Calen took a swig from his waterskin, panting as he sat in the clearing of grass he had created so that he and Vaeril could practise unimpeded.
The fellensír was as different to the svidarya as water was to stone. He was getting the hang of it, though. But it was more than just knowing the sword forms. It was understanding the movement between them, feeling the essence of how each form flowed into the next.
His neck clicked as he shifted his head from side to side, trying to relieve some of the stiffness that had set in. He felt as though he was once again travelling from The Glade to Belduar. Ride, train, eat, sleep, repeat. The riding was the worst part. No matter how much riding he did, he never seemed to get used to it. His back was sore, his stomach muscles were in tatters, and the insides of his legs were raw and tender. The snow didn't help one bit. Even then, as he and Vaeril sat in the small clearing in the forest, tiny flakes of snow drifted through the canopy, tingling slightly as they landed on his skin, melting in an instant.
The others were in the village of Kallingat, but Calen, Vaeril, and Valerys had stayed in the forest. It was easier to practise with a bit of peace and quiet. Besides, they couldn't bring Valerys into the village; the fewer people who saw him, the better.
"What do you feel when you call to the Spark?" Vaeril asked, breaking the silence as he picked a few blades of grass, his legs folded and his sword resting by his side. The elf never seemed to sweat; at least, not often. Calen couldn't help but notice it as he looked at Vaeril, his blonde hair resting on his leather pauldrons. Whenever Calen sparred in his full leathers, like now, he sweated as though the sun was blistering overhead, and he smelled as though he hadn't washed for days. But sitting in front of him, in the full leather armour that all the elves of the Aravell wore, Vaeril looked as though he had merely been enjoying a casual stroll. Not a single bead of sweat adorned his brow.
Calen shifted where he sat, tilting his head to the side, thinking. "It's hard to describe. When I reach out to it, I feel… a warmth? But the longer I hold on to it, the more I draw…"
"You feel the drain."
Calen nodded. "It feels as though my soul is being pulled from my body, dragged kicking and screaming. Sometimes it hurts, like a sharp burning pain. It's so intense I feel like screaming."
Calen felt Vaeril reach out to the Spark, drawing on threads of Air. The elf tossed the blades of grass he had been playing with, wrapping them in the threads. They hung there as though suspended in time. "When you reach out to the Spark, you open a door. This door lets you reach through and lets the Spark flow back the other way. The longer that door stays open, the more of the Spark can flow through. Leave it open too long…" Calen felt Vaeril draw on threads of Fire, and the blades of grass flared, glowed a bright orange, then disintegrated to charred dust. "If you are new to the Spark, you will often simply lose consciousness before you can get to that point. But once you are strong enough to hold more of it, the danger increases. As the drain affects you less and less, the risk of burning out rises. I have seen what happens when a powerful mage takes too much." Vaeril turned to Calen, a severe look in his eyes. "You need to be careful. With each day, I see you push your limits. You draw deeper from the Spark, you push harder. I saw what you did in Belduar, in that ruined dwarven city, and to the wyrms. You are already a powerful mage, if untrained. But that training is important: it teaches you where your limits lie, and it teaches you control. Draleid or not, you need to know those limits. Because the Spark will not hesitate to consume your soul."
The hairs on the back of Calen's neck stood on end and his throat tightened. How close had he already come to the Spark being burned from him without knowing it? How close had he come to his soul being consumed and Valerys's with it? He shuddered at the thought, fear snaking its tendrils around his heart. In response, a feeling of warmth and comfort flooded through Calen's mind, seeking to calm his fear. Valerys emerged from a thicket about twenty feet away, the body of a limp deer in his jaws. Dropping the dead animal to the ground, Valerys moved towards Calen, lowering his neck and touching the tip of his snout against Calen's forehead.
Images flashed across Calen's eyes as their minds embraced. Images of Valerys's egg, the Fade in Belduar, the kerathlin, the tunnels, the wyrms. Every moment they had spent together, every adversity they had faced, rippled through Calen's mind in fractions of a second, and his fear was gone. Calen reached up, running his hands along the cool scales of Valerys's neck. The dragon's message was clear: Calen was not alone. No matter what foe they faced or what darkness threatened to swallow them whole, they would stand together. "Myia nithír til diar, Valerys. I denír viël ar altinua." My soul to yours, Valerys. In this life and always.A soft grumble escaped Valerys's throat, and the dragon curled up on the ground beside Calen, his head resting against Calen's leg.
