Languid flakes of snow drifted to and fro in the gentle breeze as the fire snapped and crackled, bits of charred branches collapsing in on themselves and spewing sparks into the air. The snowfall had been fierce most of the day but had calmed in the last hour or so. Calen had no idea how the people of Drifaien went through this year-round. It snowed in the villages and across Illyanara, but only really in winter and never with the relentless ferocity it did here. Drifaien: the land of the Eversnow.
Calen pulled the fur blanket tighter around his shoulders as he bit into the flaky white flesh of the fish he held, skewered by a small twig, in his hands. It didn't taste of much past the blackened char that coated it, but he was glad of the food in his stomach. Steam wafted from his lips as he blew outward, trying to cool his mouth.
"Hungry?" Falmin asked, laughing.
Calen grunted, choking from the steaming hot fish as it burned its way down his throat, which only caused Falmin to laugh more.
They had been there for a few hours. Just east of the fishing village, Liga. Alleron said he would meet them as the sun began to set across the horizon, but that had been and gone. Calen still held faith in the man, but he would be lying to himself if he said worry had not begun to creep its way into his bones. Without Alleron, there was no ship. And no ship meant months of travelling across the mainland. Keeping Valerys hidden would be almost impossible; he grew larger by the day.
Calen looked out over the makeshift camp at those who had followed him this long way.
Falmin sat to his left, his black hair slicked back, picking through the fish he held in a piece of parchment, removing every single bone with meticulous precision. On his right, Erik leaned against a tree, smoothing a light coat of anseed oil along the blades of his swords.
Tarmon, Korik, and Lopir sat across the way, at the other side of the fire, their faces partly obscured by the flames.
Gudrun turned the spit that sat over the flames, though judging by the taste of char in Calen's mouth, it was not her usual task. Sigrid, Alwen, and Heldin sat to the fire's left, deep in discussion about the wyrm attack. Vaeril was over at the horses, settling them down for the night.
All of them had followed him, some all the way from Belduar, through battle, collapsing tunnels, kerathlin, Uraks, and wyrms. He would see them safely home. That much he owed them.
In the back of Calen's mind, he could feel Valerys soaring just above the tree line a few miles away, watching as two stags darted their way through the forest below.
Calen yawned, bringing the back of his hand to his mouth in a futile attempt to hide his exhaustion. He probably could have slept as soon as they had set up the camp, but sleep was no longer a safe haven for him. Not a single night had passed without his mind thrusting him into nightmares. They were not always the same ones, but they always held a common theme: pain and loss. Haem dying. His father bleeding out on the ground. His mother burning alive. The Lorians slicing through the Kingsguard. The kerathlin swarming over the dwarves. Sleep was no longer his ally, not when the souls of so many weighed heavy on his shoulders.
The sound of frosted grass crunching under the metal of horseshoes, followed by a soft neigh, pulled Calen from his thoughts. He leapt to his feet, pulling in threads of Fire, Spirit, and Air as he did, forming a baldír, illuminating the space in front of him in a blinding light.
"It's me!" Alleron yelled, pulling one hand from the reins of his horse to protect his eyes.
Relief flooded through Calen at the sound of Alleron's voice. He pulled the energy back from the baldír, leaving only a dim light as the orb floated in the space between him and Alleron before allowing it to dissipate entirely.
"What are you trying to do, blind me?" Alleron asked as he dismounted, clasping his hand around Calen's forearm.
"It's good to see you," Calen replied. "You're late."
"The snowfall was heavier than I had expected."
Alleron greeted the others, pulling Sigrid, Gudrun, Alwen, and Heldin into particularly tight embraces. "I spoke to a captain who is docked at the port in Straga," Alleron said, settling down beside the fire, taking a spitted fish from Gudrun as he did. "You will have your ship. He went on ahead yesterday to ensure everything was ready."
Alleron's eyes met Calen's, lingering for a moment. Calen raised his eyebrow, and the man gave a short nod in response. An answer to a question Calen had asked that night in the barn, something he would push to the back of his mind until it came time.
"When do we leave?" Erik asked, the light of the fire glinting off his blades.
"Captain Kiron is to set sail by midday tomorrow, and Straga is about an hour or so downriver. If we charter a riverboat from Liga just after sunrise, we should give ourselves plenty of time."
A groan resonated from Falmin's throat as the gangly navigator threw his head back, steam wafting from his mouth. "What is it with you people an' gettin' up when the sun rises? It ain't natural, I can tell ya that much."
Calen couldn't help but laugh at Falmin's outburst. Aeson had made getting up before sunrise almost ritualistic. Even on mornings when Calen didn't need to be up before the sun crested the horizon, his eyes still opened to darkness. Once that happened, he found it very difficult to get back to sleep.
"What of Valerys?" Tarmon asked, ignoring Falmin. "I'm assuming there is a plan?"
"Valerys will fly with us, resting on the coast as we make our way towards Belduar," Calen answered, looking towards Alleron, who nodded. "He can fly a lot faster than the ship will be able to sail. Keeping up won't be a problem for him."
