“If my brother destroys the realm of magic,” Inara countered, “the world will never face another threat he can’t handle on his own. One way or another, Gideon, there will be peace.”
“At what cost though?” the old master posed, fearful for those who would have to die to see Alijah’s peace come about.
Inara gave him a hard look through the flames. “That’s what we’re fighting for.”
20
Crosshairs
Death had come to The Moonlit Plains. It plucked souls from the battlefield by the score and reclaimed those that had been forced back into their rotting bodies. Yet the Reavers still possessed the superior numbers and not one of them showed an ounce of fatigue.
Galanör couldn’t say the same.
The elven ranger had been fighting day and night and now, rising in the east, a red dawn graced the sky. All his long life, Galanör had never endured a battle for so long. Like everyone else, he was testing his limits and pushing himself beyond them.
He had lost count of how many Reavers had tasted his steel and been sent back to the grave. Devoid of blood, their detritus smeared the elf’s scimitars, staining them black. His blue cloak was similarly ruined and heavier now as it flowed around him, slapping mud against his legs.
Then there was Aenwyn, a beacon of light in the darkest hours of the battle. Her movements were still light, ethereal almost, as she flitted from one enemy to the other. She balanced her attacks between blade and bow, picking up arrows wherever she might find them.
Galanör cut his way through two Reavers to fight by her side, intensifying their prowess. They quickly assimilated the other’s style and began to complement each other in their attacks. Galanör ducked under a sweeping sword and Aenwyn used his position to roll over his bent back and fire an arrow into a Reaver’s head. The ranger popped back up with a snap and a swirling attack with both Stormweaver and Guardian, protecting Aenwyn’s blind side.
Of course, there was more than just Reavers to protect each other from. If Centaurs weren’t charging through and Warhogs weren’t rampaging in every direction, the dwarves of Dhenaheim were there to add their own flavour of chaos to the fighting.
Galanör dashed to the left in order to avoid a trio of dwarves barrelling into a Reaver, their combined weight more than enough to bury the fiend in mud: there to use their axes. Aenwyn too was forced to spin away from a dwarf swinging his hammer with wild abandon. Neither of them, however, could argue with their results. The children of the mountain could take some serious damage and every one fought with hardened experience.
Looking out at the sea of heads and elevated Centaurs, the ranger only hoped that Doran, Russell, and Faylen were out there somewhere. He wondered if Faylen had found her way to Captain Nemir, as his forces continued to dominate the south-eastern corner of the battle. Whatever happened to them, he hoped they were together.
Galanör shook his head. The fatigue was making his mind wander when he should be focused on his surroundings. That was how he missed the incoming Reaver and its thrusting sword. Aenwyn, ever his saviour, planted a firm boot in Galanör’s chest and shoved him back into a pack of dwarves. The Reaver missed its target and, instead, found Aenwyn’s scimitar lodged in its head.
The dwarves growled at Galanör’s interference and, collectively, pushed him back onto his feet before Aenwyn. “That’s six!” she shouted over the melee.
Galanör deflected a killing blow with Guardian and decapitated his foe with Stormweaver. “Six?” he doubted, sure that Aenwyn had only saved his life four times since the fighting began.
Aenwyn dodged a Reaver’s sweeping sword and, in the same movement, yanked free a wild arrow protruding from its hip. “Six!” she confirmed confidently, before firing that same arrow point blank into her enemy’s face.
Any witty retort he might have responded with was stolen by the ear-splitting roar that cracked the sky in half. Galanör cast his eyes to the dawn’s red canvas above and searched for the greatest killing machine in the world. It was hard to feel relief upon spotting one of the undead Dragon Riders, but at least it wasn’t Malliath the voiceless. Narrowing his vision, the ranger tried to identify the specific Rider, be it Vilyra astride her dragon, Godrad, or Gondrith astride his dragon, Yillir. They were the only remaining two of Alijah’s fearsome generals but, from this distance, even his elven eyes couldn’t determine which of the two had entered the battle.
“Incoming!” a fellow elf bellowed from within the chaos.