"The words you chose were beautiful," Vaeril said, a smile touching his lips as he watched over Valerys. "What is it like to be bonded?"
Even the notion of it made Calen smile. But how could he ever describe that feeling? "It's like your own mind is not yours, but at the same time, it is. Like every thought belongs to you, but it belongs to him. Mostly, I can tell the difference. We're not always completely blended. I can feel a separation. But there are times, when I let go, that it becomes…" He let out a sigh. It was hard to grasp the essence of that feeling. "I see through his eyes, I feel through his body, and I breathe through his lungs. We are one and the same. I am my own, but I belong to him, and he belongs to me."
"Incredible," Vaeril whispered, more to himself than anything else, his eyes never leaving Valerys.
"It is," Calen agreed, his mind lingering on the feeling. "Come on," he said, getting to his feet. "Let's join the others and get some food in our bellies. I'm starved."
Vaeril's expression changed in a flash. "I think it's best if I stay here. I can hunt something. It will be easier."
It took Calen a moment to realise why Vaeril's mood had changed at the drop of a hat, and it was not something he was going to allow to continue. He would not have someone who stood by his side be left to sit alone in a forest just to satisfy the whims of idiots. "You're coming."
"I—"
"Vaeril, I'm not having you sit in a forest in the cold, cooking rabbit on a spit while I eat stew in a warm inn. Either you come, or I stay. I'm happy with either."
Taking a few moments, Vaeril nodded, pulling his hood up over his head, covering his ears. "Let's go."
Kallingat was no bigger than the village where they had stayed at the base of Mount Helmund. The houses were built from the same thick wooden logs with heavy glass windows set into them and smoke streaming from their chimneys. There was a bit more of a buzz about Kallingat, though. Hawkers and pedlars filled the streets. Some stood behind stalls of thick wood that seemed as though they were permanent fixtures built to withstand the weather, others flogged their wares from the backs of carts, and some stood beside stacked crates and boxes.
A small woman with a soft, pale face and straw-blonde hair stood behind one of the heavy wooden stalls, dressed in a flowy brown dress with a thick wolf fur draped over her shoulders. A child stood beside her, dressed much the same way, but her cheeks were rosier, and her hair was closer to light brown. It wasn't until Calen heard the young girl calling out that he realised what they were selling. Rows upon rows of knives, all shapes and sizes. Some with big broad blades with small notches cut into their length, some with short slightly curved blades and a stout handle – good for skinning. Others had long flat blades and thick wooden handles, and there were even a few throwing daggers, weighted blades with small necks that fed into finger loops. Calen couldn't help but admire the craftsmanship. He had never been gifted when it came to blacksmithing, not even close, not compared to his father. But he knew good work when he saw it, and those knives were good work. His hand fell to the pommel of his own sword, the last thing his father had given him, hanging in its scabbard from the loop on his belt. For the most part, Calen tried to keep the thoughts of his family at the back of his mind. Not because he didn't want to think of them, but because every time he did, it consumed him. Swallowing hard, he pushed the thought down, sweeping his coat over his sword, obscuring it from view as much as he could.
"Fruit, sir?" a little voice to Calen's left said. He looked down to see two small children, no more than seven or eight summers, a boy and a girl. Both with large dark eyes and rose-coloured cheeks with fur coats that were much too big for them, draped over their shoulders. The little girl was the one who had spoken; she held both of her hands up in the air, a shiny green apple clutched in each one. "One copper for the pair," she said, before adding, "sir."
"That sounds a bit cheap. Are you sure I only have to pay that much?" Calen asked, leaning a bit closer as though he were inspecting the apples closely. A copper should have bought him four or five apples, but he wasn't going to argue.
"Yes, sir. Ours are the cheapest in Kallingat."
Calen pulled a copper from the purse in his coat pocket, took the two apples and then dropped the copper in the girl's hand. The two kids thanked him gleefully before running off into the rambling crowd.
"You know they bought them from the fruit cart across the street," Vaeril said, nodding to the fruit seller as Calen tossed him one of the apples.
"I know," Calen said with a laugh, biting into the apple, the juices rolling down his chin. It was just what he wanted, crisp and sweet with just a little bit of tartness at the end.
"I'll never understand humans," Vaeril whispered. Calen wasn't entirely sure if he was meant to hear that or not.