Tarmon nodded as he cast a pensive gaze into the fire. The man always seemed to be thinking, planning. Were it not for him and his calm mind, Calen was certain they would never have made it out of the tunnels beneath the Lodhar Mountains.
Just as Calen went to retake his seat beside Falmin, a tickling sensation pricked his mind, but before he had any idea what it was, threads of Air wrapped around his body, pinning his hands against his side where he stood. He looked to Falmin, but threads of Air were wrapped around the navigator as well.
"Thank you, Alleron," a voice called. It had a deep Drifaienin lilt to it. "You see, Exarch, I told you he would lead us to your Draleid. Well done, my son."
Panic set into Calen as he tried to break free of the threads of Air that held him in place. His eyes shot to Alleron, who had a stunned look on his face. Had he betrayed them? Focus, break free. He couldn't move even a finger. His heart pounded. He tried to reach out to the Spark, but again, nothing. There was something in his way, blocking him. Threads of Spirit wound around him, interlaced with the threads of Air. Fear and rage surged into his mind from Valerys and for a moment, their minds were one. The dragon's wings cracked against the air, lifting him off the ground, blood dripping from his open jaws, a dead boar lying in a heap of blood-red snow at his feet.
Rasps of steel rang out around the camp at the sound of the man's voice. It took Calen a moment to realise the others couldn't see the threads of Air wrapped around him and Falmin. Those who couldn't touch the Spark couldn't see its threads either. The only other person was… Vaeril. A sudden jolt of panic shot through Calen's mind when he looked over towards the horses and could no longer see Vaeril. Please, be all right.
"Step into the light, Father," Alleron growled. Fury was etched into his face as he glared into the darkness where the voice had come from.
Alleron, please say you didn't… please… Calen continued to struggle, trying desperately to free his limbs from their invisible prison, constantly reaching out to the Spark, finding nothing. What is happening? He felt the wind ripple over Valerys's scales as the dragon tore through the sky, the fury burning in his chest like nothing Calen had ever felt.
A figure took shape, stepping from the night's grasp into the light of the fire. The man was as big as Tarmon, with a deep chest covered in chainmail, a thick knotted beard, and long black hair streaked with grey that fell around his shoulders. He wore a coat of bear fur, and two bearded axes hung from loops on his belt on both hips. "I cannot thank you enough, son. Were it not for you, we would never have found this Draleid."
"I would never have brought you here," Alleron said, spitting in the snow at his father's feet.
Lothal's upper lip twisted in irritation. "No," he replied, reaching his hand out. Two Drifaienin soldiers, furs draped over their shimmering coats of mail, emerged beside Lothal, one of them passing him a leather sack. "But like I said in the castle, you are incapable of protecting anyone."
Lothal pulled the drawstrings on the bag, opening it and emptying its contents. A gasp escaped Alleron's throat as a severed head dropped into the snow, dappling the white blanket of compacted flakes with blood. Calen thought he recognised the man's face, a head of blonde hair with a thick knotted beard of gold and brown. One of the men who had been with Alleron in The Two Barges in Milltown?
"No," Alleron whispered, just barely audible. "No," he said again, his voice turning into a growl. He leapt to his feet, drawing his face level with his father's, snarling. "Why?" Pure hatred seeped from Alleron's voice.
"I cannot let those who are disloyal survive. I must protect Drifaien." Even with his forehead pressed against his son's and Alleron's fingers gripped tightly around the hilt of his axe, Lothal sneered.
"You protect nothing but yourself!" Alleron roared, lunging forward.
In a flash of movement, Lothal caught Alleron on the jaw with a swift elbow, punching him in the gut as he recoiled. A knee to the face sent blood splattering across the snow, and Lothal shoved his son to the ground. "Me? You cannot even protect yourself, never mind your friends." Lothal rested his foot against the severed head that lay in the snow, before kicking it with the side of his foot, rolling it over beside Alleron, who lay groaning in the snow. "Stay down. I will not lose another child."
"What do you want?" Erik yelled, clutching a blade in each hand, stepping closer to Alleron's father, who still loomed over his son.
"You are not the one asking questions here," a second voice said firmly, with a purposeful tone that spoke of wealth and power. "Now that the drama is out of the way, lower your weapons, all of you, or I will have my men loose their arrows." A man stepped out of the night-obscured darkness, a black robe with a trim of silver draped around his shoulders. His hood was drawn down, exposing a bronzed complexion, a short blonde beard, and cropped hair.
Four soldiers stood on either side of the robed man, swords drawn, armoured in smooth black plate from head to toe over coats of mail that glittered in the firelight.
"I am High Mage Artim Valdock, Exarch of the Imperial Battlemages of the Circle of Magii. And I am here for the Draleid." The High Mage glanced at Calen, a grin spreading across his face. He extended a finger. "That is him."
