I’m trapped.
The race was over. As if to punctuate this, lightning began flashing out of the sky, striking on the far side of the chasm. The turmoil in the heavens, the shouts and cries of men, the cracks and booms all told the same story.
No point in running anymore.
With lungs burning, Roan came to a stop, struggling to breathe and waiting to die. At that moment, a new contest began.
Who will reach me first? The rider crossing the bridge or the Fhrey from behind? Roan managed a miserable smile. So much effort for the daughter of a slave.
She didn’t care who won, but looking out through bleary eyes at the cliff before her, a new thought popped into her head.
I can always jump.
There was a certain satisfaction in denying both of them the pleasure of her death. And what if killing me isn’t their intent?
Roan turned off the path to the bridge and aimed for the cliff.
You deserve everything you get. She heard the familiar words, but this time the voice didn’t sound like Iver. He was dead. She finally knew that to be true because she’d killed him twice, once with poison and once with a metal punch and an assist from Banger the Heavy.
Exhausted and unable to run, Roan began to cry as she realized she wouldn’t make it to the cliff’s edge in time to kill herself. The rider was coming at her, too hard, too fast. She saw the mounted warrior draw his sword. He was a faceless silhouette against the bright morning sun, but she heard it. The ring of that metal coming free of its scabbard, only…
That sound was unmistakable. Not bronze—that was steel.
As the rider drew closer, she saw the glint of silver. Beneath the helm was a beautiful, misaligned face.
“Gifford!” she cried, sacrificing the last remaining air in her lungs.
He rode at her pursuer, swinging his sword, missing badly. It didn’t matter. Whether by intent or accident, the horse trampled the Fhrey.
Having ridden past Roan, Gifford wheeled around. As he did, the full face of the rising sun shone on his armor and upon his white horse. Dazzling and bright, Gifford gleamed like a morning star, wondrous and beautiful. He glowed.
“Woan, I can’t get down.” Gifford leaned over and extended his arm. “Please, you have to take my hand.”
She didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. Reaching out, she grabbed hold of that offered arm and let Gifford pull her up behind him. Then she hugged him around his waist.
“You’re alive! You’re alive! You’re alive!” she cried, squeezing as hard as she could.
“Woan?” Gifford said. “You know you hugging me? You touching me, Woan.”
“I know.”
As Gula-Rhunes charged across the bridge and poured into the fortress of Alon Rhist, Roan laid her head on Gifford’s back.
Once more, she heard the words: You deserve everything you get. The voice wasn’t Iver’s after all. It was her mother’s.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Dragon
At first I thought it was a dragon, savage and fierce. I wish that had been true. Dragons only kill you; Gilarabrywns break your heart.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
Persephone stared in disbelief.
Above them was open sky.
The roof to the Kype had been ripped off. Most of it was wood, but there had been stone as well, and a dragon had torn it away like a cork from a jug. Then it began to kill.
Persephone assumed the beast was another weapon of the fane.
He has giants, magicians, and storms. Why not a dragon?
She closed her eyes, waiting for death. She cringed, expecting the crush of claws or the bite of teeth.
Nothing happened. Even the screams of the dying fell silent. She heard only the sound of the dragon’s breathing, and then Brin’s voice. “Mari, mother of us all, protect us. Mari, mother of us all, protect us.”
Letting go of her dagger, Persephone reached out and found the girl. She clutched her arm, then found her hand.
“Mari, mother of us all, protect us,” Persephone added her voice.
Padera joined in their prayer. A moment later, Moya did, too. Persephone reached out again, found Moya’s foot, and held on. The anticipation of the death blow was maddening, but Persephone still held tightly to Brin and Moya. Finally, she chanced a look. The Fhrey that had been the threat only moments before were gone—only Nyphron, Eres, and Tegan were still alive. The dragon was still there, too, perched on the corner of the Kype, anchored by its massive talons. She felt its hot breath and tilted her head higher to see its face. She realized with horror that the dragon, with its two massive eyes and oblong pupils, wasn’t merely looking at them—it was staring at her.