Calen stopped as they passed a heavy-set man with a thick knotted beard to match his hair, a broad swollen chest, and a leathered face standing behind a stall lined with winter clothes: fur coats, fur hats, fleece-lined boots, and deerskin gloves that looked as though they had been made by a craftsman with the skill to rival Tharn Pimm.
"Come, take a gander, the finest of leathers and the thickest of furs, caught and crafted right here in Kallingat," the hefty man bellowed. The lilt in his Drifaienin accent made his voice seem hearty and full, almost inviting. Even if Calen had not wanted to buy a new pair of boots and gloves, he still might have gone over simply from the man's voice. But his rumbling stomach told him new shoes could wait.
The Frozen Goat seemed like an odd name for an inn, but then again, Calen had heard even stranger names. Warmth hit him as soon as he stepped inside the inn, sending a shiver up his spine as it brushed the cold from his skin. It was busier than Calen had expected. Most of the patrons seemed to be Drifaienin, with their thick beards, and in the women's case, their tough stares, giving them away. There were a few patrons scattered around who looked as though they had come from afar. A man sitting in the corner, dressed in flamboyant red breeches and a brazen yellow doublet, looked as out of place as any of them. Calen could not place him anywhere; maybe Arkalen? He had heard people from Arkalen were as audacious with their clothing choices as they were loose with their purses, and they cared little for what people thought of either. The man certainly fit that bill, sitting like a peacock among pigeons.
A pair of women in the corner had the coppery skin of Valtarans, and the tattoos of black ink that lined their arms only confirmed that further. Calen had never met a Valtaran, but he had heard many stories of the rebellion, of how Valtaran men and women fought side by side, and how one Valtaran was worth ten of any other in combat. Some of the bards who visited The Glade were clearly biased towards the empire, but even they often admitted that the Dragonguard were the only reason the rebellion failed. Skill with a spear and a shield meant little when faced with dragonfire.
His eyes lingered on the two Valtarans only a moment before he spotted Falmin, Tarmon, and the two dwarves sitting at a booth over in the corner of the inn. He recognised the man and two women who sat at the table next to the booth as well, Heldin, Sigrid, and Gudrun, the other Drifaienin, besides Alleron and Alwen, who had survived the wyrm attack. He nodded to them as he took a seat beside Korik.
"Where are the others?" Calen asked as he snatched a piece of bread off the table from under Falmin's fork, receiving a glare from the navigator.
"Erik and Alleron have gone to source more horses," Tarmon answered, taking a swig of tea from a broad-bottomed wooden mug. "Alwen, in his own words, has gone to get us a bottle of 'liquid happiness'. How goes the practice?" Tarmon didn't direct the question at Calen; instead, he turned to Vaeril.
The elf gave a pout, pulling back his hood and giving a slight shrug of his shoulders. "He learns quickly, though his patience wears thin at the same pace."
"He will learn that, too," Tarmon said with a satisfied nod, gripping both hands around the mug of tea.
Calen's gaze moved between Vaeril and Tarmon. "You know he is sitting right here?"
"Aye," Falmin said with a laugh, his mouth still half full of stew. "The two of 'em do that sometimes. Two peas in a pod so they are. I—"
Falmin stopped mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing as a man walked up to the booth. He was big, with a nose twisted like the roots of a tree and short hair curved into a widow's peak at the top. "You all right?" Falmin said, swallowing the food in his mouth.
"I would be, if it weren't so tough to stomach my food." The man's words would have made no sense to Calen if he had not been glaring at Vaeril while he spoke.
"Not this shit again…" Calen whispered to himself, his jaw clenching involuntarily.
"Look, you're welcome to eat outside. But your kind can't come in here. I'll give ya till a count of ten." The man didn't move. He stood right at the end of the booth, feet planted, his eyes fixed on Vaeril. "Ten…"
Calen clenched his hand into a fist and moved to stand, but before he could do anything, someone grabbed the man by the back of the head and slammed his face on the wooden beam that fronted the joining wall between their booth and the next. The man's already mangled nose burst open as it cracked against the wood, spraying blood across the floor and the table, a few drops landing in Lopir's soup. Four more times the man's head bounced off the wooden beam, blood spraying like a fountain each time. The fifth time, the man dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes, limp but still breathing.
