Anlia lowered her head and let the power wrapped tight within her unravel. It lashed out and she gasped. Like bulging floodwater bursting across a weir, the magic began to flow. The discharge took her breath away. It was painful, as painful as searing irons held against her flesh.
Anlia clenched her jaw, and opened up further.
You are doing well. You are the conduit. You are the vessel.
Anlia kept her eyes shut. She knew that her body would be blazing like a pyromancer’s firework. She knew Valaris and the others would be backing away from her, distracted even from their doomed fight against the serpents.
It made her laugh, despite the shuddering pain. Once she started laughing, she couldn’t stop. She felt burning clouds of light expel through her open mouth. She was full of the aethyr, and the aethyr was spilling out from her.
I knew you could master this. My finest student.
The laughter turned into cries of agony. Flames were thundering through her, flames not of fire but of the raw stuff of magic. They were every colour and no colour, rippling and waving, burning and consuming.
She heard booms from above, and the whip-crack of lightning. She unleashed yet more raw magic, the energy ripped from her soul and flung out into the world. The roar of its passing outmatched that of the growling thunderheads. It outmatched everything. The elements around her screamed and recoiled, withering away in the face of the torrent of arcane essence.
Magic was everywhere, glowing and spiralling. As if a great hole had been punched through the veils of reality, it flared across the boiling seas, racing out from Anlia’s slender profile and tearing out into the world.
A little longer! You are doing it!
Anlia cried out words then. She hadn’t meant to—they leapt, unbidden, from her lips. Over and over, she summoned up yet more bursts of crushing, immolating magic. She saw the results in her mind’s eye. The waves rushed back, nearly throwing the ship over. Fire plummeted from the heavens, slamming into the racing waters, sending up rolling flanks of steam. Lightning forked through the maelstrom, darting across the foam-lashed waves.
And below it all, the monstrous outline of rock, steep sided like a watchtower, obscured by great walls of foam as the waters swirled around it, dark under the waves, rising, ever rising.
She saw ancient eyes open. She saw blue scaled hides moving in unison, a young sun and the endless expanse of jungle. She saw cold-blooded claws unfurl and blunt jaws crack open. Above it all there was a broad skull, picked clean by the wearing ages, empty eye sockets and power immeasurable.
None of that was familiar. None of that had been in her earlier visions.
Enough, child. It is done.
The images rippled away. She opened her eyes, releasing the power, and the world rushed back into focus. She felt drained and leaned against the railing for support.
The Tiranien still ploughed through the tumult, tossed across the fury of the oceans like a feather. A huge serpent, larger than any she’d seen before, was closing in on them. Arrows flew from the masthead but did little to dent its furious progress. It would soon be in range.
Valaris whirled round to face her.
“What have you done?” he demanded. His face was drawn with fear and frustration. The fleet he’d spent so long piecing together was being torn apart.
Anlia gave him her most winning smile.
“Saved your life, lord,” she said.
There was a huge, shuddering crash. The Tiranien reeled as if seized by a giant hand. Spars showered down from the rigging, severed by the force of the impact. All across the ship, crew members lost their footing and sprawled across the heaving deck. Even the Sword Masters struggled to keep their feet.
The chasing serpent, on the verge of lunging at the stern, suddenly sheered away. Its long body curled round and plunged back the way it had come.
Anlia laughed. Valaris had been thrown from his feet and was struggling to regain his position.
“Behold,” cried Anlia, adjusting her stance to compensate for the ship’s movement. “The fulcrum!”
The Tiranien was rising into the air. Incredibly, it had been pushed up from the waters and was being thrust into the heavens. Water showered from its tortured hull as it was dragged from the waves and hoisted far above the turmoil.
Valaris found his footing at last and staggered to the railing. He looked over the edge in disbelief.
The fulcrum was rising. A vast column of dark rock was pushing up from the sea floor, grinding and cracking as it came. The scale of it dwarfed the ship that it carried. The Tiranien had run aground between two spurs of jagged stone, locked tight and held rigid. Now it was being borne upwards as the colossal pillar of stone rose ever higher into the sky.