Calen watched as the others took up a defensive position in front of him. Tarmon stood at the front, his armour gleaming, greatsword grasped with both hands. Even the word 'mage' seemed not to set fear into his heart. Korik and Lopir stood by his side, axes drawn. While Gudrun, Alwen, Sigrid, Heldin stood to his left; Erik was to his right, closer to Calen.
"No one need die this night," the High Mage said, his black robes striking a stark contrast with the snow as he took a step forward. The man's eyes held a sharp glint as they glanced towards Calen. As quickly as the threads of Air had pinned him, they vanished, their firm grasp drifting into the wind, but that wall of Spirit still stood between him and the Spark. A shiver ran the length of Calen's body and panic scratched at the corners of his mind. He had not thought it possible, and yet the mage had blocked him from the Spark as though it were nothing. Even with all the power he had gained since his parents were taken from him, this man had reduced him to nothing in an instant. That familiar feeling of helplessness crept into his mind.
"It's a warding of Spirit," Falmin whispered to Calen, rubbing his wrists as though he had been chained. "I've only seen it a few times before."
"A gesture of good will," the High Mage said, turning towards Calen, a knowing look in his eyes. "Now, I'm going to make this very simple." The man reached into the inside pocket of his robes, producing a pair of thick manacles engraved with sets of runes that glowed with a dim blue light. "Put these on and come with us." His eyes were fixed on Calen. "You have my word you will not be harmed. We are to bring you to Al'Nasla. Do this, and we will let your companions leave this place with their lives. It is your choice. How many of their lives are worth yours?"
As the High Mage's words hung in the air, the sound of grating steel and the crunch of snow beneath boots sounded all around them as more warriors stepped into the light of the fire. Men and women in the red and black leather of the Lorian Empire, steel breastplates strapped across their chests. Easily fifty, probably more. The clink of steel sounded out past those Calen could see.
"Don't even consider it," Erik said, stepping closer to Calen. "We haven't come this far to just stand down. They'll kill us all anyway."
Images flashed across Calen's mind. Air rushing. Wings beating. Fire screaming. He looked around at his companions. How many of them would die if they fought? How many would die if they didn't? He had no way of knowing what the High Mage would do if he put those manacles on. Or what those manacles would do to him. He had never seen anything like them. The runes etched into their surface radiated a dim blue light that shimmered across the smooth steel. The last time he had handed himself over to the empire, the people he was trying to save died anyway. Once more, Calen found himself with a choice that was not truly a choice. No matter what he did, more people would die, and they would die because of him. A coil of dread twisted in his stomach. He had led them to their deaths.
Ignoring the icy chill of his blood as it ran through his veins, Calen looked over towards Tarmon, who held his gaze.
"We're with you, Draleid."
"We all die and are reforged by Hafaesir's hammer," Korik added, shifting his axe in his hands.
"I'm with ya too," Falmin chimed in, shrugging. "Though, I'd prefer not ta die, if we could manage it."
"A good death it will be," Gudrun said with a nod.
More Lorian soldiers came into sight, the shadows cast by the campfire flickering across their faces. Calen set himself, drawing in a deep breath. He let the realisation sink in: if they died this night, they would die fighting.
He reached out to Valerys, seeing through his eyes, hearing through his ears. Thump. Their wings beat against the sky, picking up speed. A small fire illuminated a patch of snow just ahead, casting shadows across the ground.
Calen pulled himself back into his own mind.
"Draleid n'aldryr," he whispered to himself. Stay in the air, coming to the ground isn't worth the risk.A rumble of acknowledgement from Valerys was followed by that familiar sensation surging through the back of his mind, that build of pressure, then a flicker caught his eye in the sky above. He would need to clear the ground between them as fast as he could.
Three.
Was he making the right decision? Calen cast his eyes around, taking in his friends one more time. Handing myself over means nothing. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. The leather wrap of the handle felt like home. His father's lifeless body, lying in the dirt, flashed across his mind as his eyes fell on the swirls and spirals that ran the length of the slightly curved blade. Not again.
Two.
Calen's heart battered against his chest, blood shivered through his veins, the muscles in his jaw twitched. He set his eyes on the High Mage, the man's black robes flapping in the breeze. His threads of Spirit still surrounded Calen, still cut him off from the Spark. But he was not helpless. He was not the same person he had been when the empire came to his village. He was more than that now. He would not be helpless again. He would stand and fight.
One.
A deafening roar tore through the sky, followed by a pillar of dragonfire that streamed from Valerys's jaws, momentarily turning night to day, revealing the true number of soldiers Lothal Helmund and the High Mage had brought with them. Over a hundred, at least. Just as dread coiled in Calen's stomach, chunks of clay and earth were lifted into the air, dragonfire ripping a path through the soldiers who stood behind the High Mage, melting steel as easily as the snow. Screams and howls rang out, mingling with the almost instant smell of charred earth and flesh.
Calen felt a faltering in the bonds of Spirit that held his ward. The dragonfire had distracted the High Mage. He charged. "For Achyron!"
