The rushing wind crashed against Valerys's scales, sweeping over him as he sliced through the air, banking left and right, soaring along the currents as he used the cloud cover to obscure himself from the eyes of anyone who might look up from the ground — just as Calen had instructed. The slightest adjustment of his wings, and Valerys rose at such speed Calen could feel the force that pulled against him, even from thousands of feet below. He could feel the warmth of the dragon's heart, the sheer power of his body. Their heart. Their body.
In the distance Valerys caught sight of the ocean of sand, dunes, and jagged cliffs. Broken ruins of what had likely once been cities and towns dotted the landscape, only the tips of towers and highest points of walls breaking through. Judging by the distance and the pace they were setting, they would reach the true edge of The Burnt Lands by noon. Before Calen could think of the wasteland to which they were marching, Valerys cast his gaze downward, his eyes adjusting to the cliff below, bringing the craggy rock into focus. Small patches of heat dotted the side of the cliff, moving only rarely. He folded his wings and dropped into a dive, plummeting like a ball of lead dropped from a tower. As he fell, he caught a strong, musky odour. To Calen, it was nothing more than the stench of piss-soaked dirt. But images flashed across the dragon's mind: long, gnarled horns, striated like the trunk of an old tree. Fur matted with dirt and shit. Hooves as black as jet, thick and worn.
Shifting, Valerys drifted right, waiting, the taste of blood already in his mind. In one smooth motion, he unfurled his wings, catching the wind in a movement so fierce Calen felt as though his own body would pull apart even though he walked safely on the ground below. The dragon swerved so his belly was parallel to the cliff face, so close Calen feared the rocks might tear him open. The wind whistled, crashing and breaking against Valerys's body, his right wing pointing towards the sky, his left pointing towards the solid ground thousands of feet below. Valerys was so close now he could hear the heartbeat of his prey. He pulled his wings back, momentarily halting his forward momentum, hanging as though suspended sideways, then snatched an enormous mountain goat from its perch on the cliff face, his talons sinking into the goat's flesh like fingers into soft clay, warm blood spilling. The animal bleated and thrashed as Valerys angled his wings once more and swept away from the cliff face.
In the back of his mind, Calen could hear a distant voice.
"Calen?" Erik let out a sigh. "You're gone again, aren't you?"
Slowly, Calen's mind drifted from Valerys's. He could still feel the beat of the dragon's heart, the thrum of his wings, the hunger in his belly, every flare of emotion that ignited in his mind. But he no longer saw through Valerys's eyes, and he could feel the separation between them once more, the point where Calen stopped and Valerys began. Ever since being freed from the cell in Drifaien, ever since having those manacles removed, the collision of their minds had caused something to shift in the bond between them. It was as though two raging rivers had been held back and allowed to build, only for them to come crashing together once more, creating a force twice what they had been before.
"What do you think?" Erik continued, though Calen hadn't heard what his friend had been saying.
Calen raised an eyebrow, throwing Erik an apologetic look.
"The old man's riddle. 'A city once lost, found it needs to be'. It has to be either Vindakur or Ilnaen. Unless there happens to be a whole host of other cities lost to time that we don't know about, which is actually a distinct possibility, but it's always better to focus on what you know with these things."
Since leaving Rokka, they had marched for ten days. Each night they made camp far later than they should have and broke it before the sun had yet crested the horizon. It wasn't as though they were hurrying towards a ticking clock, but every minute they weren't moving was another minute Rist was alone, and Calen had allowed himself to wait far too long already. Every day as they marched, Erik spent his time attempting to tease out the meaning of Rokka's riddle to the point that it was almost as maddening for everyone else as it was for Erik.
"Ilnaen?" Vaeril chimed in, a curious look on his face. "Ilnaen is not lost. It resides in the Svidar'Cia – The Burnt Lands."
"True." Erik shrugged, his lips twisting in a pout. "But what does lost mean?"
"What do you mean 'what does it mean?' It means lost. Location unknown."
