Calen pulled the black cloak tighter around himself, the icy touch of the rushing wind probing at his bruised and battered skin. At first, he hadn't realised that all he was wearing were his smallclothes and the black cloak that one of the others must have put around his shoulders. Although he was glad for the cloak, the fabric felt like fire against his raw skin and offered little protection against the bitter winter winds that nipped at him as he rode on Valerys's back. The warmth that emanated from the dragon helped, but it was not enough to keep his teeth from chattering. Every fibre of his body ached and groaned: His lungs heaved as they attempted to drag in air, his muscles spasmed as he held himself upright, and his head pounded as though it were filled with galloping horses.
Down below, nestled into the landscape of white, he saw the port town of what he figured must have been Straga, torches flickering and smoke drifting lazily from chimneys.
"There." Calen's shoulder burned as he extended out his hand, his finger pointing to a small signal fire that sat atop a smooth patch of rock beside the port, devoid of snow. Vaeril.
With a rumble of recognition, Valerys plummeted. The change in direction was so sudden Calen felt a strange weightlessness in his stomach. As they dropped towards the ground, a rapid change of speed jerked Calen's head back as Valerys cracked his wings against the air, alighting on the patch of rock. Just as Valerys's claws clicked against the rock, Calen heard shouts coming closer.
Tarmon, Erik, Vaeril, Alleron, and another man, who looked vaguely familiar, were running towards them, looks of concern on their faces. They must have arrived not long before.
"Calen, are you all right?" Erik was the first to the rock, his face covered in cuts, his skin painted in black and yellow bruises. He seemed to be carrying a slight limp as well.
Behind him, Vaeril and Tarmon looked in much the same condition, their eyes sunken and their cheeks devoid of colour. Tarmon, in particular, was moving as though every muscle in his body was in spasm.
"I'm all right," Calen said, trying his best to muster even the weakest of smiles. He didn't feel all right. Calen couldn't remember another time in his life when his body had simply felt so helpless. The skin where his fingernails and toenails should have been had hardened over, feeling more like callouses to the touch, small nubs of nails starting to form at the base. His legs felt as though they would crumble beneath him if he put any weight on them at all, his stomach simply hurt, and he faced a constant fight to keep his eyelids from shutting against his will. "I might need a hand getting down, though. I had enough trouble learning how to get off the back of a horse."
Just as Calen spoke, Valerys dipped his neck down, lowering his back so Calen could almost touch the ground with his feet. Calen couldn't help but wonder how he would ever be able to get down from Valerys's back when the dragon was fully grown.
Erik laughed, reaching his hand up to take some of Calen's weight.
Grunting, Calen swung his leg over Valerys's back, lowering himself. Erik's hand caught him under the armpits, helping take Calen's weight those last few inches. He let out a sharp hiss as his bare, bruised feet touched the cold ground. Erik caught Calen as he stumbled, wrapping his arm around Calen's back.
"Thank you," Calen said with a grimace, pain shooting through his legs, up around his knees, and burning through his back.
"I'm just happy to see you alive. And your eyes are back to normal as well."
"My eyes?"
"When we took the manacles off, your eyes glowed a bright purple." Tarmon let out a small grumble as he stepped onto the smooth patch of rock. "The same colour as the dragon's."
"It is not something I have seen before," Vaeril added as he walked over to Calen, his eyes bloodshot and his blonde hair tied back. The elf reached out his hand, clasping Calen's forearm. "Det er aldin na vëna dir, Draleid." It is good to see you.
"Det er aldin na vëna dir osa, Vaeril."
Vaeril tilted his head in recognition, a warm smile spreading across his face at Calen's words.
Calen nodded at Alleron. "Thank you for what you did. I'm so sorry about Leif."
"And I'm sorry for what happened. My father is not the man he once was." A silence held between the two men for a moment before Alleron gestured to his companion. The man had thick black hair, a long, knotted beard, and a weathered bandage across his left eye. "I'm not sure if you remember Baird."
"I had two eyes when last we met, and you weren't a Draleid. I'm assuming Aeson had something to do with that."
"You know my father?" Erik asked, his eyebrows raised.