Anlia looked up. The topmost pinnacle of the fulcrum was above them, no more than fifty feet distant. Below them, the mountain grew ever larger, shoving the waters aside in great churning waves as more of it was exposed. Seawater ran down the flanks of the fulcrum in great weeping cascades.
The noise was tremendous, a booming thrum of moving earth like a rolling procession of earthquakes. The serpents circled around the base of the rising fulcrum, driven into even greater heights of frenzy by its ascension. Some plunged back down into the deeps, unable to bear the introduction of such raw, potent magical energy. Others dashed themselves against the rock in their pain and madness. Amid that frenzy was the wreckage of the other ships, all destroyed and rendered down into tumbling shards of wood and scraps of fabric.
Anlia turned to face Valaris.
“Did I not say it, lord?” she asked, grinning like a child. “Did I not say that I would show you the true extent of my power?”
Valaris’ face was locked into an almost comical expression of surprise. As he peered over the precipice, the fulcrum at last stopped moving. With a growling shudder, the pillar of stone stabilised and held rigid.
In the middle of the trackless ocean, surrounded by the detritus of conflict and the residue of the storm, a new island had been created. The Tiranien perched over six hundred feet above the waves, lodged just below the pinnacle of the fulcrum that Anlia had dragged up from the ocean floor.
For a while, it seemed that Valaris had forgotten how to speak. The rest of the crew picked themselves up gingerly, staring out over the scene of devastation. They moved as little as possible, as if terrified that the Tiranien would break into pieces at any moment and send them tumbling to their deaths.
Anlia didn’t share their worry. She could feel the integrity of the structure beneath her feet. She could feel everything around her—the density of the stone that held them aloft, the texture of the air that she breathed, the level of fear running through the minds of her companions. Magic coursed within her like music echoing in a cathedral.
The feeling exhilarated her. It was hard not to break into spontaneous laughter.
Valaris gripped the rail tight, his knuckles white. He seemed less taken with the majesty of the spectacle.
“What now?” he asked, and his voice was weak and querulous.
All pretence that he was the master of situation had fallen away. In the face of Anlia’s awesome magecraft, he was nothing more than a frail, mortal warrior. It looked like he knew it.
Anlia motioned towards the summit of the fulcrum. The rock soared away from them in a sheer cliff-face of seawater-drenched ledges.
“That is the heart of it, lord,” she announced, gazing up at the pinnacle in rapture. “Join me there and I shall show you the true meaning of wonder.”
The sky was full of dragons.
They blazed like comets, soaring across the mountainside on splayed, veined wings. Their armour-clad flanks glistened in the pale light as they spun and flexed in the air. Gouts of fire burst out, rippling across the empty spaces before guttering into palls of acrid smoke. They were the colours of jewels, of flame, of sunlight. They were gigantic, each the size of a fighting ship but as fluid and supple as rope.
They roared wi
th freedom. They were spirits of ancient fire, summoned into the world of matter and unleashed upon it as the instruments of the gods.
Rathien gazed up at them from where he lay.
He should have been dead.
He had been spent. His body had been wasted, blasted into a dried husk by the icy winds. The strain of meeting with the dragon’s mind had destroyed his own. He still remembered the final plummet, the descent into utter darkness.
But he was alive. Not just alive, but strong. There was still pain across his face, but it was the pain of cleansing. He had been tempered in the flames, and emerged the stronger for it.
Rathien looked up. The largest drake, the one whose mind had been buried in that awful cave, was hovering far above him.
He knew the dragon’s name. Khalathamor.
He knew Khalathamor was one of the monarchs of his kind. The two of them had shared much during that long, strange merging of consciousnesses. There was still some sympathetic connection there. Rathien lifted his chin up and sensed the great soul’s touch once again.
With effortless grace, the dragon glided lower, sliding through the thermals on outstretched wings, before coming to land on the stone bridge.