Galanör didn’t need the warning - he could see the dragon flying down towards him. He turned around, barged his way to Aenwyn and grappled her to the ground only a moment before the monster snatched at any body it could. Looking up from the mud and blood, the ranger watched as the dragon ascended back into the sky, where it released elves, dwarves, and Reavers from all four of its claws. Their screams lay beyond Galanör’s hearing, but their fall was well within his sight. He would have watched them to their end but he was quickly set upon by more Reavers.
“Get up!” Aenwyn yelled.
The elven ranger came up following the tip of his swords, both of which skewered a Reaver each and pushed them back. Aenwyn guarded him while he dispatched them for good. Now he could see the Reaver dragon and the Rider on its back. Yillir glided low over the battle with Gondrith and his mighty hammer seated in the saddle. Careful not to diminish the Reavers’ numbers, Yillir chose victims on the outer edges of the fighting, where Captain Nemir’s forces were still penetrating.
Galanör watched in horror as Yillir’s tail curled down and dragged through the ranks of his kin. “We need to bring that dragon down!” he growled.
“How?” Aenwyn demanded, slicing through the legs of two Reavers. “I’m a good shot but one arrow isn’t going to bring it down!”
Galanör bashed the pommel of a hilt into an enemy’s helmet, knocking it clean from the horrific face beneath. Stormweaver flashed upwards and the Reaver lost most of its head. As it dropped to the ground, the ranger glimpsed something between the maddening fray.
“Maybe one arrow is all we need!” he called back. “We just need a bigger bolt!” Answering Aenwyn’s questioning expression, Galanör pointed one of his scimitars at the distant ballista.
“After you!” Aenwyn insisted.
It was a clear morning over The Moonlit Plains. The sky was still transforming as the dawn bid farewell to the night. It was a good day to change the world.
Alijah looked down on the sprawling battle that spread around the entire circumference of the dig site. Thanks to his bond with every Reaver, he already knew that Centaurs had joined The Rebellion. It was a pity, he thought. They were such a fascinating species with a long history in Illian and, indeed Erador. Now, however, the tribes of The Moonlit Plains would have to be purged for good.
Much closer to the battle, he spotted Yillir creating havoc among the elven contingent. He sent a mental command to Gondrith, instructing the Rider to add his hammer to the melee.
As Malliath flew directly over the dig site, Alijah considered his path to its lowest depths. There was nowhere to land around the edge of the site, a battleground in itself thanks to the dwarven prisoners in the throes of rebellion.
Get me as close as you can, he instructed, eager to see Malliath devastate the rebel forces.
If I land in the middle of that I will be surrounded by enemies, the dragon was quick to respond. I am immortal, not invincible.
The king hadn’t expected such reluctance from his companion but, as always, he was right. And Alijah knew he would struggle to focus on his task if he thought Malliath was being harmed. Alijah considered diving down, plummeting to the very bottom, and using magic to safeguard his landing, but he didn’t know what awaited him down there, nor in the realm of magic. He needed to be conservative.
Land in the east, he suggested, noting the edge of the battle was closer to the dig site. I will forge my own path to the doorway.
Malliath banked to the east and beg
an his descent to the plains. Given the pain in his wings, it wasn’t the fastest descent he had ever made. The dragon glided round in a broad arc until his claws touched down on the grass. The rebels fighting on the fringes turned to behold the greatest threat they had ever faced. That threat looked back at them with purple eyes.
Try not to destroy too many knights, Alijah advised. We will still need an army when this is all over.
Malliath replied with his fiery breath, a jet of flames so excruciatingly hot that it melted the elven, dwarven, and Reaver armour alike. Entire Centaurs were engulfed, disappearing inside the blinding torrent, their screams drowned out by the raw power of the oldest dragon in the world.
Alijah climbed down his companion’s side and drew his Vi’tari scimitar, enjoying how the green steel caught the rising light. Now it was time to show them his power. He walked over the scorched ground and charred bodies, ready for the battle to swallow him up. One last push, he thought. Then he could rest, knowing he had saved the world.