He wasn't entirely sure why he chose those words. It was the chant the Drifaienin had used in The Two Barges, and if there was any god they needed to watch over them right now, it was The Warrior.
"For The Warrior!" he heard the others call back.
He was less than two strides from the High Mage when the soldiers in black steel plate stepped in his path. Eight of them. A flicker of hesitation flashed across his mind. He still couldn't touch the Spark. He pushed the fear down, pressing into the far depths of his mind, bringing his hands into the first position of svidarya.
A tremor ran through his blade as it collided with the first soldier's sword, but he held firm, deflecting the second and third strikes. He needed to keep them in front of him. If they got behind him, he wouldn't stand a chance.
Calen stumbled backwards as a massive blade burst through the chest of the soldier before him, only for it to be pulled free, swinging, separating another soldier's head from his shoulders. The hulking frame of Tarmon Hoard stood over the two bodies, chest heaving, fire in his eyes. The man was a force of nature.
A quick nod, and they both charged at the six remaining soldiers in black plate. Good odds.
Calen slowed his breathing as he charged. His legs felt like lead as he heaved them in and out of the snow. Another rise of pressure in the back of his mind was followed by another river of dragonfire from Valerys, peeling through the Lorian and Drifaienin soldiers. The wails sent shivers down Calen's spine – the sound of men being burned alive. He wrapped his guilt around his fear, pushing them both aside. They would do him no good if he died.
Four of the soldiers in black plate swarmed around Tarmon, leaving two for Calen.
One, two. He met the strikes, plunging his blade into the leg of the soldier to his left, slicing through the rivets of his mail. The man screamed before Calen pulled his blade free and drove it up through the soldier's jaw, just under the rim of the helmet.
Calen howled as a searing pain cut through his side. The cut wasn't deep, just enough to slice through the leather, but it burned. He brought his blade around to meet the second strike, then a third. His foot hit something solid, and he stumbled, crashing down into the bloodstained snow.
The soldier stood over him, sword raised, a cold stare in his eyes. But before he could bring the sword down, an arrow plunged into his exposed armpit, causing him to howl in pain, reeling back before a second arrow took him in the eye, and he collapsed to the ground, body limp.
Calen scrambled to his feet, his throat dry and a tremble in his chest. In the madness, he couldn't see who had loosed the arrows, but he was sure Vaeril stood somewhere in the chaos. He looked to his left. Only two of the four soldiers who had swarmed Tarmon still stood.
"Go!" Tarmon glanced in the direction of the High Mage before bringing his greatsword down into the neck of the soldier before him, spraying the air with blood.
Another pillar of dragonfire ripped through the night as Valerys swooped low, again followed by screams and wails. Be careful.
Fury was the only thought that radiated from the dragon's mind, searing into Calen, burning through him. An all-consuming rage rippled through them both. Valerys would rather die than see harm come to his Draleid, and the dragon's wrath ignited every fibre in Calen's body.
The High Mage stood staring at Calen, threads of Spirit seeping from him, holding Calen's warding in place.
"Let's take the bastard together." Falmin stepped up beside Calen, blood trickling down the side of his head and a long gash in his arm.
Both Calen and Falmin dove to the ground as the High Mage sent a pillar of fire pluming towards them. A mist of snow sprayed up around Calen as he landed, tickling his face and setting a chill in his hands. He dug his fingers into the hard-packed snow, dragging himself to his feet. As he stood, an arrow plunged into the High Mage's shoulder. Suddenly, the Spark was there. He could feel it.
Calen reached out, desperately snatching at threads of Fire, Water, and Air. He melted the snow around him, forming it into short spears of ice, just as he had with the wyrms. He charged, Valerys's anger surging through him. With an almighty roar, he launched the spears towards the High Mage. One spear soared past the man's head and two others evaporated into the air, touched by threads of Fire. Roaring, Calen drew in threads of Air, letting their cool touch wrap around his bones before catapulting them towards the High Mage. The man, his black robes billowing out behind him, split Calen's threads down the middle with threads of Spirit, standing untouched between them.
Stunned, Calen tried his best to still the fear in his stomach. How?
With a wave of the High Mage's hand, two arrows burst into flames in mid-air, consumed by threads of Fire before they reached their target. Turning his attention back to Calen, the High Mage lashed out with a whip of Air, sending him crashing to the ground.
Pulling himself back to his feet, Calen watched as Falmin charged towards the High Mage. The navigator sidestepped a column of fire that erupted from the High Mage's hand, then sent the man hurtling to the ground with a whip of Air.
Just as it looked as though Falmin had the upper hand, the High Mage dragged himself to his feet, drawing in threads of Water, Fire, and Air, mimicking Calen's ice spears.
Calen's heart fell into the pit of his stomach as one spear burst through Falmin's abdomen, a second went through his leg, and a third sliced through his right shoulder, plumes of blood mist erupting from each wound. The navigator dropped to his knees, blood spilling over his body.