Erik smiled as though he had been waiting for Calen to say just that. "Does it though? When Dahlen and I were children, our father used to test us with puzzles and riddles. Dahlen was always better at it than I was. But my father always used to say that there's more than one way to skin a kat. Lost might not mean lost by location, but it could mean lost as in lost in battle. Lost in a sense of morality, in a sense of understanding. So many options."
"Very good," Vaeril said. "I would never have looked at it that way."
Somehow, Vaeril had managed to make his words sound as though he were disappointed with himself rather than impressed with Erik, which amused Calen to no end.
"Thank you… I think." Erik laughed, shaking his head. "Anyway, the 'The moon of blood, of death and life', has to be the Blood Moon, as we've already agreed, but the 'There is a stone, a heart of blood, cast into the sea,' that one's stumping me."
"I think it's all stumping you," interrupted Tarmon, dropping back to join the conversation, nudging Erik with his shoulder. "You've been at this for days, and so far the only thing you're certain of is that the moon is a moon. I'm not sure that counts as progress."
"I'll figure it out… eventually."
Calen let the conversation fade to the back of his thoughts. Over the past few days, he had noticed the lands around them changing. Despite the season, the morning sun grew warmer with each passing day, and the farther they walked from Kingspass and the closer they drew to the Burnt Lands, the more arid the world around them became. Slowly, plants and grass began to dwindle, thinning with each mile, and the ground grew ever more cracked and broken. Large, barren furrows carved through the dirt where rivulets and streams had once flowed but were now baked and devoid of moisture. It had been over two days since he had last seen a tree with leaves. Four since he had seen a blade of grass. The animals had grown scarce as well. The only other living creatures Calen had seen in the last day or so, besides Valerys, were lizards and small kat-like animals with dusty brown fur and black rings around their legs – and the mountain goats that Valerys was so fond of.
"My people tell legends of this place." Vaeril moved to Calen's side, his green cloak drifting behind him. "Nobody truly knows how Fane created such destruction. Every bralgír has their stories, every scholar their theories, but none of them truly know. Anyone who had been close enough to witness what happened died in the flames. But it is said that whatever he did that night shredded the veil between our world and the world of the gods, and through it, Efialtír's corruption seeped into these lands."
"Even that is still a theory, no? A story." Tarmon raised an eyebrow, sweat glistening on his brow and along the bridge of his nose.
Vaeril pulled his mouth into a half-frown. "Over the centuries, many of my people have journeyed into the Svidar'Cia in search of what was lost. In the hopes they might find something of use in the ruins of Ilnaen and other cities destroyed that night. Not one of them has ever returned."
Calen let out a sigh, chewing on the edge of his lip. Had he gone mad, trying to cross the Burnt Lands? That was a question he asked himself every morning as they rose.
"Calen." Vaeril said the name as though he had to force himself to not say 'Draleid'. "May I ask you a personal question?"
"You don't have to ask permission, Vaeril."
"Amongst my people, it is courtesy that when asking a question that one believes might cause distress of the heart, they ask permission first."
Fingers of anxiety wrapped around Calen's heart. Whatever questions Vaeril thought might need permission to be asked were not questions Calen was looking forward to answering, but he nodded.
"Are you well?"
Those three words cut into Calen like a sharpened blade. Even before he could speak, he could feel the tears at the back of his throat, threatening at the corners of his eyes. How had three simple words hit so hard? Without asking, Calen knew the truth of Vaeril's question: Haem. Calen hadn't spoken much, if at all, of Haem since they left Kingspass. It was easier to push the thoughts into the darkest caverns of his mind. Dwelling would only cause him more pain. It would only slow him down. Haem had left him, but Rist needed him. Every minute he gave to Haem was one he took from Rist.
"No," Calen whispered. If it had been Erik or Tarmon, he might have lied. Lying was easier. But for some reason, lying to Vaeril seemed wrong. Erik had been following his father's path when he and Calen had met. Tarmon had simply had the misfortune of being trapped with them all in the tunnels. But Vaeril had sworn an oath to Calen before they had even exchanged a word. He had bound himself to Calen's path. He had made that choice. The elf had given Calen so much when he had known so little. He had left his home, his people, his world. And in that time, he had stood by Calen through everything. Even now, he marched by Calen's side towards the Burnt Lands, unflinching. No, he wouldn't lie to Vaeril. "Do you have siblings, Vaeril? Family?"