It will kill me now—open its mouth and swallow me whole.
It didn’t.
The dragon continued to stare.
Finally, it did open its mouth, but instead of devouring her, the dragon spoke. With a voice more powerful than thunder, deeper than the groan of the rock, it said, “Even now.”
The dragon waited a moment more; then, extending its wings, it pushed off, crushing a block of stone the size of a moose.
“Unbuckle his armor,” Padera shouted. “Get it off.” The old woman was on the floor at the foot of the bed, working on Tekchin, who lay sprawled on his back in a pool of blood. Moya, who was up and moving again, scrambled to him and began jerking the leather straps at the Galantian’s shoulder.
“Got him good,” Padera said. “Bleeding like a speared boar. Brin, grab the bandages on the table. And get me that belt.”
No one else spoke.
A roar erupted a short distance away, but still nothing happened—not to them. Distant screams were followed by a flap of wings. After that, silence.
“How the Tet does this culling armor come off?” Moya shouted as she jerked on the leather straps of Tekchin’s plate. Blood spilled from a puncture just below his ribs.
“Just cut it off,” Padera told her. “Persephone, give me your blade. Persephone?”
“Here!” Brin tossed down the bandages, followed by one of Roan’s daggers.
Rapid footfalls grew louder. Nyphron raised his sword only to lower it again when Anwir rushed in. “What happened?”
“About to ask you the same thing,” Nyphron replied. “Where’d the dragon come from, and where is it now?”
“Dragon?” Anwir asked, confused. He looked up. “Where’d the roof go?”
“Forget all that,” Padera yelled at them. She pointed at Tekchin, where Moya was desperately trying to saw through the thick leather straps with Brin’s dagger, but they were hidden under the shoulder plates and hard to get at. “Your friend is dying.”
“He’s fine.” Nyphron sounded annoyed. “He’s had worse and pulled through.”
“He’s bleeding to death. Any of you killers know how to get this armor off?”
Anwir, who proved adept with straps and ties, bent down and helped Moya.
“Brin, needle and thread,” Padera ordered. “Near the basin. Thread it.”
“Squeeze,” Padera told Moya. They had the breastplate off and had cut Tekchin’s shirt away. “Don’t be afraid, press hard.” Brin came over with the needle. “Now, here, Brin, get the flaps of skin closer together—that’s it.”
Padera started sewing. When she was done, she sat back and wiped sweat from her brow. “Okay, wrap him,” Padera told Moya and Brin. “And don’t be timid about it. Pull the strips tight.”
“He gonna live?” Eres asked the old woman.
Padera stood up, her hands stained dark. She took a towel and wiped them off, leaving brilliant streaks of red on the pale cloth. “Depends on how much his god likes him. Busted a rib and caught part of a lung sack. He could just as easily drown in his own blood.”
Moya sat bent over Tekchin, crying. “Don�
�t you dare die, you son of the Tetlin whore!”
Padera turned toward the bed. “Persephone? You okay? Are you hurt?”
Tesh came through what was left of the door.
“Tesh!” Brin sprinted across the room and hugged the boy, nearly knocking him off his feet. “You’re alive!”
“Where’ve you been?” Tegan asked, then looked at the blood on Tesh’s swords. “Finally got to kill some elves, eh?”
Tesh glared at him for a second, then smiled. “Yeah—yeah, I did.”
The sound of battle was gone. All around was the sound of wind blowing over the top of the Kype and the flutter of some unseen fabric.
“So, what’s all this about a dragon?” Anwir asked again.
A tear slipped down Persephone’s cheek, her voice soft and quavering. “It’s not a dragon.”
* * *
—
What’s going on? What are you seeing? Jerydd shouted in his head.