It was Gudrun that stood over him, one of the Drifaienin women, her blonde hair tied in a knot, her face frozen in a cold stare. She leaned over the man, blood dripping from her right hand, then spat on his back. "Filth," she said, her lips curling into a snarl. "I apologise, master elf, on behalf of my people. He is sorry, too," she said with a nod towards the prone man whose chest rose and fell slowly. "He will tell you so when he wakes." Gudrun bowed slightly at the waist, then gave a nod to Calen before returning to her seat, leaving the man on the floor unconscious but still groaning. Everyone else in the inn carried on as if nothing had happened, with the exception of the Arkalen man, who looked about as horrified as Calen would have expected.
"I like 'er," Falmin said with a shrug. "I wonder if she's spoken for?" The navigator scrunched up his face and ran his hand through his slicked back hair as he pondered the answer to his own question.
"That," Tarmon said, nodding towards the unconscious man on the floor lying in an ever-growing pool of his own blood, "is what you look for in a woman?"
Falmin shrugged again, shovelling another mouthful of stew into his mouth. "I like a woman who can look after 'erself."
Calen looked down again at the bloody mess of a man then over to Tarmon, who just shook his head and gave a slight shrug.
"Is someone going to pick him up?" Calen asked nobody in particular as one of the serving girls stepped over the man with a half-irritated look on her face.
"I don't believe so." Vaeril answered, looking down at the man, an unreadable expression on his face.
Calen gave Vaeril a slight nod that was acknowledged with the closest thing to a smile the elf could muster. As happy as he was to see the man feel the pain he so rightly deserved, it was still a bittersweet happiness knowing that so many of the Drifaienin likely shared his beliefs.
"How's the eye?" Calen asked Lopir, trying to move on from the incident.
"Good," the dwarf replied, picking a piece of meat from his teeth with a small wooden splinter. "Thanks to master elf." Lopir aimed a cheeky grin at Vaeril.
"And how are you faring, being outside of Lodhar?"
"In truth?" Lopir said with a sigh. "I yearn for home. It's an honour to follow you, Draleid, don't mistake my words. But my heart bleeds for my wife's touch, and I long for the warmth of the mountain."
"We'll get you home, Lopir, both of you." Calen gave a weak smile to Korik as he spoke. "I promise."
"I will introduce you to my son," Lopir said. "He would love to meet you."
"And I him."
"Speaking of home, what exactly is our plan when we get to Arisfall?" Tarmon leaned his two elbows on the table, his hands cupped under his chin, a serious look on his face. "If an emissary from the empire has already been to see Lothal Helmund, how can we trust him?"
"We can't," Calen said, pursing his lips. "Alleron said there is a small fishing village just south of Arisfall. We will wait for him there while he sources a captain. When he's back, we will take a riverboat down to the coast, and from there we sail back up to the Lodhar Mountains. It should take at least a month off our journey, maybe more."
"A sound plan." Tarmon leaned in a little closer, dropping his voice to a whisper so the Drifaienin couldn't hear. "Can we trust him? Alleron."
"We can. He's brought us this far."
Tarmon nodded, refraining from saying much more, though Calen could tell by his eyes that he wasn't convinced of Alleron's trustworthiness.
Erik and Alleron had returned by the time the sun began to recede over the mountains to the west. Four horses had survived the wyrm attack, and they had been able to secure five more. Alwen returned a while later brandishing a bottle of Drifaienin whiskey that burned as though it were liquid fire. The innkeeper was not particularly happy, but her sour face changed once Alleron produced his coin purse. At one point during the night, they even got to play a few rounds of axes. It felt good, warm. It had been a while since Calen had been able to smile so freely.
But in the back of his mind, he was always aware that Valerys was alone, waiting in the forest. He could feel the dragon's consciousness pressing against his own, constantly searching for the reassurance that Calen had come to no harm. I'm coming,
"All right." Calen winced, draining the last of his whiskey then dropping the cup on the table, puffing out his cheeks as he did. "I will see you all in the morning."
It was only when he reached the door to the inn that Calen realised Vaeril was walking with him. He had long since accepted the elf was not going to stay any more than twenty feet from him. "Come on," he said, gesturing for Vaeril to hurry up.
They found Valerys no more than fifteen minutes through the forest. Although, even at the dragon's size, if Calen had not been able to sense him, they might just as easily have walked past. When he was crouched into the snow, with his wings fanned around him, the dragon was all but invisible, especially in the dark. Calen pulled his coat tighter around him, his breath pluming out and up towards the sky.