The elf nodded, a touch of melancholy in his smile. "Three sisters… My brother, Heraya harbour his soul, was taken by the Aldithmar over a decade ago. My father was lost trying to search for him."
"I'm sorry…"
Vaeril shook his head. "It was a long time ago."
"Does it get easier?"
"It does not." The elf smiled as he spoke, but it was not a smile born of happiness. "I don't think losing the ones you love ever gets easier. It is the only pain your body truly remembers. When you think back on a broken leg, you do not weep from the agony. But when you remember you will never look upon your father's face again, it cuts as fresh as the first day. What does get easier is carrying on. The weights on our shoulders rarely get lighter, but we can get stronger."
Calen nodded, returning Vaeril's sorrow-touched smile. He could feel Valerys's mind as the dragon's sadness melded with his own. The dragon soared through the air, his hunger now satiated, never allowing himself to drift too far from Calen and the others. Calen would have given anything to be up there with him, feeling the warmth of Valerys's scales beneath him, the rush of the wind as it swept over their body, but the wound the Fade had inflicted in the dragon's side still ached. It had healed well since Kingspass, but he still wasn't strong enough to take Calen on his back, not with the distance they still had yet to cover. Even then, Calen could feel the wound throbbing from the strain Valerys had put it under when snaring that goat.
As the day passed and the sun rose higher, its heat rising to the point that sweat tacked Calen's shirt to his chest, the already sparse remnants of withered trees faded, the only plant life being patches of dry brittle bush that looked as though they might snap into pieces at the hint of a breeze. Where the cracks in the dried ground had once been small and thread-thin, they now spread out like a spider's web, some over a foot wide and three times as long. It looked as though segments of the ground had shrunk and curled in on themselves, like shards of shattered ceramic.
The air smelled of nothing but dirt, dust, and heat. It was so devoid of moisture Calen could already feel his lips drying, his breaths catching in the back of his throat. Ahead, a ridge rose a few hundred feet, stretching into the distance, casting shadows over the cracked ground, its continuity broken only by a few narrow gaps created by fissures in the rock that led upwards through the ridge.
A shadow swept across the ground, moving from east to west, followed by a gust of wind that swept spirals of dust into the air. With a crack of his wings, Valerys alighted on a patch of shattered clay beside Calen, the brittle ground beneath him breaking and snapping under his weight. A low rumble resonated from Valerys's chest as the dragon leaned his head down, and Calen rested a palm on his snout.
"The waste starts just over the ridge and stretches as far as the eye can see," Calen said, images of what Valerys had seen shifting through his mind. Sand, dunes, cliffs, rubble, and more sand.
"I think we could have guessed that." Erik folded his arms, tilting his head towards the enormous ridge that stretched across the landscape before them.
Despite the sadness that still clung to him from thinking of Haem, Calen couldn't help but laugh. He shook his head and made to walk towards the nearest passage through the ridge that looked easily passable but stopped at the touch of Tarmon's hand against his chest.
"We have no idea what we might find out there," the big man said, glancing towards the ridge that guarded the heart of the Burnt Lands. "We've come too far to jump headfirst into this without some idea of what we are going to do."
Calen nodded. Tarmon was right, of course. Just as he always was when it came to the need for a level head and a path forward. "Kiron said it was about two hundred miles from nearest point to nearest point."
"If we walk in a straight line," Tarmon added. "And there's no chance of doing that. And we have no idea how accurate the map was."
"Hope for the best, prepare for the worst." Erik brushed crusted dirt from his trouser leg, pulling his waterskin from his pack. "That's what my father always says."