Baird nodded, producing a folded-over piece of paper from his pocket. "This letter is the reason you are all standing here right now. But look, we can go over it all some other time. For now, we need to get you on that ship. People are already starting to gawk at the dragon, and I'm sure Lothal's men won't be far behind us. Aneera and Asius will only have been able to hold them off for so long."
"Asius?" A surge of urgency swept through Calen. "Asius is here? We need to go back for him!"
"Easy," Baird said, reaching out his hand. "We are in no condition to go back for anyone. Asius and Aneera can look after themselves. But when you do see Asius, you and the elf might want to thank him for forging the key to your chains. They'd still be around your wrists without him."
Calen grimaced, shifting his weight under Erik's arm. Reluctantly, he accepted Baird's words as true; they couldn't go back for Asius. "I hope I get the chance."
Baird nodded. "Alleron, is the captain ready to set sail?"
"Where's Korik?" Calen asked before Alleron could answer Baird. A sinking feeling set into his stomach as his eyes scanned the surroundings for any sign of the dwarf.
Tarmon shook his head, the look on the others' faces telling Calen all he needed to know. Falmin, Korik, and Lopir. Three more good people who had lost their lives following him.
"Do not hold the weight of it on your shoulders," Tarmon said, as though reading Calen's mind. "More men, women, elves, and dwarves will die in what is to come. It is the way of things. We are born, we live, and we die. Those three things cannot be changed. The only thing within our control is what we choose to do with the short time we have – the things we fight for, the people we love, the things we hold dear. Good men stand even when it is against all odds. They were, each of them, good men."
Calen sighed, feeling the frustration swell within him. "That doesn't make it any easier."
"It wasn't meant to," Tarmon said, shrugging slightly. "Things that matter are rarely easy."
Calen dropped his head, nodding slightly. He pulled the cloak tighter, his hands trembling from the cold. Without warning, his right leg shook and collapsed beneath him. Were it not for Erik's quick hands, he would have crumpled in a heap.
"Come on," Erik said, wrapping his hand around Calen's back. "We need to get you aboard that ship before the cold seeps into your bones. You need rest. We all do."
"Thank you." Calen lifted his head and looked to Alleron, raising an eyebrow. Alleron responded with a nod, and Calen knew it was finally time to let everyone know about his true plan. "I'm not going with you." In truth, he had expected more shock on his friends' faces, but he was simply met with blank stares. "I'm going to get Rist. You can take the ship around the western coast to the Freehold. Alleron has arranged transport to take me North."
"We know," Erik said after a long pause, a thin smile on his face. "And we're coming with you."
"What? How do you know?"
"I told them." Alleron's eyes tracking the ground, guilt ridden. Calen had told the man about his plans that night in the barn. "On the way here. I had to, Calen. You're in no shape to go anywhere alone."
"I'm going to assume you were not going to force me to break my oath for a second time," Vaeril said, an eyebrow raised.
"I…" Calen could only assume the same look of guilt sat on his face as it did Alleron's.
"We have come all this way," Tarmon said. "What is a little further?"
"What about Daymon and Belduar?"
"They will both be better off if I return with a Draleid by my side," Tarmon said, his expression flat.
His throat dry and his body aching, Calen looked out over those who stood around him. After the battle at Belduar, the tunnels, the kerathlin, and the Uraks, Calen had wanted to spare the others more hardship. He had not wanted to ask them to choose between going home and helping him – most of all, he had not wanted them to share the same fate as Korik, Lopir, and Falmin. But he would only be lying to himself if he said he didn't feel a weight lift right there and then. "Thank you."
"This is touching," Baird said, stepping into the middle of the group. "But you really do need to go. What about the dragon? He won't fit on the ship."
"Valerys will fly overhead and sleep along the coastline," Calen answered. "He can fly faster than any ship can sail, so he won't have a problem catching up with us each day."
At Calen's words, Valerys lifted his head, his lavender eyes searching across the group, a low rumble resonating from his chest.
"What will you do now?" Calen asked, turning to Alleron. "Are you still to come with us?"
Alleron sighed, shaking his head. "I will stay here and fight," he said, turning slightly towards Baird. "We will take back Drifaien. Starting with Arisfall."
