After a long moment, Baelthrom said, ‘Then it’s I who must stop him.’ He picked up a long, wooden, misshapen object leant against the pedestal and held it towards Freydel.
The Master Wizard inhaled sharply. ‘My staff!’
Baelthrom smacked its tip on the ground and the staff burst into erratic, magical light. Lightning flashed around it and reached towards the iron ring. Freydel’s mouth hung open, he had never seen his staff hold such power or act in this manner. The Under Flow flooded from the iron ring into the staff where it began to build up. Lightning cracked in the darkness that clustered around it hungrily.
Freydel felt the raw power pulling on his projected hologram, overpowering his own magic. His old wooden staff knew it belonged to him and was trying to return to its master, but Baelthrom held the staff and his power was greater. It was Freydel who was being drawn to it.
Fascination turned to horror. Freydel resisted, and the staff pulled stronger. Dark magic spilled closer. He felt the pull even on his physical body located thousands of miles away in the rubble of the Wizard’s Tower. Freydel gripped his crystal staff, entering the Flow fully, and began to fight.
The Under Flow poured out of the iron ring into his wooden staff making it vibrate with a loud, distorted hum. His crystal staff, an exact replica of his wooden one, responded and began to pull towards it. Freydel tried to pull back but the magic of the two staves was unstoppable. Sweat poured down his brow as incredible forces fought against each other. The Flow weakened in his grasp as he struggled against the will of his own two staves.
Great goddess, help me! He gave himself fully to the Flow, feeling the magic course through him and become him. With his will he clung to his crystal staff, filling it with all the power he possessed, feeling the solid crystal become almost ethereal as the raw power turned its dense structure to pure energy.
With his staff and through Ayeth’s tutoring, Freydel could barely breathe for the amount of power he was able to command in this moment. He was vaguely aware of howling, he could no longer feel his physical body anymore. All he saw were the enormous energy structures of the raging Flow, and the black and white lightning flaring from his wooden staff. He would have to lose himself to the Flow rather than be enslaved by Baelthrom. He probably already had lost himself to the Flow. He reached higher and more power flooded through him as he fought with every fibre of his being.
It was not enough.
The Under Flow surged between the two staves, finally finding a connection. Black tendrils shot through the Flow, paused, then smothered him. The magic trembled and exploded into darkness. Freydel was thrown forwards into nothing.
Then, in the darkness, two staves connected. Blinding magic flared. Thunder peeled and cracked. Consciousness faded.
A disembodied, haunting howl tore through the destroyed and deserted Wizard’s Circle. It echoed through the empty valleys, over dwindling rivers and across forests withering beneath an angry red sky.
25
Sword of Illendri
Issa stood beside Asaph watching the people working hard to rebuild a broken city.
They surveyed from a high rampart that had mostly survived unscathed. Anything that had been built by the dark dwarves was being torn down and even the rocks destroyed. Anything that had been built by the light dwarves was preserved or being rebuilt.
Legions of soldiers marched day and night around the perimeter, and scouts and rangers could sometimes be seen in the distant foothills. Already, greenery was pushing through the soil now fed by the Tarvalastone River. It would be a while before food could be grown, but every day new supplies came, and along with them, settlers—mostly eager dwarves—as news of their victory spread back to Davono, Frayon and the Free Lands.
The Karalanths had returned west a week ago to start rebuilding their own home. Karalanthia would indeed live again. Marakon and Jarlain and her Navadin remained to help rebuild Tarvalastone, though news of war in the North made them keen to get moving.
Having heard of unrest on the Isles of Tirry, Naksu had left in a worried hurry. Issa was torn, she wanted to go with her, but she did not want to leave Asaph’s side again.
‘As much as it gives me joy to reclaim new lands, my place is not here,’ said Asaph. ‘King Navarr’s correspondence is taking too long. I need soldiers on the border at Port Nordastin—and any Draxians now fleeing Lans Himay must go there. I just wish we knew what was going on.’ He shook his head and leant against the wall.