"Aeson Virandr is a wise man." Tarmon folded his arms, scratching at the stubble on his chin. "We could be out there for two weeks, possibly three, possibly longer. We should travel in pairs at all times. If you need to take a piss. In pairs. If you need to scout ahead. In pairs. If you need to—"
"In pairs," Erik cut in. "We get it. Everything in pairs."
"Erik with Vaeril. Me with Calen," Tarmon said, scowling at Erik. "If you or I get separated, we have no way of lighting a signal. With their magic, Calen and Vaeril do."
Vaeril looked at Tarmon, then back to Calen. The uncertainty on his face was evident.
"We're staying together," Calen said, meeting Vaeril's gaze. "But Tarmon's right. If for any reason we get separated or something happens out there, we need to do everything we can to make sure Tarmon and Erik aren't left on their own."
The elf nodded, though still looked unsure.
"Vaeril, water will be scarce. Each day, we'll need you to draw water from the ground just as you did in the tunnels." Tarmon rolled his tongue across his teeth, glancing back at the ridge. "Each day we march as far as we can, even if it aches and burns. We take rotating guard shifts, two at a time. This place is our enemy. It wants us dead. The quicker we pass through, the better, understood?"
"Understood."
A thin layer of sand coated the ground near to the ridge, like dust on an unused table. But the closer they drew, the thicker the sand became until it had completely covered the shattered ground beneath, Calen's feet dragging with each step. Up close, the gap resembled a narrow valley, walls of dusty brown rising either side, a path of sand and sharp rock leading upwards towards the top of the ridge.
Tarmon marched ahead as they half-walked, half-climbed their way through the narrow path, his greatsword strapped to his back, his shortsword at his hip. The man still wore the core of his steel plate Kingsguard armour – the breastplate, vambraces, greaves, boots, and a shirt of mail – though it no longer held its mirror-like sheen, and his purple cloak was long since tattered and lost. A narrow hole, about an inch wide, was still visible in the plate, just a few inches above Tarmon's hip on the left side of his back, where the arrow had pierced him in Belduar.
As they neared the top of the path, Calen drew in a deep breath, attempting to settle the nerves that had begun to fester within him. This was their point of no return. He had brought them here, and he would die before he let anything happen to them. He had lost too many already.
"By the gods…"
Calen looked up to see that Tarmon had reached the end of the path and now stood atop the ridge, staring out at the heart of the Burnt Lands. A quick look passed between Calen, Erik, and Vaeril, and they all picked up their pace.
A gust of wind swept over Calen as he stepped onto the ridge, the sun beating at his skin with renewed vigour.
By the gods.
An ocean of sand, dunes, and cliffs was splayed out before him. Seeing it through Valerys's eyes had somehow dulled the sheer immensity of it. The sand went on for eternity, glittering in the light of the sun. It swept as far as the eye could see in every direction, rising and falling like ocean waves, broken only by jagged rocks and cliffs of brown stone.
"It's actually kind of… beautiful." Erik ran the back of his hand across his brow, flicking sweat down into the sand at his feet. "From here, anyway. I don't think I'll have the same opinion once we're in there."
A thunk to Calen's left drew his attention. He turned to see Tarmon's satchels, swords, sword belt, and scabbards lying in the sand while the man undid the buckles and straps of his armour, stripping it and dumping it in the sand.
"What are you doing?" Calen asked as Tarmon undid the last of the straps on his breastplate and let it fall into the sand with a subdued thud.
"I'll die of heatstroke if I try and cross this place in that armour," he said, reaching down and stripping his greaves and pulling his feet out of his armoured boots so he now just stood in a sweat-soaked linen shirt, thin linen trousers and a pair of socks.
"Why didn't you get rid of it at Rokka's cabin?" Erik asked.
"Might have needed it between there and here." Tarmon lifted one of the satchels, rooting around inside and producing two long, brown hooded cloaks, one of which he handed to Calen, and a pair of ankle-covering boots, slipping his feet into the boots and tossing the cloak around his shoulders. "It will help keep the heat off your skin."
Calen nodded, swinging the cloak around his shoulders and tying it tight.