"What of your father?"
"We will do what needs to be done," Alleron said, his mouth a thin line. "He does not deserve the title of High Lord. You will always have friends here, Calen."
"As will you," Calen replied.
"Come on, then," Baird said, cutting across Calen and Alleron. "We're all friends. Now let's get you on that ship, and us far away from this port."
Both Alleron and Calen nodded.
The ship was one of the largest Calen had ever seen, not that he had seen many, in fairness. It had to have been at least a hundred feet in length, with three enormous masts that jutted out from its deck. A large gangplank was extended out from the deck of the ship down onto the dock, framed with thick lengths of rope to act as guides so that whoever was walking the plank wouldn't fall off the edge.
Calen looked to the sky as he stepped onto the plank; there were so many clouds that his eyes couldn't catch sight of Valerys dipping and weaving among them, but he could feel the dragon watching.
"It's all right, not much further," Erik said, his hand resting on Calen's shoulder as they walked the length of the plank, Baird and Alleron leading the way.
On any other day, Calen would have been irritated with the all the fuss he was receiving. But considering he still felt as though he was only one moment of over-exertion away from collapsing, he was all right with it.
His fingers firmly gripping the two lengths of rope on either side of the plank, Calen stumbled his way onto the deck of the ship, closely followed by Erik, Vaeril, and Tarmon. Of all of them, it was the elf who seemed completely out of place. Vaeril had only been on the deck of the ship for all of five seconds when his pale complexion took on a slightly green tint.
"Calen, I would like you to meet Captain Kiron."
Calen pulled his eyes from the almost unnaturally seasick elf to find the man Alleron had introduced, Captain Kiron, staring directly into his eyes.
Captain Kiron was not exactly what Calen had expected. In truth, most of what Calen knew about sailors came from the people of Salme and the few traders he had seen pull into port in Milltown. Most of them were rugged-looking men with more scars, piercings, and tattoos than stitches in their clothing.
But Captain Kiron was nothing of the sort. The man was clean shaven with wavy blonde locks held down by a short, triangular black hat. He wore a finely fitted blue doublet with a white lace trim, dark padded trousers, and a pair of thick-soled sailors' boots. Most strikingly, though, he had all his teeth, and not a speck of dirt could be seen under his fingernails.
The captain took two steps closer to Calen, eyeing him from head to toe. He turned up his bottom lip with a slight shrug and a tilt of his head. "A little scraggier than I expected. But welcome aboard The Enchantress, Draleid. Your companion certainly piqued my interest with your story. And his gold."
"We need to—"
The captain raised a hand, cutting Baird off. "I do understand the situation, thank you very much. But, given my line of work, it is pertinent to know who I have on my ship. Especially when you bring aboard an elf, a wolf dressed in the skin of a young man, a soldier who looks as though he was bred from Jotnar stock, and a second young man you claim is the first Draleid free of imperial control in four centuries. I trust you may understand my need for certainty?"
Calen couldn't help but choke out a muted laugh at the man's candour. There was something about it that reminded him of Dann. It was refreshing.
"Is there something funny, Master Draleid?"
"Not at all," Calen said with a cough, still half smiling.
The captain raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Right, let's be on our way then."
"That's it?" Calen asked, expecting the man to ask more questions.
Captain Kiron let out a laugh. "For now. Do you think I did not see you descend from the sky astride that magnificent creature? Yes, I do believe you are who you say you are. Though, that does not mean there will not be more questions. For now, we need to leave. I will have one of my men show you to your cabin. You need sleep."
The captain turned on his heels, clapping his hands together and calling orders to the crew, who began scuttering about, preparing the ship to cast off.
Calen felt a hand on his shoulder.
"I left your possessions in the cabin for you. I had them taken from the city this morning – I thought you might need them. I also left you some fresh clothes. Be safe, Calen." Alleron extended his hand out, wrapping his fingers around Calen's forearm. "This war is only beginning."
"Thank you," Calen said, returning Alleron's grasp. "For everything. If not for you, I would be on my way to the Dragonguard right now."
"Make sure it wasn't for nothing."