Issa felt frustrated too. Reports of attacks on Lans Himay had turned out to be true, confirmed by carrier pigeons from Atalanph and Frayon. Refugees now flooded the northern border and the entire region was in chaos.
‘We must continue to attack where they least expect us,’ said Issa. ‘My heart says Draxa, but I fear we will not have the legions we had here at Diredrull, and Draxa is far more formidable. Marakon will come, and all his soldiers, along with our Knights of the Raven. But still, though I’d happily fly with you, it will take us weeks to get everybody there.’
‘What about the spear, Velistor? What about demon tunnels?’ asked Asaph.
Issa shrugged and held up her hands. ‘You saw what happened to Marakon? They’re unstable and unpredictable. He ended up many miles away from where he’d anticipated.’
‘It worked out in the end though. What about Maioria’s portals? You said it opened the interplanetary gates. Why don’t we just use those?’ Asaph face was alight.
Issa let out a sigh. It was all very well having powerful magical relics, but only if one knew how to use them properly. Such knowledge had been lost a long time ago, along with a great many things. ‘I would, of course, if I knew how. It requires one to know where the gates are, and we do not. Apart from the Storm Holt, which is very different anyway, I don’t even know what a gate looks like, and since no one has seen one, they’re probably hidden by magic – if they are even there anymore. There was an ancient book that recorded it, The Book of Maps, but that hasn’t been seen for a thousand years.’
Asaph’s shoulders slumped, and he returned to staring at the people working below. ‘Then perhaps we must try calling Murlonius. Now they’ve banked the river, we’ve at least got a body of water through which he can travel.’
Issa said nothing. Just the mention of the Ancient’s name brought up images of Yisufalni and a terrible sense of helplessness to add to her frustration.
‘Come on, let’s get some lunch, I’m starving already.’ Asaph took her hand and they made their way down through broken stairwells to what had come to be called The Kitchen—a huge room with an ancient oven. However, it was exposed to the elements now one of the walls had collapsed in the battle.
‘King Asaph! King Asaph!’ someone shouted as they crossed the courtyard.
Asaph grimaced at the name. Four tall Draxian men hurried towards them, the ones they had met before, and they struggled under the weight of something they carried between them. They were followed by Velonorian, another elf, Eiretonne and several dwarves she remembered seeing working in the forge.
They hefted and heaved the thing, then set it down before Asaph and pulled off the covers. Issa stared at it. It was made of metal that shone gold, although it couldn’t have been, it was too big for that. The metal curved and joined in odd places. There looked to be a seat in the centre along with chains welded here and there. Issa looked at Asaph and saw his eyes widen.
‘And here’s the rope,’ said Eiretonne, heaving thick rope with the other dwarves and dumping it beside the strange metal thing.
‘Every Dragon Lord and Dragon Rider should have a dragon harness, my King,’ said the Draxian with long fair hair tied back at the nape. His face was completely serious.
Issa stared at the seat, trying to imagine it on the back of a dragon and failing. She noticed the exquisite leaves and whorls worked into the metal.
‘It’s stunning,’ she said, peering closely.
‘Made out of Elven metal,’ said Velonorian proudly. ‘
This metal will not heat up if touched by flame, nor will it burn its rider.’
‘Built by dwarven hands,’ said Eiretonne proudly. ‘Right here in Tarvalastone.’
‘…To a Draxian design,’ said another Draxian with red hair and a thick beard. The scars of battles and lines on his face showed he was the oldest there. He smiled. ‘I remembered how my father made them.’
‘You two can’t go into battle with him holding you like that,’ said the fair-haired Draxian. ‘You need a proper Dragon Harness like the Dragon Riders of old.’
‘I’m a Dragon Rider?’ asked Issa. She hadn’t considered the idea.
‘Of course,’ said the fair-haired man.
‘And I’m supposed to sit in this?’ She chewed a finger.
‘Yes.’
‘On his back?’
‘Of course.’
Issa swallowed.
‘Even the rope has been enchanted to resist fire,’ said the elf. He was tall and slender with pale silver hair set free about his shoulders. Issa sensed magic about him; possibly he was the one who’d cast the enchantments.
