by Alison Baird
“What about you?” Lorelyn asked. “Why are you coming here?”
There is something I must do.
“What thing?”
What I should have done before: fight my own battle, not leave it to others. Lori, please hurry!
Lorelyn ran back to the throne room where the fighting men and townspeople were assembled, and relayed Ailia’s command. Syndra still sat her throne, but in the presence of so many iron weapons her possessor had withdrawn completely, and her face was haggard and white with terror. “Do not leave me here, I beg of you,” she cried. “She will return, and claim me. I cannot resist her.”
“Oh, you’ll be coming with us right enough,” Jomar replied. “You’ll have to answer for your treason, for one thing.”
“No—no, what am I saying? It is no use. You do not understand. You cannot win.” Syndra rose, swaying as if she were about to faint, and leaning against their arms. Then swift as a snake her hand darted out and seized the dagger in Jomar’s belt. He cursed and turned on her, sword at the ready; but she pointed the dagger’s blade at her own breast. Before either of them could stop her, she thrust it in. “Free,” she gasped as she sank to her knees on the crimson-carpeted floor. “She cannot take me again, ever. I am free! But he is not—he will be consumed—”
“Mandrake?” queried Lorelyn, kneeling down to support the woman’s sagging shoulders and head.
“Your one hope, and his—Ailia.” Syndra choked, her lips red now with more than paint. “She can kill him. Tell her—if she loves him she must kill him, before—before . . .” Her head fell back in Lorelyn’s arms, its emptied eyes staring upward.
They looked at the lifeless form, then at each other. “What did she mean?” Jomar asked. “All that about loving and killing?”
Lorelyn shook her head. “I don’t know. She always hated Ailia, and we never knew why, and now we never will know.” She stood up again. “But at least she tried to stop herself, in the end.”
“What will happen now?” Jomar demanded. “Will the fire still come up through the hill now that Elnemorah has gone?”
“Yes, I think it will. The Archon seemed to be saying that she had started something that can’t be stopped—if we can believe her, that is. But do you feel how hot the floor is?”
He nodded. “It’s probably best to take her at her word.” Jomar looked down at the still body on the carpet. “Leave her. There’s nothing to be done for her now. It’s the living we must help. All these people have to be gotten out of the castle and onto the roof, just as Ailia said.”
With some difficulty the Paladins herded the remains of the court together. Some of the people had tried to retreat through the tunnel door. But when they had reached it they had been forced to halt. Black smoke boiled from the entrance, past the shattered door still hanging on one hinge, together with an unendurable heat. Coughing, peering down the stair through the ashen haze, they had glimpsed a fiery glare. Molten stone had burst through the cavern beneath and was mounting the steps in a swift red flood.
Now Lorelyn confronted the mass of frightened faces. “Up the stairs, all of you, and onto the roofs! Help is coming, but you must do as I say!” There was no argument. They ran, with the Paladins flanking them and Jomar and Lorelyn bringing up the rear. They could not move as speedily as they might have liked, for those few who were unconscious from the bliss-flower had to be carried, and the fighters were burdened with their armor.
“Are you quite sure that everyone is here?” panted Lorelyn as they mounted the second marble flight. Even at this level the heat was overpowering, and it was difficult to breathe. Smoke was pursuing them up the staircase: the lower halls were on fire.
“We ran through the rooms, but all were empty,” answered one of the knights. “Only the Tryna Lia remains, and the Dragon Prince. We saw them both in the courtyard.”
“Ailia!” cried Lorelyn. But the iron shut her off from the channels of the Ether, and there was no reply.
THE PEOPLE IN THE CITY below watched in awe as the steams issuing from the hill’s side grew dark under the moons, turning to smoke laden with ash. There was a sudden red flicker from the cave mouth, and then it spewed forth a fountain of liquid stone that blazed bright as molten metal. It cascaded down the steep slope, burning all it touched. At the same time, as if in answer, tongues of flame leaped in the sky above, and wheeling black wings obscured the stars. The firedrakes were preparing to rejoin the fight.