Calen nodded, wincing as a pain ignited in his ribs. He lifted his eyes, meeting Alleron's gaze. "Sigrid, Gudrun, Alwen, Heldin?"
"Gudrun and Sigrid live. Heldin and Alwen dine in Achyron's halls."
Calen swallowed hard, his throat throbbing as he did. Two more. "May they dine well."
"How do you feel?" Erik asked, helping Calen down onto the bottom cot of the bunk that sat fixed to the wall of the cabin. The cabin held four sets of bunks, two on each side, with large, banded chests at the bottom of each bunk.
Small pyramid-shaped prisms made of glass were slotted into the ceiling. The prisms filtered moonlight into the cabin from above, providing barely enough light for Calen to see in front of his own face, but he was happy for any light at all.
"I've been better," Calen said, dropping down onto the rigid cot. He tried his best to still the involuntary shivers that ran through his body, but it was an exercise in futility.
"That you have," Erik said with a laugh, his hand resting on Calen's shoulder. "I'll go see if the captain has any more blankets. You're freezing. I'll only be a minute."
Calen grunted in response as Erik left the cabin.
Grimacing, Calen shifted himself to the edge of the cot, then dropped down to his knees, his eyes fixed on the banded chest that sat at the end of the bunk, bolted into the wall. Hoping beyond hope, he removed the open lock that sat dangling through an iron loop and lifted the latch. Then, summoning more strength than he was sure he had, he heaved open the lid.
The chest was full to the brim. Fresh clothes sat at the top: some boots, a shirt, trousers, socks, a tunic, and a long fur cloak. One at a time, Calen removed each item of clothing and placed it onto his cot, letting the soft touch of the fabric linger on his fingers for longer than he ever would have before. It would be a pleasure all unto itself to put those clothes on.
The next things his eyes fell upon, sitting atop his leather armour, were the pendant and the letter he had found in Vindakur. Calen ran his thumb over the surface of the obsidian pendant, his eyes lingering on the symbol of The Order set in its centre. He placed the pendant and the letter down on the bed next to the fresh clothes.
With the clothes, the letter, and the pendant removed, Calen found himself staring down at his leather armour, still bloody and battered. It was far from the sturdiest armour in the world, but it was home. Then, moving the armour aside, Calen's eyes fell on precisely what he had been looking for.
Nestled firmly in its brown and green leather scabbard, its thick, silver, coin-like pommel glinting in the dim light from the prisms, was his sword.
A tear burned at the corner of Calen's eye, accompanied by the most genuine smile that had touched his face in as long as he could remember. Calen's hands trembled as he reached down and lifted the sword and scabbard from the chest, the touch of the leather feeling achingly familiar to his worn hands. The autumn red scarf he had bought his mother still hung tightly from the loops on the belt Tharn Pimm had given him. Calen tilted slightly as the ship battled the waves, his knees straining against the wooden floor, but he didn't care. His attention was on the sword.
Wrapping his finger around the ornately etched green leather hilt, Calen slid the sword out a few inches from the scabbard. The steel of the blade shimmered even more brightly than the pommel, the light catching on the beautiful swirling patterns that rose into the blade from the crossguard. In truth, the sword had not crossed his mind until he had boarded the ship, and even then, he had accepted its loss. But now, pulling the sword and scabbard into his chest, tears rolled down his cheeks, and he collapsed against the bed frame.
Hours later, Calen stood on the deck of the ship; one hand gripped tightly around the wooden rail that ran along the ship's edge, while the other rested on the pommel of his sword, which hung from his hip. If he loosened his grip on the rail even slightly, the crashing waves would likely send him sprawling to the deck, but he couldn't bring himself to take his hand from the sword.
As he stared into the night sky at Valerys, Calen curled his toes in and out, feeling the comforting touch of the sheep's wool socks Alleron had left in the chest. Along with the socks, Alleron had left him a full set of new clothes. A pair of sturdy leather boots that fit him a whole lot better than his old ones ever had. Two pairs of linen trousers, one thicker than the other, which Calen wore layered over each other, thicker over thinner. An undershirt, a tunic of cream linen embroidered with threads of purple, and a heavy bear fur coat. It was the most comfortable Calen had felt in a very long time.