‘You’re the last Dragon Lord,’ said the Draxian to Asaph, emotion shaking his voice. He turned to Issa. ‘And you’re now a Dragon Rider. You make us a proud people once more.’
He started to kneel, but Asaph quickly grabbed the man’s shoulders and slapped him on the back before turning back to the harness.
‘I’m indebted to you. What a gift!’ Asaph stroked the metal. ‘I see it now in the Recollection. So, the design has not been lost to us. With Feygriene’s blessing, the Dragon Lords will not be lost either.’
‘With Feygriene’s blessing,’ echoed the Draxians and bowed their heads.
Issa walked the dark hallways towards the underground forge that glowed red and warm in the distance.
A few sconces burned low but gave off enough light for her to find her way. It was late, and most people slept, but not all. The sound of Eiretonne’s hammer striking metal rang out soothingly, reminding her of all the times she’d worked at a blacksmith’s.
A spray of sparks lit up the dark, followed by the sizzle and smoke of hot metal hitting cold water. Why he had sent for her was an intriguing source of mystery.
‘Ah, there ye are, Miss,’ said the dwarf, standing straight but still only coming up to her chest. He arched his back and wiped his face, smearing even more soot over it. His eyes gleamed in the red light of the furnace and he said, ‘It’s ready.’
‘What’s ready? Why did you send for me? Surely you should be sleeping and not working.’ Issa stifled a yawn as the dwarf went the other side of the anvil and picked up a long object wrapped in cloth. He set about polishing it with the cloth and she watched, curious.
‘This couldn’t wait, Missy. I know in the next few days you’ll be leavin’ and you need a decent weapon.’
‘I have a good weapon already. Grast’anth gave it to me.’
‘Indeed, it was a good, strong weapon—notched and bent though it was, but you need something more than that now. Something enchanted, something far finer, something much more than just a sword.’
He let the wrappings drop to reveal the most beautiful sword she had ever seen. It was like a jewel—the metal so pale it was almost white. The blade was thin at the base and tip and wider in the middle, like a willow leaf. It was longer than her short sword but shorter than a longsword. The pommel was a strange basket that made the whole sword look rather odd. It gleamed in the firelight.
‘This is no ordinary sword, Missy.’ Eiretonne proudly turned over the stunningly skilfully made blade. ‘It was designed by an Elven weaponsmith and forged by my good self, Eiretonne Coldhammer, in pure Tarvalastone metal. Then it was set in the fire of a dragon and enchanted by a Master Wizard.’ He deftly spun the hilt towards her. ‘Have a feel of it.’
She took the hilt. The cold metal, though unleathered, sat perfectly comfortably in her hand. She could feel an enchantment on it, testing her hand, wondering if she were its master.
‘It’s so light,’ she breathed, gently swishing it too and fro. It dipped left and right awkwardly. ‘Hmm, as beautiful as it is, it doesn’t feel right, I don’t think it’s balanced quite correctly. And who is this dragon? I’ve been with Asaph the whole time, and Master Wizard Freydel is nowhere to be seen.’
A cool, quiet voice spoke, ‘There are other dragons and wizards besides them.’ Domenon stood in the doorway, shoulder leaning on the frame, his arms folded. The firelight lit up his face and shone off his hair, but the rest of him, dressed as he usually was in black leathers, was lost in the darkness.
His dark eyes sparkled and held her gaze without blinking. She noticed his burnt hand now wore a glove to hide his injury. Despite his usual cool and superior demeanour, he actually looked exhausted, paler than usual, with dark circles under his eyes and bruises on his face, and he was thinner too. But he still looks handsome, still powerful, thought Issa.
‘The metal was set in the white fire of a pure blood dragon, not a half-breed,’ Domenon said though there was no venom in his words. ‘But the enchantment…my magic is not what it used to be since…However, it’s as strong as I—or anyone—can make it, and will bind to the owner on first touch, once the sword is whole.’
‘It’s not finished?’ Issa frowned at the sword, her eyes resting on the strange basket.
‘Your orb, Missy,’ said Eiretonne, urging her with a nod.
