone buildings sprang up and many wooden constructions were already finished, thanks to the townsfolk of Arlyn all pitching in to help under the direction of Soren’s master builders.
Eve walked the streets, which were still black with fire damage in places, and piled high with rubble. Before the dragon attack, this would have looked like devastation, but already she could see how far the town had come in a short time. There was much more to do in Arlyn and throughout Arrow county—and much more to be healed, but that would come in time.