Galanör put the last Reaver down that stood between him and the ballista. Aenwyn was close behind, her scimitar slashing to defend herself.
“It’s not loaded!” Galanör complained, turning to see Aenwyn slice her foe into pieces.
“Here!” Aenwyn handled one of the spear-like bolts from the ground and passed it to the ranger.
“Watch my back!” Galanör shouted as he began to align the bolt onto the central shaft of the ballista. Of course, Aenwyn was already moving to defend him, dancing around the weapon to keep any Reavers at bay.
Satisfied with the placement of the bolt, the ranger attempted to winch the drawstring back behind it. His arms trembled with the exertion, an effort he would not have needed prior to the battle.
“Aenwyn!” he shouted desperately, seeing Yillir’s flight path begin to line up.
Aenwyn ordered two elves to guard them as best they could while she jumped to Galanör’s aid. They both groaned under the effort as they drew the string into place. Working together, it wasn’t long before it gave a resounding and satisfying click.
“Take the shot!” Galanör urged, reaching for his blades again.
“Me?”
“You’re a better shot than me!” the ranger encouraged. He pivoted just in time to block the downward stroke of a Reaver’s blade. A boot to the chest shoved it back into the timely swing of a dwarven axe.
Then he saw it. Death.
It was as if the ethereal and ancient entity walked side by side with Alijah Galfrey. The half-elf, visible between a dozen fighting combatants, flashed his green blade in sweeping arcs. Every elf, dwarf, and Centaur he faced was collected by Death, their souls added to the extensive tally that already belonged to his cursed blade.
“Come on!” Aenwyn berated herself.
With what strength she had, the elf manoeuvred the ballista to keep the bolt head in line with Yillir’s erratic flight. Galanör dashed to her side and added his blades to her defence. “He’s here!” the ranger informed. “Alijah and Malliath are here!”
Aenwyn never took her eyes off her target. “One dragon at a time!” she replied, firing the bolt at last.
The missile sailed over the top of the battle, whistling as it cut through the air. Galanör watched it intently, willing it to find its mark. Yillir’s flight path, however, was momentarily altered at the last second as it moved to avoid the wild swipe of a rogue Troll. The bolt careered off one of the spikes on the dragon’s tail. Aenwyn cursed and slammed her fist onto the ballista.
“Load another bolt,” Galanör muttered. “Load another bolt!” he bellowed. “Quickly!”
Time against them and enemies at their back, the elves worked to place another bolt onto the main shaft and draw the string back. Both elves and dwarves clashed with Reavers to protect the pair, but there was nothing any of them could do against a dragon.
“Pull!” Aenwyn grunted, her strength added to Galanör’s.
Yillir ripped the Troll’s head from its body and spat the mangled skull from its mouth. Rid of the temporary hindrance, the dragon roared and flapped its ragged wings, taking it back into the sky.
“Pull!” they both groaned.
Flying right for them, Yillir opened its maw, preparing to consume them in flames.
Click. It was the most satisfying sound in the world.
Aenwyn shoved Galanör away and assumed full control of the ballista’s aim and trigger. Only seconds existed between them and death by fire. The elven ranger caught just a glimpse of the smile that flashed across Aenwyn’s face before she let fly the lengthy bolt. It launched with a loud and powerful thunk, though its flight was short-lived when Yillir took the bolt directly in the mouth. The dragon was instantly brought down by the force of it.
The ground shuddered under the impact, which killed any unfortunate enough to be in its path, but its speed continued until Yillir skidded across the battlefield and its head slammed into the front of the ballista, knocking Aenwyn back a step.
Galanör wanted to celebrate the victory with her but there was no time. Another shadow was upon them. The ranger gave no warning before he wrapped his arms around Aenwyn’s waist and brought her down with him. As they hit the blood-soaked ground, the meaty fist of a Troll crashed into the ballista and reduced it to splinters.
The roar that followed was deafening. Determined that such a savage noise would not be the last thing he ever heard, Galanör rolled to the side with Aenwyn still in his arms. They avoided the second fist, which dented the ground, and quickly split up to confuse the beast.