The Loänan all took to the air. Damion turned to the crowd that had massed behind him in the street and shouted, “Fall back! Fall back and save yourselves, and any people who are left! There is nothing you can do now but take the women and the children and run. The city is lost!”
He ran for Falaar, who had alighted nearby to deposit the soldiers he bore. “The firedrakes are circling above the fortress. I think they have come for Mandrake, to guard him and lead him to Ombar. We must stop them! But the townsfolk need our help too. There will be rivers of fire running through the streets soon.”
“I hear,” said Falaar, kneeling again so Damion could mount his back. “But I think we will be hard put to save the humans, and to defend ourselves also.”
Damion peered downward as his winged steed climbed into the air. Cherubim were setting down their human passengers at the city’s edge. “Lorelyn is there,” he said with relief. “I hear her. She and Jomar will lead everyone to safety. But we must help Ailia.”
“We will do so—but we must now fight our way through firedrakes,” said Falaar.
THE LIGHT FROM THE CASTLE’S windows spilled into the pleasure garden at its heart, and there Ailia stood facing Mandrake. The wounded dragon was sprawled on the grass, wings askew, scaly sides heaving. His golden eyes were half-open, but showed no recognition as she drew near. He moved his head a little at the sound of retreating wings, as the cherubim carried the last of the fortress’s occupants off the roofs to safety. “They are all fleeing, leaving you to your fate,” said Ailia softly. “Change back to your own form, Mandrake, and we will carry you to safety as well. Surrender, and you will not be destroyed.”
The dragon did not transform, nor answer her. His eyes had shut, and his breath came in rattling gasps. He seemed to be in a swoon. What if he could not be revived? Even were she capable of taking draconic form now, she could not lift another dragon bodily into the air. He would perish alone in the fiery cataclysm to come, a fate she could not wish on any creature. Pity filled her, and guilt too, as she gazed at the scarred and prostrate form. Had Mandrake not spared her life, when she lay sleeping in this very castle? Had he slain her then, he would not have come to this pass. Must she now return evil for good? To walk away from him was to leave him to the fires. Elnemorah, in seeking to save the Avatar, had doomed him—unless Ailia’s friends could give him aid. She cried out to Auron and Falaar, pleading for their help. Then she realized that she could not hear any ethereal voices at all, even though the fleeing warriors had taken their weapons. She had been cut off once more, as if by a barrier. A barrier of iron . . .
There was a roar of star-magic from directly overhead, the overmastering voice of cold iron, and with it came the sound of beating wings. She stared upward as a wyvern flapped down between the castle’s towering walls, and settled in the courtyard. On its back were two riders, whose faces she recognized as they dismounted and came into the light of lamps and fires. Brannion Duron and Erron Komora. The Overseer bore his sword of iron at his hip.
“The great advantage of a wyvern,” said Erron, as he tethered the hissing reptile to a tree with a length of rope, “is that it is a creature of nature, and uses no magic to fly. Iron cannot bind it to the earth, like a dragon, and sorcery is not needed to command it.”
As they drew closer, the unconcious Loänan shuddered, but did not wake, and then the sorcery that held its shape gave way. It was Mandrake the man who lay there in the firelit garden, among the crushed rosebushes. The wounds of battle still covered him in this form, showing dark
against his face and arms. He lay motionless, eyes shut, and face deathly pale. Ailia gazed on him with compassion—and another, stronger emotion that she could no longer deny. We can end his suffering now, while he is oblivious to all that is happening, she thought. How easy it would be, and how kind! The doom would be fulfilled by an act of mercy. This must be how Eliana felt. But—she spared him. Was that mere chance? Or could it be that she was obeying destiny, and he was somehow meant to live? In any case, she did not want Duron to win all the glory. Triumphing over the Dragon King would strengthen his hold on his people, as he well knew. He had not marched with his men, but had waited until Mandrake was weakened—until it was safe to attack him. He was a coward but would be hailed a hero.
The Overseer paused in the act of unsheathing his sword. “I see no dragon now, only a man.” Duron frowned. “Our iron should make the creature revert to his true form, should it not?”