"No!" Calen roared as he ran. Two Lorian soldiers stepped in his path. He cut them down, swallowing three others in a column of fire. No, no, no. The only sound in Calen's ears was the pounding of blood as it rushed through his veins. He cast a glance at Falmin's body. His chest trembled and throat went dry. He let his mind slip into Valerys's, feeding on the dragon's rage, using it to push down his grief, his loss.
Calen cleared the distance to the High Mage in a matter of moments, swinging his blade. The man met the swing with ease, his sword moving in a blur of steel.
Pure hatred surged through Calen as he struck again and again. He felt the bite of steel more than once as the High Mage raked his blade across Calen's arm, then his ribs.
Drawing in threads of Air, Calen slammed them down on the High Mage's shoulders, dropping him to his knees.
"You have no idea what you face, do you?" the High Mage said, producing a gemstone from within his robes, his voice battered by the screams around them, the thump of Valerys's wings against the air, and the ringing of steel on steel.
Calen didn't answer. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, setting his jaw. The cut in his side burned, his heart pounded, and a mixture of sweat and the blood of other men felt tacky against his skin. He levelled his blade against the man's neck. What he was about to do went against everything his parents had ever taught him. To take someone's life while they knelt before him; it was not something he could do on his own. He let his mind drift deeper into Valerys's. Let the dragon's fury consume him. He pulled back his arm and drove his blade towards the High Mage's black heart.
Calen's blood turned to ice in his veins as a red glow pulsated from the small gemstone in the High Mage's hand. He moved to plunge his sword into the man's chest, but his arm didn't respond. Neither did his legs nor his head. It was as though someone had tethered his body in place, but he felt no threads except for the threads of Spirit that encased him once more, blocking him off from the Spark. Calen's eyes moved to the shimmering red gemstone, panic crawling along his skin. How?The High Mage got to his feet, dusting the snow off the collar of his robes.
A glint of steel flashed to the left, illuminated by the raging flames from Valerys's dragonfire. Calen watched as Lopir leapt from the swell of men around them, hefting his axe overhead, but then the dwarf stopped dead, suspended in mid-air. Again, Calen felt nothing holding Lopir in place. No threads of Air or Spirit. How was he doing it?
Calen could see the fear in Lopir's face as he hung in the air as though held by chains.
"I have no need for you." The High Mage glared at Lopir, reaching out his hand and snapping his fingers closed.
Calen shuddered as Lopir's neck snapped to the right, and the life disappeared from the dwarf's eye. The fury that had seeped into Calen's mind from Valerys's was swallowed whole by a wave of anguish that swept through him from head to toe.
Letting Lopir's body drop into the snow, the High Mage walked towards Calen. Even with the fighting raging around them and men screaming as dragonfire burned the skin from their bones, the mage's steps were slow and purposeful. The steps of a someone who thought themselves so far above everything else, worry did not so much as touch the edges of their mind.
"Did you think this would end any other way?" he hissed, drawing his eyes level with Calen's, the glowing red gemstone clutched in his hand. Calen tugged at his invisible bonds, willing his fingers to wrap around the man's throat. But no matter how fiercely he thrashed, his body didn't respond. "The power of the Spark pales in comparison to the strength Efialtír provides. Your people have denied him for too long."
An audible gasp escaped Calen's throat as an arrow stopped just inches from the side of the High Mage's head, holding there before dropping harmlessly into the snow. Threads of Earth followed, burying into the ground. Pillars of clay and stone erupted from beneath the snow, forming into spikes, launching straight towards the High Mage. Again, Calen did not feel the tingling sensation at the back of his neck when the spikes of stone and clay crumbled, falling into the snow. Nor did he feel them when Vaeril leapt from the mass of bodies, only to be slammed into the ground by an unseen force.
"An elf?" The High Mage pouted, an amused curiosity in his voice. "One of old blood, no less. Not the broken ones that work the mines at Dead Rocks Hold. The Inquisition will have questions for you, no doubt. Now—"
An earth-shattering roar peeled through the skies, drowning out the sounds of battle and the screams of dying men. Soldiers all around stopped, their eyes glassing over in fear as they looked to the sky.
With a gust of wind that could have uprooted trees, Valerys crashed to the ground, his claws rending steel and his wingbeats sending spirals of snow and blood pluming through the air. One swipe of his spear-tip tail sent two Drifaienin soldiers careening into a tree. He caught a third in his jaws, tearing through the man's chest.
Another deafening roar was followed by a column of dragonfire that scorched its way through the ranks of Lorian and Drifaienin soldiers. Men wailed as flesh and leather burned, incensing the air with an acrid tang.
Then a sharp pain shot through Calen's mind as a spear was thrust into Valerys's shoulder and a second into his hind leg. The dragon let out another ear-splitting roar as he spun again, his tail cleaving into the side of a Drifaienin woman's neck, his claws sundering the breastplate of a Lorian soldier. But still, pain burned through him.