"You might need it out there," Erik said, nodding towards the seemingly endless sea of sand.
"I'd rather be taken by a sword than the sun." Tarmon fastened his sword belt back around his waist and strapped his greatsword into place across his back before lifting the satchels up once more. "Prepare for the demon you know, instead of fearing the one you don't." He took one last longing look at his armour, then started off into the endless sand. "Come on, we can't waste sunlight. According to the maps, Copperstille is to the north-east." He stuck out his hand, tracing the path the sun had followed through the sky. "Which is somewhere in this direction."
"Somewhere in this direction?" Erik asked as they followed Tarmon.
"Most definitely." Tarmon glanced at Calen with a wry smile. "It's a feeling."
Calen could see Erik was about to throw his arms up in protest, but he stopped when Tarmon turned his hand over and opened it, revealing a small brass compass with a black and red needle.
"Courtesy of our new friend, Rokka," Tarmon said with a victorious grin.
Erik glared at Tarmon, shaking his head. "I preferred you when you didn't make jokes."
Calen's feet dragged, sinking with each step. The sand pulled at him, sapping the energy from his bones. He'd never felt anything like it. He'd walked along the coast at Milltown and near the edge of Ölm, but it had been nothing like this, nothing even close.
The blazing sun was only halfway through its downward arc, which meant they could only have been marching for four or five hours at most, but Calen's body ached as though he'd been wading through knee-high water for days. Beneath his cloak and leather armour, his shirt clung to his body, saturated. Sweat slicked his forehead, pooling in his eyebrows before dripping. The air he dragged into his lungs tasted dry and harsh on his tongue, as though it had been baked in a clay oven. "It shouldn't be this hot in earlywinter."
"No," Tarmon said, heaving in deep breaths, his feet sinking into the sand, his massive frame lumbering. "It shouldn't."
"This place is not natural," Vaeril said. The elf was the only one among them who hadn't got so much as a bead of sweat on his brow.
"Therin told stories in The Gilded Dragon of how Fane created the Burnt Lands when he destroyed Ilnaen." It felt strange to think back to a time when rushing to The Gilded Dragon to hear Therin's stories had been a regular occurrence. Back to a time when his mam and dad would join them, Ella too, and Haem when he wasn't on duty. The thought of it wrenched Calen's heart. He pushed it to the back of his mind, pressing it down, tucking it away with all the other things he couldn't afford to feel.
Vaeril nodded, sadness etched into his face. "One of the stories our bralgír tell is that with the Blood Moon at its fullest and the veil between the worlds thin, Fane fuelled his Blood Magic with the souls of all who died that night, leaving the remnants of who they once were to taint these lands. There is no other way he could have wrought such horror."
"May The Mother harbour their souls," Tarmon whispered.
The only sounds that followed were the crunching of sand and the whistling of the wind. They carried on like that for hours, trudging across the ocean of sand and rock, the sun beating down over their backs. No matter which direction Calen looked, all he could see was clear blue sky, the rolling dunes stretching into eternity. Overhead, Valerys soared, using the air currents to carry him a mile or two away before circling back. Even through the dragon's eyes, Calen could see nothing but sand, dunes, and rock stretching off to the edges of the world. It had been that way since they had entered the Burnt Lands. Calen hadn't told the others. It had to be a trick of the mind, something created by the dark magic that created this place. He was sure of it – mostly. Before they had entered, Valerys had been able to see the mountains of Mar Dorul and Lodhar in the distance. Mountains don't just disappear. There's no need to panic the others. He was quickly beginning to understand why so many had perished trying to cross the Burnt Lands.
As the sun dipped into the western horizon, its light slowly fading, the heat that had battered them all day began to dissipate. At first, it was a relief; the air became easier to breathe, and each step was less laboured. But then the warmth continued to drain as though it were being forcibly pulled from the air. By the time the moon had supplanted the sun and the sky had turned a dark, star-speckled blue, Calen's breath plumed out in front of him, and his jaws chattered. He shivered, the sweat on his skin and in his clothes turning cold.