Four wretched eyes looked down on Galanör as he ran around the remains of the ballista, missing Aenwyn who weaved between a group of dwarves to flank the Troll. Using one of the dwarves’ pauldrons, she deftly leapt up and found purchase on a spear jammed in the monster’s ribs. From there, she scaled its rocky back until its stubby head was within her grasp. Galanör was preparing to evade the incoming hammer fist when Aenwyn took the dagger from her belt and rammed it into one of the Troll’s eyes.
The next attack never came for Galanör, the Troll’s wrath now directed elsewhere. One hand after the other snatched at the air around its hideous head, searching for the one who tormented it.
“Get away from it!” Galanör warned.
Before Aenwyn could jump down, however, the Troll found its attacker and yanked her from its shoulders. Aenwyn fought to free herself but the monster’s grip was unyielding. The Troll growled in her face and brought her towards its open jaws. One bite would snap anyone in half, armour or not.
“NO!” Galanör raged, seeing Aenwyn’s life coming to a gruesome end.
The ranger reacted without thought, his muscles falling back on centuries of practice. He rolled his wrist, twisting Guardian in a swift circle, until he was holding the scimitar like a spear. Despite the awkward angle, standing in the shadow of the Troll, he succeeded in launching the weapon up into the roof of its mouth.
It immediately flinched backwards and dropped Aenwyn to the ground. Its pain-filled roar was dampened by the steel lodged in its palate, the hilt poking over its bottom lip. It tried to pull the blade free but discovered more pain in the process. This made it mad, mad enough to ignore the fear of pain and simply clamp its jaw shut, shattering Guardian between its teeth. The hilt and half the blade fell to the ground while the top half remained stuck inside its mouth.
Galanör was elated to see Aenwyn alive on the other side of the broken ballista and simultaneously heartbroken by the loss of one of his swords. In the path of the Troll’s burning ire, however, there was nothing he could do about either. Instead, he dived to the side, narrowly missing another fist. One after the other came down around the elf, each possessing the force of a falling tree. Galanör rolled left and right between crawling and jumping out of the way. With saliva and blood drooling from its mouth, the monster pursued him, swiping at anything and anyone that got in its way.
The ranger’s ultimate undoing came in the form of a crazed War
hog. The dwarven mount burst forth from the melee and knocked Galanör to the ground, giving the Troll time to bear over him. He tried to get up but there was nowhere to go but a wall of dwarves and Reavers locked in battle. If he pushed into them, they would all suffer the beast’s hammering blows.
With Stormweaver in hand, he rolled onto his back and faced the looming Troll. Its three remaining eyes narrowed on the elf and it sneered, revealing a sliver of the broken steel in its mouth. It raised its left fist, cracking knuckles the size of a man’s head. If that fist was coming down on him, Galanör was determined that it would feel the cutting bite of Stormweaver first.
Like a meteor, the fist was dropped, blocking out the sky above. But it never found Galanör of house Reveeri.
From his grounded position, the ranger could only marvel at Ilargo’s timely manner. The green dragon had snatched the Troll from the battlefield in his front claws and now carried the monster off into the heavens, there to be dropped from a dizzying height.
As Ilargo flew away, a new figure came to stand over Galanör. “What are you doing down there?” Gideon Thorn asked with a cocky grin and an outstretched arm.
The elf couldn’t help but break out a broad smile of relief as he took the offered hand. “Oh you know, just catching my breath,” he replied. “I’m glad to see you,” he said seriously. “The cavalry is just what we need about now.”
“I’m not the cavalry,” Gideon told him. “She is.”
Galanör followed his friend’s gaze to the sky, where a small figure was leaping from the back of Athis the ironheart. Inara Galfrey hurtled towards the battlefield like a star thrown by the gods. The Guardian of the Realm was enveloped in a multitude of flaring colours as she not only protected her fall with magic, but also surrounded herself with a destructive force.
There wasn’t a soul on The Moonlit Plains that didn’t feel her impact.
A Clash of Fates Page 24