A knot of dread coiled in Calen's stomach as he watched more men pick up spears. Go! Take to the sky, now!
Valerys roared once more, tearing a man's arm off in one bite, blood incarnadining the snow. Another sharp pain, another spear.
"Valerys, fly!" Calen screamed so loudly that it felt as though his throat might bleed and rip apart from the force of his voice. "Go, now!"
A crack of Valerys's wings whipped snow into the air, reflecting the light of the blazing fires all around. Another thump, and the dragon was in the air. The whoosh of arrows sliced through the night. Most bounced off Valerys's scaled hide, but one or two sliced through his leathery wings, sending sharp bursts of pain through Calen.
Calen pushed with everything he had, reaching out to the Spark with every ounce of strength in his body. He had to break through this barrier of Spirit. He had to help Valerys.
Then, within moments, he found what he was looking for. A gap, a split in the barrier of Spirit. As though believing it some sort of trick, he glanced over at the High Mage. The gemstone in the man's hand glowed with a violent fury. His attention was focused on Valerys. He had let his guard down.
Calen pushed again, focusing his mind on that gap. He screamed as his thoughts crashed into the barrier of Spirit. A look of surprise flashed across the High Mage's face as Calen burst through the barrier. Something still held him in place, unable to do so much as lift his finger. But he could touch the Spark, and that was all he needed.
He would only have moments – he needed to be quick. He needed to give Valerys time. Calen drew in threads of Fire, feeling their warmth sweep through him, pulling harder and harder until he could barely contain the force. The air rippled as the threads burst outward, a roaring plume of flames searing through air. The flames swept over the High Mage, consuming the Lorian soldiers who stood in its path. Calen pulled harder, feeling the Spark call to him, urging him to draw deeper. Reluctantly, he let go, his muscles sagging, his heartbeat weak. Even still, a weary smile crept onto his face as he felt the touch of Valerys's mind.
But the smile quickly faded as the flames before him flickered from existence, and High Mage Artim Valdock stood, untouched, amongst the crumpled, charred husks of the Lorian soldiers who had been caught by the blast, his face contorted in fury. "Insolent child!"
Calen howled as the threads of Air that held him in place pulled tighter, crushing him in their grasp.
"Call your dragon off," the High Mage hissed, drawing level with Calen. "Or I will kill this elf and all the others. They have no worth to me."
"You will kill them anyway," Calen spat, fury seeping into his mind again. He could feel Valerys swooping overhead. The dragon wanted to crash back down right on top of the High Mage.
Don't do it. I can't lose you.
A deep growl resonated back through Calen's mind. Images of loss and grief.
"I will not. You have my word."
"Your word means nothing."
"My word means everything. But it does not matter. Look around. Your companions will die anyway. And your dragon is far from fully grown. It will die trying to save you. I will take great pleasure in crushing its bones. Be smart, live to die another day."
Swallowing hard, Calen cast his gaze around him. Most of the trees within twenty feet of the fighting were on fire, blazing from Valerys's dragonfire, illuminating the campsite that had become a battleground.
Bodies lay everywhere. Draped in Drifaienin furs, plated in Lorian leather and steel. But more than that, his eyes fell on the lifeless bodies of Lopir and Falmin. Both had followed him from Belduar. They had stood by him, and he had failed them. Vaeril lay face down in the snow, held there by whatever magic that gemstone possessed. He saw Erik, Tarmon, and Korik grouped together just behind him, surrounded. Tarmon carried a heavy limp and blood seeped from wounds along Korik's arms and back. Even as Erik weaved in and out of his attackers, Calen could see the heaviness in his arms, the weariness in his eyes. They would die if he did nothing. But he could give them a chance.
Valerys, I need you to fall back. If we keep fighting, they will kill me and all the others. We need to survive.
Images flashed across Calen's mind from Valerys. A man dying, blood, his dragon howling, consumed by grief.
If you land, he will kill us both.
A roar erupted from the dragon's jaws, a roar of resignation and sorrow.
"Call off your men," Calen said, releasing a heavy sigh.
"You have made a wise choice."
Emptiness. A dark black pool of nothing set itself in Calen's chest and rooted itself in his heart. A loneliness echoed through him as he reached out to Valerys. He could sense the dragon, just faintly in the back of his mind, but he couldn't feel him. It was as though half of his soul lay just out of reach. There, but at the same time, not. An insurmountable sadness had hollowed out his bones.
It was everything Calen could do to hold back the voice in his head that told him life was not worth living. It was his voice. It echoed through the empty chambers of his mind. Even breathing felt as though it were not worth the strain it put on his lungs. Simply existing was not worth the pain.
The chains connecting Calen's manacle-clad hands clinked as he lifted them up in front of his face, only vaguely aware of the cold stone wall pressing against his back. The runes carved into the surface of the manacles cast a dim blue glow into the otherwise dark cell. They were light. Lighter than he expected, at least. The runes ran along the outside of each manacle, around the entire circumference. The Spark was used to create them, of that much Calen was sure. A constant thrum resonated from them into his wrists and through his body, culminating in a droning buzz that bored into the back of his mind.