Much like the snow in Drifaien, the sand seemed to hold the light, creating a perpetual twilight that held true darkness at bay.
"We need to find somewhere to shelter," Tarmon called out, pulling his cloak tighter around himself, the icy wind picking up. "If it gets any colder, we'll freeze out here – not to mention we don't know what else might be roaming these dunes."
"Agreed," Calen said. "If we find somewhere enclosed, then we can use the heat of Valerys's body to keep us warm."
After a few more minutes of marching, Erik extended a hand towards a rock formation that protruded through the sand, his breath misting in the air. "Over there."
Looking closer, Calen could just about see a dark patch near the base of the rock formation that looked as though it might have been a cave.
Tarmon nodded, dipping his head to avoid a gust of sand that swept up into the air.
The rock formation rose about fifty feet from the sand and was easily as wide and thick as three houses joined together. At its base, a large flat plateau fronted an opening wide enough for three or four people to pass through at a time and only about a foot or so taller than Calen. As they drew closer to the plateau, however, Calen caught sight of something that caused him to stop in his tracks, his muscles tensing: a host of bodies lay splayed across the rock and half-buried in sand at its front.
Calen opened himself to the Spark, its warmth driving the cold from his body. He felt Vaeril do the same. To his left, Tarmon and Erik slid their swords into their hands.
"They're long dead," Erik called as he knelt at the base of the plateau, where one of the bodies lay, its legs buried in the sand, its head and back resting against the rock. "How long, I couldn't say. Months, maybe. I've never seen a body like this. It's like it was dried out or cured. It's not rotting like I'd expect. It doesn't even smell bad. One thing is for sure, something stripped most of the flesh clean after the body was cold. There are teeth marks in the bone and bloodstains everywhere."
Calen's stomach turned even before he laid eyes on the corpse over which Erik stood. The phrase 'it's not rotting like I'd expect' didn't sit well with his constitution. The acidic taste of vomit threatened the back of his throat, but he pushed it back down. A rusted coat of mail was draped over the body's shoulders, a battered shield half-buried in the sand beside it. Most of the flesh had been stripped, exposing large patches of sun-bleached bone through the armour. The small areas of skin that remained around the face and left arm looked just as Erik had described: brittle as over-dried strips of meat, ready to crack and shatter at the slightest touch.
Looking around, Calen guessed there had to be at least fifty bodies scattered around the plateau and buried in the sand. Some were missing limbs, others had rusted swords and knives still entangled in their bones.
"There was a battle here," Tarmon said, stepping onto the plateau, using his foot to turn over the body of a man with a small hand axe embedded in his ribs. "And both sides lost."
"Their armour…" Vaeril strode through the centre of the plateau, his gaze sweeping across the bodies.
"What about it?" Erik rose to his feet, following the others onto the plateau.
"Look closer."
"Enough games, Vaeril. What is it?" Erik snapped, his patience uncharacteristically short.
What's he so mad about?
"It's all the same." A hint of irritation crept into Vaeril's voice.
Calen looked to Vaeril, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head, asking the question without words: Are you all right?
Vaeril let out a heavy sigh, then glanced towards Erik before nodding.
The elf rarely let his anger or irritation show. Calen nodded, then grimaced as he knelt beside a corpse whose flesh had mostly been picked clean. His gaze passed over the corpse's empty eye sockets, speckled with patches of dried skin and stained with blood, before looking at the image of a roaring lion on the soldier's breastplate – the same image that each of the others wore. "They all bear the black lion of Loria."
A warning flashed through Calen's mind from Valerys. Instinctively, he reached for the Spark, pulling his sword from its scabbard and tossing his satchels onto the plateau.
"What is it?" Tarmon dropped his satchels, sliding his greatsword from the scabbard across his back.
A rhythmic pulsing sound filled the air, like that of a stone skimmed across a frozen lake, high pitched and shrill. It rose and fell, shifting and moving around them.
Vaeril dropped his satchels and shrugged his bow from his back, opening himself to the Spark. Erik did the same, drawing his swords.