Knowing that Domenon was watching, Issa was reluctant to take out Illendri, but she did so anyway.
‘Push it in, the magic and the sword will know what to do,’ said Eiretonne.
Not seeing how it could possibly fit into the basket, Issa pushed the orb against the metal. She gasped as the metal grew warm, twisted upon itself, then opened to allow the orb in before wrapping itself protectively around it. Illendri hummed gently.
Issa held the sword up and laughed in amazement. ‘It’s perfectly balanced now, and somehow even lighter with the orb,’ she said in wonder.
‘The sword will never break, notch, or allow the orb to damage. Such are the effects of my enchantments,’ said Domenon. ‘It will remain in the sword until the orb finds and rejoins its sisters, as I now know it surely must.’
Eiretonne nodded and winked at the wizard. Issa stared from one to the other. ‘This is such a gift—I don’t know why you made it for me or how I can repay you.’
She bent down and hugged the dwarf. He chuckled and blushed. Then she turned and hugged Domenon, catching him by surprise. He hesitated then a strong arm embraced her. His chin was smoothly shaven, and he smelled slightly of soap, fresh and clean. She released him, blushing despite herself.
‘Luterian does not design swords for just anyone,’ said a familiar voice. Domenon stepped aside to allow Velonorian through. ‘There you are, my Lady. I’ve been worried sick and hunting these eerie dark hallways for an hour. I know the elf who designed your sword, it’s made to ancient specifications.’
‘I must meet him, Velonorian, but, hmm, perhaps another time. It’s late and we need sleep.’
‘Of course my lady. I’ll accompany you to your room,’ said the young elf.
‘Let’s all go. I am indeed tired,’ said Domenon.
‘You kids go,’ said Eiretonne wafting his hands and relaxing down onto a stool. ‘I need a bit more time alone here, within the forge of my ancestors.’ He looked around, instantly losing himself to the past and the once-magnificent city of the Dwarves of Light.
‘Murlonius.’
The final call of the boatman’s name echoed into the darkness. Issa stood on the banks of Tarvalastone River outside the city walls and watched the water calm and flow silent as a thick mist rolled over it towards them.
Too stunned to speak, she boarded the boat without a word, followed by Asaph, Marakon, Bokaard and several hundred soldiers; Knights of the Raven, Navadin, Elves and Dwarves. No one spoke, the bears didn’t even grunt, and she watched mesmerised as the boat grew without a creak to a
ccommodate them all.
Ehka seated himself on her lap and Asaph sat down beside her, his eyes locked onto the still, cloaked form of Murlonius. There was no Yisufalni. Issa burned with questions but feared to ask them and break the stillness.
Murlonius pushed them from the riverbank and the river carried them into the mist. Apart from the softly lapping water against the boat, a deeper silence descended. An ethereal light shimmered off the surface and in the air, beautiful yet peculiar. Issa imagined spending an eternity in this place and shivered.
The pull of sleep grew, and already Asaph’s eyes drooped as they entered the realm above and between the physical plane of Maioria. The higher the frequency of other realms, the harder it was for the physical body to process them and it tired quickly.
Issa fought sleep.
She glanced behind her. The Knights of the Raven—trained under Marakon with her assistance—slumbered. Beyond them, sleeping against their bears, were Jarlain and the Navadin—at least another one hundred bear riders. Eiretonne, though reluctant to leave his beloved forge, had hand-chosen the scores of dwarven fighters now around him, some Feylint Halanoi, some Knights of the Raven.
Velonorian would not leave her side and brought with him some of the finest Elven archers. There was even a company of Draxians, and though currently led by slumbering Gott, the Barbarian of the North had conceded leadership to a reluctant Asaph as soon as they reached Drax.
Cusap’anth, Rhul’ynth and Grast’anth had wanted to come, but were needed to rebuild Karalanthia far away on the western-most edge of Venosia. She’d been sad to say goodbye and couldn't help but wonder now if she’d ever see her friends again. If she didn’t, it would be because all of Maioria had fallen.
War of the Raven Queen: The Goddess Prophecies Fantasy Series Book 6 Page 29