The dragon was magnificent. As he came to rest on the stone, great claws uncurled to grasp tight. Golden flanks shimmered in the weak sun. A long tail curled under the span, balancing his weight perfectly. The slender head, crowned with rear-sloped spikes of bone, looked down on Rathien. The eyes, golden too and bar-pupilled like a cat’s, regarded him with a cool interest.
The aura of a dragon was overwhelming up close. The creature stank of hot metal.
The proximity filled Rathien with a savage kind of joy. He pushed himself up from the ground and limped slowly up to the bridge. The closer he got, the more the wounds of his face blazed with pain. He ignored it.
The dragon lowered his head. The jaws were massive, longer than Rathien’s entire body. The ridged neck arched, and there was a low hissing from deep within the serpentine throat.
“Great one,” whispered Rathien, coming alongside the lowered chin-spike.
The dragon’s eye was huge and unblinking. Rathien saw his reflection in the mirrored surface, distorted as if viewed through a crystal looking-glass.
The dragon lowered himself further, crouching low against the stone like a hunting dog. The scaly flesh at the junction of wing and shoulder sunk closer to the ground.
Rathien felt the thrill of anticipation. He looked up at the space, then back again.
“This is permitted?” he asked, hardly daring to believe.
There was a low growl of displeasure from those fearsome jaws, and a gust of smoke escaped through rows of teeth.
Rathien smiled, and bowed in apology. Of course. A dragon did not make empty gestures.
Slowly, courteously, Rathien approached the proffered seat. As he drew close, he saw how heavy the scales were and how they curved across the muscle in a seamless covering like ithilmar chainmail.
Lithely, feeling the rejuvenation of his whole body gather pace, Rathien leapt up into position. He settled across the nape of the dragon’s neck, slotting in between the bunches of muscle at the base of each huge supporting wing-spur.
Khalathamor reared his great, fluid neck up. The vast wings extended, unfurling in a rustling glory of blood-coloured flesh.
Flexing his body to cope with the movement, Rathien felt a fresh surge of exuberance. He felt as magnificent as his mount, a mere extension of that magisterial presence.
He could feel the deep heartbeat of the beast beneath him. He could smell the acrid metal-aroma around him and hear the constant hiss of fire-laced breath ahead of him. Most of all, he could sense the mind, the ancient intelligence locked in that colossal skull. It spoke to him, not in words, but in vivid images and sensations. He saw visions of a long-lost world of light and shadow superimposed across the vista before him.
Rathien’s head turned at the same time as the dragon’s. They moved in unison then. From that moment on, they would always move in unison.
Khalathamor flexed his wings and beat them. The downdraft was immense, washing over the stone and sending loose rocks tumbling into the valley. He swept them up again, picking up momentum. Readying for the leap, he reared up on to his lean hind legs.
Rathien let his body flex and adjust in sympathy with the dragon’s movements. His vision was sharper, and his heart beat more strongly. All the anguish, all the failure, was forgotten. He had power at his command, more power than any of his kin had wielded for a thousand years.
Khalathamor leapt from the bridge, plunging down into the void below before a mighty pull of blood-red wings thrust them back up again.
Rathien felt the wind whistle painfully past his ears, his breath taken away by the sudden, terrible speed. Then he looked down, and saw the mountainside below him, already receding as the dragon—his steed—flew up higher.
His soul sang. His body rejoiced. He was alive, more alive than he could ever remember.
What is your desire?
The voice entered his mind like the memory of a dream. It was ancient, that voice—deep and rich, full of a profound melancholy and the accumulated patina of uncounted ages.
It was only then, after all those days of labour and struggle, that Rathien remembered why he had come into the Dragon Spine Mountains.
My kin are close, he responded, using his mind just as the dragon did. It seemed as natural to him as breathing. They will ride, just as I do. Then guide me, great one. Guide me to my adversary.
The dragon issued a rasping cough of flame from its long jaws. The backwash rushed over Rathien, singing the edges of his cloak.