Mawyndulë watched with delight as lightning struck the Gula, killing them. Flash, crackle, drop. Flash, crackle, flame. Over and over the storm delivered an unnatural series of killer bolts that left him seeing after-streaks. These Rhunes did not wear the special armor, and strike after strike, the lightning killed. While dozens of bolts fired at the same time, there were still thousands and thousands of Gula charging at them, big hairy brutes with spears and rough wooden shields. Clearly, the Fhrey could easily kill several hundred but then be slaughtered by the rest.
How can there be so many? They’re like rats.
His father realized the danger as well. “Onya, create a firewall.”
A firewall? Why? Jerydd asked.
A moment later, as the barbarians threw themselves into a wailing run, a ten-foot wall of flames appeared between the Gula and the last cohort of Shahdi. This flaming fence began in the middle of the field, then rapidly ran out to either side.
Mawyndulë didn’t understand why the Spiders didn’t just blast the savages with torrents of flame. Their strategy became clearer as the wall began to move. It curled around, driving the Gula west toward the Bern River—toward the cliff.
“Fire the bridges,” the fane ordered, and in a few seconds, fire appeared on all seven of them.
Have you become deaf or just stupid? Jerydd asked, his tone an ever-increasing whine of frustration. Answer me. What are you seeing?
He’d asked the same question every few minutes since the battle started. At first, Mawyndulë had complied, whispering descriptions, but he grew tired of narrating. He found the process irritating and demeaning. He hadn’t invited Jerydd to sit in his head that morning and felt no obligation to relay information like some courier.
“Push them off the cliff,” his father said. “Not too fast—a slow and steady creep. I want them to have the opportunity to ponder their fate. Give them time to choose between jumping to their death or burning alive.” The fane picked up his wine once more and sat down. He swirled the contents in the cup. “This is the way my mother used to do it. Show them what it means to go to war against the Miralyith,” he said, staring out at the thousands beyond the wall of fire that marched unerringly forward. “This is your reward.” He gestured to the servant to fill another cup. “Have some wine, Mawyndulë. I don’t like to drink alone.”
His father was in a dark but generous mood, at least toward him.
Mawyndulë didn’t answer. The sight and the anticipation were fascinating. An unrelenting wall of fire drove more people than he’d ever seen in one place toward a sheer drop. A few Rhunes tried to run through. He saw them catch fire and fall. When the wall moved past, he could see their scorched bodies, lumps in a smoking black field. As the wall pressed, those caught inside were squeezed. Those in the rear, row by row, line by line, began to slip into the chasm.
“It’s coming,” Synne said.
“What is?” the fane asked.
“The light,” she said, pointing up at the sky.
Mawyndulë looked toward the fortress and spotted the dark winged creature coming at them. The dragon that had breathed fire was getting larger by the second, and Mawyndulë already thought it was pretty big.
“Synne,” his father said. “Use lightning. Kill it.”
Lightning crackled and a jagged finger of blue-white light struck the beast. It didn’t even dip with the impact, didn’t fall. It barely altered its flight. Again and again, Synne jolted the dragon with bolts. The thing kept coming.
Damn you, Mawyndulë! What are you seeing?
“The Art…” Synne sounded confused. “The Art has no effect on it.”
No effect? Jerydd said in his head. That doesn’t make sense. What does it look like? Scratch that. What does it feel like? Look at it with the eyes of the Art.
“A bright light. Looks and feels like…power,” Mawyndulë said softly.
Power?
“Feels like the Art.”
Art doesn’t affect Art, Mawyndulë. If what you say is true, they are trying to burn a fire, or flood an ocean. It won’t work.
“Jerydd says the dragon is the Art, and the Art can’t damage itself,” Mawyndulë told his father.
The fane glanced at Mawyndulë, his eyes losing confidence. Once more, he set down his wine and stood up.
The beast was crossing the chasm, wings beating in a steady rhythm, tail straight out behind it. Larger and larger it became.