Calen allowed a soft smile to touch the corners of his mouth, his eyes tracing over Valerys's white scales as the dragon soared along beside the ship, his tail hovering just above the water's surface. His muscles rippled with each beat of his massive, leathery wings, his long spearhead tail whipping through the air behind him.
Calen yearned to be up there with Valerys, his chest pressed against the scales on the back of Valerys's neck, the wind rushing through his hair. Even in the state he had been in, riding on Valerys's back had been nothing short of incredible. All Calen wanted was to feel that again, to feel his and Valerys's minds blend so completely that it was impossible to tell them apart. But he knew he didn't have the strength for it. He shouldn't have even been up on the deck. Closing his eyes, Calen let his mind sink into Valerys's, and for a moment the world was consumed by an empty blackness. But then everything burst to life.
The icy wind shivered over his scales, breaking across the tip of his snout, threading neatly between the horns that framed his face. Power thrummed through his body with every beat of his wings. In the distance, even in the dark of night, he could see waves breaking against the coastline, crashing against the stone, erupting in a mist of white foam. Calen stayed like that for what felt like hours, his hand gripped firmly on the rail of the ship, but his mind moving with Valerys's.
"Should you not be resting?"
Calen let out a soft sigh, allowing his mind to pull back a little from Valerys's, and opened his eyes. Erik stood beside him at the side of the ship, looking out over the dark water, his arms resting across the rail.
"I couldn't sleep," Calen said, grimacing as he shifted his weight. He had tried to sleep. He truly had. But as soon as his mind had drifted off, the nightmares ripped him back to the waking world. Artim Valdock had tortured him for days at a time in that cell. He had used the Spark to keep Calen conscious while he worked; pulling, slicing, peeling. Just the thought of the pain sent an involuntary spasm across Calen's shoulders. "You?"
"Me neither. How is Valerys?"
Calen smiled at the mention of Valerys's name, the dark thoughts fading, for now. He could still feel the dragon in the back of his mind, sweeping through the banks of clouds, rising and falling with the currents of air. "He's all right. I can still feel his anger, though, bubbling below the surface."
Silence held for a long moment as both Calen and Erik stared out at the dark waters. "How are you, Calen? Truly?"
Calen swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving the crashing waves. "I'm glad you didn't kill the High Mage." Calen's grip tightened on the wooden rail until the coarse wood grated at his palms. "Only so that I can be the one who takes his life."
"That's not who you are, Calen."
Calen narrowed his eyes, turning them towards Erik. "Not who I am? How many have I killed now? How many souls have Valerys and I sent to the void? People who did nothing but follow the orders of those above them. But Farda, Inquisitor Rendall, Artim Valdock – those are three people whose deaths would be for a reason."
Calen reached his hand down, tightening it around the pommel of his sword. His fingers traced the edge of the thick silver coin, feeling the smooth steel, then down onto the green leather wrapped around the sword's hilt. Finally, he felt the silk of his mother's scarf between his fingertips: smooth, almost waxy. He had seen so much death already. There was no possible way he could have kept count of the number of souls he and Valerys had taken from this world. The thought of it weighed heavy on him. But those three had taken everything from him, and he would take something back.
Swallowing and clenching his jaw, Calen turned back towards the open water, losing his concentration in the constant ebb and flow of the dark waves.
Rist pulled the air into his lungs through his nostrils, feeling its cold touch snake its way through his body. He pulled threads of Earth and Water into himself, feeling the contrasting sensations of rough iron and cool ice wash over his body. He pushed the threads into the ground in front of him, permeating the earthen clay.
Using the threads, he pulled a strand of smooth, cylindrical clay, about an inch thick, from the ground. He wound the strand of clay in a helical pattern until it was over two feet in height. Then, he used the threads of water to drag moisture from the earth around his strand of clay, funnelling the water upwards into a strand that ran in the opposite direction, forming a double helix of clay and water. Once the water was perfectly in place, Rist drew on threads of Fire, pulling the heat from the water, freezing it solid.