Those manacles were the reason he was alone. They were the reason he could not feel the other half of his soul.
The void in Calen's body swelled, filling with fury. Lifting his hands up over his head, he smashed the manacles against the stone floor. The force of the strike reverberated through his arms, the steel of the manacles cutting into his wrists. But he didn't care. Again he lifted his hands, and again he struck them down against the stone. He beat the manacles against the ground until his blood coated the floor and his wrists felt like they would snap.
Calen dropped his head to the floor, holding his wrists out in front of him, his shoulders convulsing as he sobbed into the stone. Images of Falmin's lifeless body filled his mind. Blood seeping from the gaping wounds in his stomach, shoulder, and leg, staining the snow a deep crimson. Would Falmin still be alive if Calen had just given himself over? Would Lopir?
Lopir. A shiver ran through Calen's body as he remembered the fear in the dwarf's eye. The sheer terror of being completely helpless. It was a feeling Calen was all too familiar with.
His body still convulsing, Calen dropped to his side, lying in a mixture of his own tears and blood. He was alone. Truly alone. At times, he had yearned for sleep so as to have his mind to himself, to not have to feel everything Valerys felt. But now he yearned for the constant touch of Valerys's mind. Without it, he was not even half of who he had been; he was a shell.
The sliding of an iron bar and the clink of metal on metal reverberated through the cold, dark cell. Then, with an aching creak, the wooden door that guarded the cell's room swung open and the crack of leathered heels on stone echoed through the room.
"You put up a fight, I'll give you that much." Calen didn't have to lift his head to know the High Mage stood on the other side of the cell, looming over him.
Calen swallowed hard, fighting back a groan of pain as he adjusted his position, pulling himself up against the iron bars so he could stare directly into the man's soul. The High Mage's eyes were colder than ice, so dark they were almost black. Calen grunted as the throbbing wound in his side pulsed with pain. He knew his face was marred with a mixture of dirt, blood, and tears. He didn't care. Not one shred of his shattered soul cared. He wanted to look into Artim Valdock's eyes. He wanted to tear the man's head from his shoulders.
"Incredible, aren't they?" the High Mage said, gesturing towards the manacles secured around Calen's wrists. "Created by Fane Mortem himself. The only human to ever truly master the Jotnar art of rune crafting. What does it feel like to be completely cut off from the Spark? I have often wondered. Though I suppose, in your case, that is the least of your concerns. I've watched Draleid go completely insane when cut off from their dragons." The High Mage leaned in a little closer to the bars, lowering his voice to a whisper. "One elf peeled her own fingernails off from scratching at the walls."
Calen fought off a grimace as he lifted himself to his feet, his legs wobbling, his breath catching in his throat. "I… will… not… break."
Even to Calen, the words sounded weak. Hollow.
"I don't think you understand how this works." The High Mage's eyes grew even colder before something invisible crashed into Calen's body, slamming him into the cell wall. A shockwave of pain rippled through Calen's bones, but he clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth. The mage had already taken half of Calen's soul – Calen would not give him the pleasure of hearing him scream.
Reaching into the pocket of his robes, the man produced a thick iron key, slotting it into the lock on the barred iron door of the cell. He turned it left until it elicited a distinct click, and the door opened with a slow creak.
"You see," the High Mage said, stepping into the cell. "You think you understand this world, but you know nothing."
Calen couldn't sense the threads of Air, but he felt them pulling at him, dragging him closer to the High Mage, pulling his hands up into the air as though his manacles were suspended from the ceiling. A swift punch to the ribs took the air from his lungs, followed by a second punch to his gut. Calen coughed and spluttered, trying desperately to breathe before a third blow crashed into his gut again.
"You took sides in a war of which you do not have even the slightest comprehension."
Pain exploded at the side of Calen's head, stars flitting across his eyes. His head drooped and his arms went limp as his legs gave way underneath him. He hung there, suspended only by the threads of air that held his manacles above his head.
Fingers tugged at Calen's hair, pulling his head up so his eyes were level with the High Mage's. "You are nothing but a child who was told he could be a hero." The High Mage let go of Calen's hair. He pulled his black robes from over his shoulders, revealing a deceptively muscular physique beneath a pale linen shirt, ridges of innumerable scars visible through the thin fabric. "There are no such things as heroes, boy. A hero in one person's eyes is a villain in another's." The High Mage stepped forward, his right hand closing around Calen's neck.
Calen just hung there as the pressure closed in around his throat. At any other time, he would have thrashed around, clawing at any last gasp of life he could drag into his lungs. But that instinct was not there. It had been taken from him with Valerys. Now, the voice in his head told him to lean into the man's grip. To embrace death.