Erron looked scornful. “That is his true form. He is no Loänan. He is but a man who can take a dragon’s shape. Did you not hear what Ailia told you? In this at least she did not lie: he is merely a Loänei sorcerer. As is this woman, this goddess as she likes to be called: Ailia too is powerless before your blade. But be swift! The fires consuming the castle will spread to this garden—and those below the earth are drawing near. Can you not feel how hot the earth is beneath your feet? Slay the Dragon King, and let us flee!”
“And when he is dead you will take his place, and rule this world,” Ailia accused, moving to stand between Duron and his prey. “Overseer, Erron means to betray you once Mandrake is gone.”
“Come, Brannion, never mind her,” Erron said. “Kill him! We need not take the whole body with us, just cut off the head. It is all the proof you need of your victory.”
“I had hoped for a worthier trophy than this: the head of a great dragon,” grunted Duron.
“No matter. We will make a statue of you holding a dragon’s head,” snapped Erron. “Make haste! Pay no heed to the witch: she cannot stop you. She cannot use her sorcery with iron present.”
Duron raised his sword. “Move away from him, woman.”
“No.”
“Move or I will strike you down too.”
The hill rocked beneath them, and more fires broke out in the castle. The wyvern, wild with terror, swung its long neck to and fro and screamed. Then, beating its leathery wings, it sought to reach the sky, but was held back by its tether. Ailia looked up. The Wingwatch were engaged in fighting the firedrakes. She could not summon them by way of the Ether, with iron so near, and only a cherub could have saved her in any case: the dragons would be just as helpless as she.
Duron took a step toward her.
And then he turned, with shocking speed, and plunged his sword into Erron’s chest. The Loänei man gave a hoarse, rasping cry and his hands went up to claw at the blade. Then his legs gave way beneath him, and he collapsed backward into the rose bushes, and lay still. Ailia stood aghast.
“I have not lived to so great an age,” observed Duron in a calm and level voice as he drew his blade from the other’s body, “by trusting traitors. Fortunately I need him no longer. Let that be a lesson to you, girl. Now get out of my way.” And he began once more to walk toward Ailia and Mandrake.
She ran from him, and then, as he stood at the fallen Mandrake’s side, Ailia lunged toward Erron’s body and grabbed the jeweled knife from his belt. Duron caught the movement at the edge of his sight and turned to look full at her. “You think you can fight me with that little blade?” he asked, contempt filling his eyes and voice.
“No,” she replied, clutching the hilt. “I have no such intent.”
“I should really kill you too, for I see you are also treacherous by nature. And my people might come to worship you, as your own ignorant subjects do. But more important matters first.” He turned to Mandrake, but kept an eye on Ailia.
She began to run again—this time for the wyvern, which was struggling frantically to fly away, maddened by the smell of smoke and the threatening fires. With one blow she cut halfway through the rope that tethered it to the tree.
“What are you doing?” screamed Duron, losing his composure at last.
She turned to face him, knife in hand. “Setting this creature free. If you want to live, Duron, then you will get on its back now and go. The wyvern is your only hope of escape. Go now, and take your iron with you!”
A ring of fire surrounded them now: the whole castle was aflame. Molten rock poured along the floors of fine marble, flowing from room to room, setting alight curtains and tapestries and furnishings of wood. The wyvern screeched and strained again at the rope, which began to pull apart at its weakened point. Only a few strands kept the beast from freedom: Ailia raised the knife to sever them. Cursing, Duron sheathed his sword and ran for the wyvern’s saddle. The rope broke even as he made his desperate sprint, and he grabbed frantically for its trailing end. As the wyvern rocketed upward, flying away from the hilltop as fast as it could go, he dangled precariously from the rope, clinging for his life as he swung above the roaring conflagration. The two of them vanished together into the cloud of smoke and suspended cinders.
Ailia was left in the court. She threw down Erron’s dagger: it was steel, thankfully, for no Loänei would ever carry iron. But she was still too weak to perform any sorcery. She called out with her mind, but received no answer: the Wingwatch battled the firedrakes high above, and their thoughts were a welter of pain and rage and confusion as they fought.