"I will take first watch."
Calen didn't even have time to argue. Vaeril was gone as soon as he turned around. The elf could have crept up on his own shadow.
Tarmon rubbed his hands together, eliciting a crack as he rolled his shoulders. The cold itself was fine for the most part, though he preferred a warm Belduaran summer, but he had recently come to the decision that he didn't much care for the snow.
Though, it wasn't all bad. He had a thick, fur-lined coat draped over his shoulders, one of those Drifaienin sleeping sacks across his back, and a flask of whiskey in his pocket. Those three things together would be enough to keep him warm for the night, at least.
An eerie shiver ran up the back of Tarmon's neck as he walked. The snow crunched beneath his boots, the odd rustle of dried leaves drifted on the wind, and the sound of his breathing filled the air around him. But besides that, he heard nothing. Nothing was never a sound he enjoyed. Nothing always meant something. He carried on walking, though, following Calen and Vaeril's footprints through the snow. Maybe he was being paranoid, maybe he wasn't. But there was something in the back of his mind, a gut feeling, and his gut hadn't steered him too far wrong before. Either way, he would rather be wrong and prepared than right and caught napping.
Snap.
Tarmon slid the short sword free from the loop on his belt and grasped a knife with his other hand. His heart beat methodically as he spun on his heels. Nothing. He held his breath for a few more moments, waiting. He had definitely heard that branch snap; he was sure of it.
Standing straight, he slid his short sword back into its scabbard but kept his knife gripped firmly in his hand. Turning back in the direction he was originally walking, Tarmon stopped dead.
Standing in front of him, hackles raised and lips pulled back into a snarl, was the single largest wolf he had ever seen. The thing was as big as a horse, with black and grey fur and razor-sharp teeth of alabaster.
"Whoa now." Tarmon swallowed hard, wriggling his fingers on the handle of his knife. He didn't dare reach for either his sword strapped to his hip or his back. He held one hand out in front of himself, palm up, with his knife hand to the side. "Easy, easy…"
The wolf's eyes followed him as he tried to slowly shuffle his way around it, but it didn't attack, it just watched. How in the gods was it so big? He had never seen one that size before, not even close. He clenched his jaw as the wolf started to move, circling him, sniffing the air. Suddenly, it stopped snarling, held his gaze for a moment, then bounded off into the night, clearing huge distances in single leaps.
Tarmon let out a sigh of relief, then collapsed against a tree, sliding to the ground. Cold sweat slicked his brow, and his heart thumped at a steady pace, each beat like a battering ram against his chest. "What in the gods was that?"
Rist flicked his tongue across the bottom of his teeth as he sat with the letter in his hands. He had intended to read it almost a week ago, before he had run into Neera. The thought of Neera sent a shiver across his shoulders and down his back. Focus.
He sat in one of the nooks in the palace garden, the soft light from the afternoon sun providing just enough light to read by. Holding out the letter in front of his face, he cast his eyes over it once more.
My dearest son,
I'm sorry I haven't written sooner. Things haven't been easy recently. The Lorian soldiers left a few days ago. They didn't say why, but Erdhardt Hammersmith said that he heard there had been riots in Camylin. Whatever the reason, since they have been gone, Uraks have started to raid.
We've been lucky here in The Glade. The new palisade wall has kept them out for the most part. Orm Matin's son Jon suffered a broken arm in the last raid, but we haven't lost anyone. Erith hasn't been so lucky.
We had hoped Castor Kai would send soldiers, but all the pedlars that pass through are saying the same thing. They're saying that the South is in chaos, and that the Illyanaran army is already spread thin across the region.
There is a meeting of the council tomorrow, so hopefully something can be done. Don't worry too much about your mother and I, we are well, as are Tharn and Ylinda. You just look after yourself. That is what's important. How is your training? What is it like? Are they treating you well? Tell us everything.
Missing you with all our hearts,
Mam and Dad.
Rist folded the letter over four times, taking care not to wrinkle it any more than was necessary, and placed it into the pocket on the inside of his brown robes. He buried his fingers into the hair at the back of his head, pushing into his scalp until each of his fingers was pressing so tightly that it hurt. Tears burned at the corner of his eyes, but he held them back. They would do him no good.