Cinders on the Wind

by Louis Emery

  Malcolm made it to the row of bodyguards standing in front of her cart. To his left, about thirty feet away, he could still see the two knights of Prestonpan Fells trying to get to her. He launched himself at a guard who was large enough to carry the enormous, two-handed broad sword he held in his grip.

  The guard deflected Malcolm’s attack and swooshed the great blade over Malcolm’s head. The sound echoed as if a mighty beast had whooshed down from the heavens. Malcolm rose to his feet and stepped back, the sword sweeping the air in front of him, a close miss—the tip of the blade slicing through the fabric of his tunic, untangling the threads of the embroidered Gray Keep. Malcolm spun around rapidly and landed his sword under the guard’s armor, delivering the deathblow.

  Looking across the field, Malcolm saw the witch now hurtling boulders over to Sers Royce and Balliol who almost breached the line of bodyguards, making it to her cart. Malcolm sprinted their way. Before he could reach them, the witch had lifted an entire cart through the air, filled to the brim, and propelled it toward the two knights. He saw them both retreat from the mass, but it was too late. Malcolm heard their cries as the cart and its boulders crashed down in a cloud of debris.

  “No! Balliol, Royce!” Malcolm yelled, reaching the puff of dust. He choked on the air and could not see through the haze of floating particles. He moved past the crash site, hoping to see better, trying to find his friends in the rubble. He looked around, and all he could see was the enemy pushing the Barrport and Nasant troops back and the witch moving farther away.

  Malcolm had to get to his friends, but on all sides, the Barrport-Nasant Army was surrounded by enemy troops. He could see Warlock Grundburr atop his dragon leading his dragonriders and eliminating the last of the dragon slings.

  44

  Ethlin was one of the first to leave. She swooped downward to the battle astride Visteria. She saw Nasant allies and dire bears assisting the Barrport forces. She hoped Malcolm and the others were all right. She saw other dragons.

  Ethlin didn’t care. She shoved her fear aside, confidence intensifying as she flew toward the enemy. She glanced behind her and saw Maven along with the other wizards atop their dragons following close.

  Ethlin focused on the enemy dragons. She leaned forward, touching Visteria’s dragonscale, feeling the heat welling inside the creature. Heading straight for one of Grundburr’s dragonriders, she yelled “Attack! Fire!”

  The dragon and its rider were caught entirely off guard. Ethlin heard the evil wizard scream as flames engulfed him. The dragon’s screech soon followed, and the great beast fell smoldering from the sky, landing on the ramparts of the Great Gate.

  She heard the cries of other dragons, some of them Grundburr’s and some of them Maven’s. Flames danced in the air. A rival dragon flew by, releasing its flames directly at Ethlin and Visteria. Ethlin reached out with her mind, curtailing the flames away. However, the heat still caught Visteria’s side, and she let out a wail.

  Angry, Visteria charged the attacking dragon. Ethlin didn’t even need to give the order. Visteria bellowed a great plume of fire enveloping rider and dragon, both plummeting into their side of troops.

  Ethlin looked down at the fighting. To her astonishment, she saw the Gull witch who attacked her. The crazed woman was crushing the enemy with her sorcerous use of boulders.

  “Down,” Ethlin ordered to get a closer look. As Visteria swooped lower, Ethlin could see the bodies of Sers Royce and Balliol beneath the stones.

  “No, no!” she wailed, heading straight for the witch.

  A great dragon cut off her path. A repulsive wizard sat atop, glowering back at her—Warlock Grundburr.

  She had to steer Visteria away as Grundburr’s dragon shot out a massive flame in their direction. This was a powerful dragon, for the flame followed her, even as Visteria sped hundreds of yards away.

  Just then, a rasping voice entered her mind. Warlock Grundburr was using his dark magic to reach her from a distance, still hovering in the middle of the battlefield.

  “You wonder …” Grundburr’s voice spewed, “You wonder how the witch came to be here. She came to me … bearing scars of fire, but I made them look better. She told me about you, about your power. Why do you think we decided to come here?”

  Ethlin shook her head, not wanting to hear any more of this man’s foul voice—all at once, the voice of evil, self-doubt, and fear—the voice of everyone who tormented her at the orphanage, everyone who saw her as an unwanted freak, as nothing.

  Grundburr continued. “We can’t have someone of your abilities riding dragons. That would hinder our … plans. And you may be able to avoid flames, but I doubt your dragon can.”

  Ethlin thought she’d gained distance from the warlock, but he was now right behind her, his dragon releasing a great flame. She ducked feeling the heat pass over her, scorching her and Visteria’s back. Both she and the dragon yelped in pain, and she could feel herself falling through the sky. Visteria struggled to flap her wings, the pain being too much.

  “Come on, girl. Hang in there.” She rubbed Visteria’s unburned sides, encouraging the creature. This calmed her, and Visteria whirled around to face the pursuing Grundburr.

  But Grundburr was no longer there.

  Hundreds of feet below, Maven and Grundburr were locked in a battle of flames.

  Ethlin and Visteria plunged toward the warlock at full speed.

  Ethlin gripped the reins, feeling Visteria’s overwhelming heat.

  “Fire!” Ethlin screamed.

  Just then, Grundburr spun and shot a flame at Ethlin. She reached out with all of the strength her mind could muster to deflect the enormous plume of fire. Before passing out, the last thing she heard was Grundburr’s screams as he and his dragon fell like a burning ember from the sky.