In the back of his mind, Rist could feel Neera watching him. Casting a judging glance over his work. He opened his eyes. The double helix of clay and ice stood exactly as he had pictured it in his mind's eye: two feet from the ground, less than half an inch distance between the strands, smooth, perfect. It was just like the drawing in A Study of Control by Primarch Andelar Touran.
Andelar Touran had been, and still was, the Primarch of the Imperial Battlemages ever since the dawn of the empire. Rist supposed it was not a common thing for the head of any affinity to change, given the life expectancy of most mages was at least five or six centuries, even longer for some. There were rumours that Grand Lector Aneese Linel was almost nine hundred years old. Apparently, she had served as a professor of The Order in the old times. Rist was sure he would be able to find some records in the library that either confirmed or denied those rumours. But in truth, they were of little import at the moment.
"Not bad," Neera said, rising from where she had been sitting, her legs crossed. "Though it took you long enough."
Rist could see the smirk forming at the corner of her mouth. It was as difficult to get a compliment from Neera as it was to wring blood from a stone. "I would like to see you do better."
"I would," she said with a shrug, the corner of her lips turning down. "But I have some practice of my own to attend to. Sister Ardal thinks my control of Fire is too weak. She intends to improve it."
Neera bent over, placing a kiss on the top of Rist's head. Rist raised one eyebrow, unsure as to what had just happened. He and Neera had been spending a lot of time together since that night at the docks, but her displays of affection were never so public.
Then, as though she were able to see into his mind, she kicked out, shattering his structure of ice and clay with the tip of her boot, before winking at him and striding from the garden. That was more like her.
Sighing, Rist lay back in the grass, opening the latch on the leather bag by his side and slipping out his copy of Druids, a Magic Lost. Holding the book up in the air at just the right angle to take the afternoon sun from his eyes, Rist picked up where he had left off.
Duran Linold, Ark-Mage, year 1798 After Doom.
The Druids of old came with the first humans to Epheria in the year 300 After Doom. Precisely what led them to flee their homeland of Terroncia, I am not sure, nor have I been able to find an accurate account in any of the histories I have researched. But either way, I diverge.
In my studies, I have so far noted there to be three strains of Druid, and I have classified them as follows:
Skydruids: Capable of manipulating weather on a large scale. These seem to be the rarest of the three strains. In all two hundred and forty-seven accounts, only two Skydruids are ever mentioned. With any luck, the bloodlines of the Skydruids are long past. Individuals with the power to manipulate entire weather systems are not ones to be trifled with.
Seerdruids: Capable of glimpsing potential future events, past events at which they were not present, and events happening at that current point in time. It appears that each of these talents is mutually exclusive. Each of the three talents has the potential to be immensely powerful if used correctly.
Aldruids: Aldruids, in my opinion, are perhaps the most interesting. According to the personal account of Angmiran Skarsden, Grand Historian of the first Lorian Kingdom, Aldruids were capable of innate communication with animals as well as the rarer gift of direct control. In his account marked on the year 542 After Doom, Angmiran states that a single Aldruid held sway over some fifty wyverns at a single time, using them to raid the villages along the western coast by the province of Valtara, near the Rolling Mountains. Though I remain sceptical as to the merit of this claim, I have seen enough secondary and primary sources to believe there is at least some truth in this.
The sound of footsteps rang off the stone pathways of the garden, drawing closer to Rist until they stopped by his side. "Druids, a Magic Lost, a fine read. Though I do fear that old Duran had reached his mind's limits by the time he was halfway finished writing that one. His writing lost all structure and became little more than babble."
"So far, it is an interesting read," Rist replied. "Brother Garramon, I am still yet to find a book in the library that you have not already read."
Rist turned over the corner of the page, marking his position, then closed the book, bringing it down to his chest. The broad frame of Brother Garramon stood over him, black cloak flapping lightly in the breeze. The man's face had been recently shaved and his black hair slicked back with an oil of some sort. A strange silence hung in the air. Rist lifted himself up to a seated position, his eyebrow raised. Something seemed off. "Is everything all right?"
Brother Garramon's brow furrowed. "It is time, my apprentice. Your trial of Will is to begin today."