As you command, Khalathamor replied, and wheeled back round to where the other drakes still flew.
CHAPTER NINE
Anlia climbed up the slick rockface, going as fast as she dared, sensing the raw energy bleeding from the pinnacle ahead of her.
Twenty feet away now. Such a short distance to travel, even if the way was perilous. The cliff was sheer and unforgiving, with no path and few handholds. Below her, hundreds of feet down, the waters boiled and rolled, still unsettled by the vast magic unleashed earlier. Serpents prowled around the base of the fulcrum and their sleek bodies looked like leeches as they swam under the sapphire surface of the sea.
She clamped her fingers into a narrow crack in the cliff and hauled herself up. The wind whipped at her, dragging on her robes and threatening to pull her down, but she paid no attention. Her whole being was consumed by the need to reach the pinnacle, to achieve the task that she had been created to achieve.
For so long she had been given orders by others. She had been patronised and belittled by Valaris and the loremasters, even Anaphelox. In a short time, all that would be forgotten. Valaris would be in her debt forever. When he ascended to the Phoenix Throne, she would be at his side, radiant and untouchable.
There was, though, something almost indescribably strange about the stone beneath her fingers. Beneath the aroma of brine there was a subtler note. She couldn’t place it at all. For want of a better description, the word reptilian came into her head. With every pull of her arms, with every step she took, the impression of something utterly alien sank deeper into her mind. She remembered the visions she’d had when summoning the fulcrum from the deep.
Who had made this place? She should, perhaps, have asked Anaphelox about it earlier. She could ask him now.
Be careful!
The warning came too late. She reached for another handhold and her fingers slipped from the greasy stone. She tried to grab on to a spur of rock at her shoulder, but her fingers clutched at air.
With a horrific lurch, she realised she was going to fall. She scrabbled for purchase, and the movement pushed her away from the rock. Her feet slipped and she felt awful emptiness yawn away beneath her. As she began to plummet, she screamed in terror, all thoughts of conquest and magic suddenly forgotten.
A hand grasped hers
, and she was yanked to a halt, her feet scraping the stone.
Her heart pounding, she looked up. Gilean, the Bladelord commander of the Sword Masters, held her one-handed. His other hand was clamped on to one of the ledges, and his legs were braced wide.
She hung for a moment, swaying in the breeze. As soon as her mind started working again, she felt relief flood throughout her body.
“I know you.”
She stopped breathing, and felt her blood run chill. In her panic, her mask had slipped. Gilean was looking at her quizzically. His grip was the only thing keeping her alive.
She stared back at him. She had been uncovered.
Could she reinstate the illusion? Could she somehow silence him? If she dropped, could she possibly survive? Her mind raced, throwing up nothing useful.
Gilean frowned, concentrating hard.
“I remember your face.”
Anlia gave up then. There was no way out. It had been exhausting, all the subterfuge. To be uncovered after so much time was, in its own way, a relief.
“I am a fugitive from the Tower,” she said, readying herself for the moment when the Bladelord would let her fall. “If you feel the need to enact your masters’ justice, you will never get a better chance.”
Her heart beat quickly. Gilean didn’t move. He stared at her. Below them, the surf churned against the jagged rocks. She could hear the other climbers draw closer, but they were still too far away to intervene.
It seemed to last an eternity. She steeled herself, expecting at any moment to be released.
Then Gilean hauled her up. His grip remained tight. Acting on instinct, she grabbed on to the nearest knot of stone, and felt some stability return. Her feet lodged in a crack in the rock and the pressure left.
Gilean looked at her intently, still clutching her hand.
“You delivered us from the serpents,” he stated baldly. “If there is justice to be served, it can wait.”
Anlia nodded weakly. She was trembling all over. Even hanging so precariously from the fulcrum, her breath heavy and her heart pounding, the irony of the situation still struck her. She had seen the Sword Masters as a mortal threat, as the vengeful tools of Hoeth.
[Storm of Magic 02] - Dragonmage Page 7