  45

  She awoke as if from an abyss. It felt as if she had slept for days. She looked around, imagining this to be the afterlife.

  “Where … where am I?”

  “It’s okay, Ethlin,” said a voice. “You’re in Barrport.”

  She turned. Malcolm was sitting in a chair next to the bed. “We’re at an inn—our rooms are paid for by the Barrport nobles.”

  “You’re alive.”

  “I am. And so are you.”

  “Did we win? What of our companions? Ser Royce? Balliol?”

  “We lost Ser Royce,” Malcolm replied, bowing his head. “Ser Balliol is alive—injured, but alive. I’m sorry, Ethlin.”

  Ser Royce had been only a year or two older than her, and over the course of the journey, Ethlin had developed feelings for him. There was some small hope within her that once it was over, maybe she could express herself. But now it was too late. Ethlin couldn’t stop the flow of her emotions and began to cry.

  Malcolm gently squeezed her arm. “He was a brave and true knight,” Malcolm said, struggling with the words.

  In spite of her tears, Ethlin asked, “And the others? What of Maven and the Gathered? My dragon?”

  “Two of the Gathered wizards fell, including one you knew—Sammerland. Your dragon, Visteria, is fine. Orbist and Maven are at the Gathered fortress caring for her. You passed out right after you slew Grundburr. Orbist mentioned that this … power of yours … to move flame takes a toll on you, and if overused, can put you in a coma-like state.”

  “How long was I out for?”

  “Two days straight.”

  Ethlin gasped. No wonder she felt hungry. “Is there anything to eat?”

  “Absolutely. I will have something brought up from the kitchen right away.”

  Malcolm rose and made to leave.

  “Ser Malcolm?”

  “Yes, milady?”

  “Did the witch escape?”

  “She did—along with the rest of the retreating Wester forces.”

  Ethlin felt anger stir inside her. “She’s the one who led Grundburr here.”

  “Well, thanks to you that battle is over now. Leora and Ser Gregan are looking to help
us defeat Varick’s forces. We believe the witch scurried off to West Ballardia.”

  “What of Varick’s potential allies—the Phozanti Empire?”

  “They’re sending a force led by an Arch-Mage,” Malcolm sighed and sat back in the chair. “Orbist has given me news.”

  “What news is that?”

  “In his workshop back in Em Regis—you know his wall of artifacts and trinkets?”

  Ethlin nodded. “He uses them as glimpses into the past. With the right incantations, he can gain information about the people whom the objects belonged to.”

  “Right. King Greenvale gave him a piece of my father’s armor, which the king brought back with him after fighting the Gothveesi when I was barely a boy.”

  “What did this armor say?”

  “Orbist says the armor revealed that my father tried defeating this Arch-Mage who had once sided with the Gothveesi. He was unsuccessful, forced to retreat.”

  Ethlin raised a hand to her mouth.

  “Looks like I’ll have to finish what my actual father started.” Malcolm stood. “But first, you need food.”

  “Thank you, Ser Malcolm—for everything.”

  “It is I who should be thanking you,” he said, then descended the stairs.

  Ethlin sat up in bed and felt overwhelmed with sadness. Ser Royce had readily obeyed the commands of his lord on this journey. He’d felt indebted to Ser Malcolm for the Kingsguard thwarting the assassination of his Lord Staverly at the tournament months back. And he repaid that debt in full.

  As the tears streamed down Ethlin’s cheeks, she thought of the wizards and the dragons. She thought of Visteria, of riding her into West Ballardia and setting fire to Varick and his remaining army, and to the witch who took Ser Royce’s life and tried to claim hers. She knew the only way to dry her tears was with fire.

  Acknowledgements

  Writing a book is never a solitary task. There are many to whom I am indebted for completing this manuscript. Without them, I fear my writing would linger in an unused Word document, abandoned and alone.

  I must thank my wife, Maree, for always being there and for helping me get through the rollercoaster of publishing a novel. I’m forever grateful to be able to see you every day. Your encouragement and love mean the world.

  To my parents, I cannot give enough thanks. My mother has been my greatest champion, first constructive reader, and magnanimous supporter. She is the reason I fell in love with reading, and thus became a writer. My father has always offered sage advice and wisdom in whatever endeavors I pursue, and for that I am truly appreciative. Moreover, my sister has always had my back, even after wearing her thin when I was but a lad. Thank you sis for being a fan of your little bro.

  I would be remiss if I did not thank my Nana for not only invigorating my imagination when I was young, but for also being a staunch and generous advocate in everything I do.

  In regards to the manuscript, I thank Estelle Laure for her perspicacity and editorial incisiveness in a marvelous critique letter, which strengthened the story tremendously. Additionally, I thank my copyeditor, Janet Devlin, for her excellent eye and hard work in making the book an easier read. If there are any errors or shortcomings in the novel, the fault is entirely my own. Further, I thank Rene Aigner for his incredible talent at painting the cover artwork.

  Lastly, I must thank the rest of my family and friends, without whom, I wouldn’t be the person I am today.

  About the Author

  Louis Emery grew up in Southern California gallivanting through Hollywood, Orange County, and the Inland Empire. From an early age he had a steady diet of imagination, appearing in numerous commercials and TV shows, only to grow up into a gigging musician. His love for daydreaming triumphed over the silver screen and rock n' roll. Now he imagines new worlds and writes every day and loves every second. Keep in touch on his website at authorlouisemery.com.