How big is it? Mawyndulë thought. How can that be the Art?
The fane took a step forward, cast off his cloak, and with a deep hum and a wave of his arm, the fane sent forth a blast of fire that coursed across the sky, striking the beast in the chest. The flames did nothing, and the monster appeared to swim through the blaze. Then, as if given the idea, the dragon opened its mouth and replied in kind. A blast of fire shot from its mouth at the hill.
Instantly, the flame wall marching toward the Gula vanished when the Miralyith abandoned it in exchange for protection. A defense screen was one of the first things a Miralyith learned. The crossed arms and buzzing sound became as much a reflex as throwing out one’s hands in a fall. Mawyndulë put up his own shield; so did his father, and Synne threw up a defense over the fane, but the Spiders, by virtue of their training, reacted differently. They combined their efforts, creating a small dome that capped the hilltop. In doing so, they saved the lives of those few servants lucky enough to be standing close by, including Treya, Taraneh, and his twelve Lions. Everything on the command hill was scorched black, including a dozen tents, a cask of wine, travel packs, linens, tables, torch stands, five soldiers, and two dozen servants who didn’t have the time to scream.
When the fire was exhausted, Mawyndulë looked up and saw the dragon was huge, the size of a building—a big building.
“Knock it down!” the fane ordered. “Blow it away! Use the wind. Only wind!”
Onya nodded and the Spiders reconvened their weaving.
“Just channel the natural air, like when combating the Orinfar,” his father continued to explain.
The light breeze wafting across the hilltop died. Smoke that had been blowing away hung in the stagnant air as all around them grass continued to smolder. Overhead, a monster, so big it blocked out most of the sky, folded its wings, extended claws the size of swords, and dove.
“Now!” the fane shouted.
A massive roar came from everywhere as an incredible blast of wind hit the beast and set it spinning away. The dragon became a leaf in a hurricane.
Did it work?
Mawyndulë was too scared to be obstinate, too relieved to be vindictive. “Yes, the wind threw it back.”
In that brief gap, in that moment left open for taking a breath, Mawyndulë heard the clash of battle. Everyone had forgotten the Gula. With the firewall gone, the horde ran at the Shahdi with a new fury. They shouted and yelled so that their joined voices created a r
oar similar to the howl of wind the Spiders had harnessed. They charged across the scorched and smoking field and slammed into the remainder of the fane’s army. The blue-and-gold warriors were immediately swamped by a sea of Rhunes. There would be no possibility of erecting a new firewall without killing their own soldiers. This wasn’t much of a problem; the real concern was the dragon. With the first wind expelled, the Spiders drew another breath. The beast wasted no time flying back toward them.
“Drive it down this time,” the fane said. “Slam the dragon to the ground. Crush it.”
The beast was fast and only a few hundred yards away when the Spiders struck it from above this time. The dragon hit the ground so hard it bounced and left a long scar in the field, but the fall didn’t kill it, didn’t faze it, and a moment later the monster was up, this time running toward them.
“Blow it back! Blow it back!” the fane shouted.
The beast was too close. The Spiders couldn’t recover in time.
Mawyndulë felt a sudden surge.
Help him! The Spiders are out of power! Help your father!
Mawyndulë didn’t have much experience with wind, but it wasn’t too difficult, not with the force of Avempartha fueling him. He could have been way off, casting the most inefficient of weaves—which he was certain was the case—and yet the sheer force was capable of sending the beast hurtling backward once more.
Heads turned to look his way, but no one wasted the time to make a comment.
Instead, Onya faced the fane shaking her head. “My fane, we can’t kill it.”
Taraneh, who up until then had remained silent, turned to Lothian. “My fane, the battle is lost. You must retreat.” The leader of the fane’s guard waved to the groom to bring horses.
His father exploded. “No! Not again! Not when we are so close.”
Age of War: Book Three of The Legends of the First Empire Page 40