With a last effort she sought to center herself, to touch the dwindling core of her power and draw on it. But at the same instant there was a great gust of wind, fanning the flames in the burning trees, and she spun around to see the red dragon rear up behind her with flailing wings and eyes that returned the fire-glow, reaching out his claws to take her.
IN THE CITY JOMAR AND the others saw the great smoke-cloud billow upward from the hill, obscuring all but the angry glow at the summit, and the blazing torrents streaming down its slopes. The city was doomed: at the hill’s foot the streams would slow but not halt, and in time its streets too would run with the fiery flood. A black snow of ash was settling on the roofs. Tearing their eyes from the dreadful sight, they set themselves to the task of guiding the fleeing citizens toward the city’s edge. As for the castle, it was spouting flame and molten stone from every window. Then the whole of the keep seemed to blossom outward, walls bulging and toppling in ruin: as they fell they revealed the gaping red-lit crater that had appeared in the midst of the central court. The hill’s peak had collapsed into a caldera, taking with it the keep’s foundations. The tall pinnacled tower was the last to fall, wavering and bending and then at last bowing its proud head as it fell into the fiery pit and was consumed. The watchers saw the vast dark pall that hung above begin to flare with lightning at its top, where the roiling smoke blended with the low-hanging clouds.
“Ailia! Ailia!” cried Auron, as he set a firedrake to fleeing. “Where is she? Does anyone know what became of her?”
But in the next instant he had his answer, without needing to hear from his companions. A red dragon burst up through the smoke-cloud, wings beating the blackened air, straining toward the sky and freedom. It was Mandrake; and clutched in his front claws was the limp figure of the Tryna Lia.
18
Ombar
“NO! DON’T LET THEM! JO, he has Ailia—he’ll drop her!” Lorelyn screamed, seizing her friend by the arm.
More than a dozen Arainian archers stood in the middle of the street, training their man-high longbows on the red dragon as he flew above the belching hill. He seemed to be having difficulty gaining height, weakened perhaps by the poisonous fumes within the reeking smoke-cloud. Beneath him the volcano sent forth swift-rolling scarlet tongues of molten stone mottled with black cinders, and in the fierce glow of these they could all see the small white figure clenched in Mandrake’s front claws. Jomar, on the point of giving the command to his archers to loose their arrows,
fell silent and stood staring up helplessly, seeing that Mandrake’s stumbling flight would turn to a fatal fall, or else that he would let Ailia plummet to her death. But his wings continued to labor, and he did not drop his victim. As he won free of the smoke at last and climbed higher, several wheeling shapes descended to flank him—firedrakes, forming a long phalanx with the red dragon at the center. The Wingwatch observed this, but it was plain that they dared not interfere either, lest Mandrake let Ailia fall. A few moved to fly alongside the firedrakes, but the latter repulsed them with claw and flame. Higher and higher they flew, until the Dragon King, now a minute spot scarcely to be seen in the dark sky, was engulfed by the Ether and lost from sight—together with his captive.
Lorelyn’s grief burst from her in a long wail. “No!”
Then there was a cry from the air above them, and out of the melee dropped a tawny form—Falaar. He descended in a flurry of wings, and alighted on the pavement, dropping into a crouch. Damion sat astride his furry back.
“Jomar—Lori!” he called. “There is molten fire pouring down the hill. It will slow when it reaches the level ground, but the city is doomed all the same. And some of it has already reached the riverbank—do you see the steam rising up? When fire and water come together, they will send out showers of embers into the air, that will set alight everything they touch. These wooden houses will burn quickly. Gather your men and flee as fast as you can. Some of the Wingwatch will stay to guide you, and try to save any who are caught by the fires.”
“But—Ailia, what about Ailia?” Jomar shouted.
“The rest of us are going to her aid now.”
As Jomar gave the order to retreat the cherub stood and spread his wings, preparing to depart. “Damion, wait!” exclaimed Lorelyn, running forward. “I want to go too!”