The High Mage raised an eyebrow. "Curious." Pulling his hand away, he let Calen's neck fall, limp. "I could kill you right now, but the emperor does not want you dead. It is a pity. Death would be cleaner. However, he does not need to know I have you. Not yet." The High Mage turned away from Calen, rolling the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows. "You will tell me where to find Aeson Virandr, and you will tell me where to find the other leaders of your little rebellion." A dark stare had set into the man's eyes when he turned back to face Calen. "Four hundred years they have fought this war in the shadows. No more."
Another swift punch landed in his gut, and Calen dappled the floor with blood.
A grunt escaped Calen's throat as the High Mage buried his thumb into a wound that scored Calen's chest. Calen screamed as the man dug his thumb in deeper, the pain blinding him.
"You think this is pain? This is nothing. If you do not speak, you will experience pain the likes of which you could not even have dreamt of in your darkest nightmares. I will burn through your mind like a wildfire."
The muscles in Calen's jaw twitched, his vision fading in and out of blackness.
"So be it."
Searing agony burned through Calen from head to toe. It sank into his bones until they felt as though they would crumble. It swept across his skin like a wave of fire. Calen's screams echoed through the room, crashing off the stone.
He reached out to Valerys and felt nothing.
He was alone.
The vibrations shook Dann's back as the horse trotted along the beaten path. The chill of the winter breeze nipped at his skin, while the deceptive warmth of the afternoon sun kissed the back of his neck. It had been a week since they left the Southern Fold Gate in the Lodhar Mountains. They had passed Midhaven only the night before last.
If there was something he had grown to love, it was riding a horse. The feel of the powerful animal beneath him, the ripple of its muscles as it broke into a gallop, the trust they placed in one another. There wasn't a feeling quite like it. He leaned down, running his hand along his horse's neck, feeling the soft touch of the animal's black hair along his fingers. "We're going to have to give you a name."
Dann looked down at Alea and Lyrei loping along the ground to his left. Both had refused horses. Dann wasn't quite sure why. They had done the same when they joined the group in the Darkwood, yet he distinctly remembered seeing the other elf riding that stag in the Darkwood. Though, if that animal could truly be called a stag, then a wolfpine was a dog.
Neither Alea nor Lyrei had spoken to him since his outburst in the caves. He knew he had been in the wrong. He had let his anger get the better of him, and he had taken it out on Alea. The only problem was he didn't know how to admit it. But he would have to start somewhere. "How do you name horses in the elf tongue?"
Alea turned her head, raising an uncertain eyebrow. She let out a sigh. The same kind of sigh Dann's mother always gave him when he asked questions that irritated her, which, to his knowledge, was often. "When we are children, we are taught both the Common Tongue and the Old Tongue. There is no elf tongue." With that said, she turned her attention back to the path ahead. Dann could see the snigger on Lyrei's face, but she didn't speak.
Dann did his best to ignore Alea's attitude; he knew right well what she was doing. Rist did it all the time. He would always give Dann an answer, but never the answer to the question he asked. Rist did it to annoy him, just as Alea was doing now. "Well, how do you name horses in the Old Tongue then?"
Alea turned her head once more, a touch of irritation plain on her face. "What do you care? You ride on that horse's back without any bond. He does not carry you because he wishes to. He does it because he is forced to."
Dann went to reply, but held his tongue. There was more sting in Alea's words than was born simply from annoyance. He saw his way back into her good books. "There are clearly things I don't know."
"Clearly," Alea replied, not even turning her head.
"Teach me, then."
Alea stopped at Dann's words.
"Whoa, boy. Steady." Dann gave a slight pat on the horse's neck, stopping himself beside Alea.
Lyrei eyed them both askance but continued, moving to catch up with Therin and Aeson, who rode further ahead.
"I care for him, too." Alea's chest rose and fell in heavy sweeps, and Dann could see the anger in her golden eyes. It was clear this was not about the horse – it was about Calen.
"I know you do," Dann said. "And I'm sorry."
"My people live in the Aravell not because we choose to, but because the choice was taken from us. My people were slaughtered after the fall of The Order. Driven from our homes, murdered in the streets. And still, we did not lose faith. Even when it cost us the unity of our people. Even when those in Lynalion blamed the other races for what happened, we held the faith, we stayed true. My parents, and their parents before them, were raised beneath the forest canopy of the Aravell, as I was. We never got the chance to see the sweeping cities of old, but I hold out hope. That is why I am here. That is why I swore an oath to protect the Draleid with my life. I am not here to garner fame and renown. I am here to fight for a better future, and Calen is the best chance of that."
Dann drew in a deep breath, waiting for the hairs on the back of his neck to lie down. A tremble ran through him, across his shoulders and chest. "Calen and Rist are the closest thing I've ever had to brothers. I've never not had them around me. They have always been the better parts of me, always made the right decisions when I made the wrong ones. Without them… I'm not sure who I am. I didn't mean to lose my temper in the tunnels. I'm just scared."
Without saying a word, Alea walked closer to Dann, laying a hand on the horse's flank. "Drunir."
"What?"
"It is your horse's name. It means Companion."