Calen reached out to Valerys. Show me. He let their minds drift together, their consciousnesses blending. Panic spilled from Valerys, twisting to fury, his wings hammering against the air. He wasn't far, less than a mile. Calen tried to see through the dragon's eyes, but all that lay before him was sand and dunes. Then something moved in the dunes, and Valerys banked left, pressure building within. Pure fury pulsed through Calen's veins, sweeping the air from his lungs, causing his jaw to clench as Valerys unleashed a torrent of dragonfire.
The dim twilight receded as Calen saw Valerys through his own eyes, bursting from a dark cloud above, his fire sweeping over the dunes below him, an icy rage consuming him.
"Calen?" Erik stepped beside Calen, looking out over the sand to where Valerys swooped low, soaring towards them.
"Something's coming."
"No shit."
Calen slowed his breathing, feeling Valerys's fury burning in his veins, igniting the strength in his bones. Draleid n'aldryr. Calen let go, giving over completely to the bond. Energy rippled through him, his and Valerys's thoughts colliding. A visceral roar tore through the night as Valerys unleashed another torrent of dragonfire, lifting clouds of sand into the air, setting brittle bushes and shrubs alight. Calen gripped his sword with both hands, the deep purple glow of his eyes shimmering off the steel, washing his hands with a weak, purplish hue.
Through Valerys's eyes, Calen saw shapes flitting across the dunes, dark and as quick as anything he'd ever seen, illuminated by the fires Valerys had started.
A high-pitched shriek erupted to Calen's left, and he spun, swinging his sword as he did. The blade tore through flesh, biting into something hard. Calen felt the crunch of bone, the blade holding for a moment, then sliding through, warm liquid splattering on his face – blood. He looked down to see the body of a kat-like creature, split across the middle. It looked about half the size of a wolfpine, but its body was slender, wiry slabs of muscles, dense bone, and a coat of charcoal-black fur.
Whoosh.
Calen didn't see the arrow, but he heard the thud as its target dropped, the momentum carrying the creature across the stone. Hisses and roars rose around them, claws clicking. Calen turned to see Erik and Tarmon moving across the plateau, their blades shimmering in the twilight, blood spraying.
Something pounded into Calen's legs, and he went crashing down, gasping for air as his back collided with stone and the wind was knocked from his lungs. Pressure on his chest. A pair of gleaming eyes looking down at him. Calen shifted and drove his sword upwards. The creature shrieked as the blade plunged into its neck, warm blood spilling over Calen's hand and face. Reaching for the Spark, he pulled on thick threads of Air and slammed them into the creature's belly, sending it careening into the air and sliding free of his blade.
Calen heaved himself to his feet, raking his blade across another creature's side as he did. They were everywhere, snapping and snarling. A clutch of them bounded onto the plateau, teeth bared, eyes gleaming, black fur blending with the night. They held a few feet from Calen and Vaeril, watching, waiting. Up close, Calen could see they each had a third set of limbs that protruded from the sides of their deep chests, tucked tight to the body between their front legs. The limbs were much smaller than the others and held three hinge-like joints, the ends tapering into long black scythe-like talons. "What in the name of the gods are they?"
Before Vaeril could answer, the creatures lunged, springing off their hind legs, their front legs spreading, their scythe-like limbs extending outward. Vaeril dropped one of them with an arrow to the eye, but a second crashed into him. Calen made to pull on threads of Fire, stopping at the sound of the stone-shaking roar that rippled through the night.
Valerys crashed down, snatching one of the creatures in his talons and slamming it into the stone. Kicking back his right leg while his talons were still embedded in the creature's torso, Valerys ripped the howling beast in half, blood and gore spraying, intestines spilling onto the stone, steam wafting. A bloodlust ignited in the dragon, rippling through him, spilling into Calen. The dragon spun, the spearhead tip of his tail hacking into the skull of the beast that stood over Vaeril. The creature's body went limp then dropped over the elf as Valerys heaved his tail free from its skull like an axe springing from a tree, blood sluicing. The dragon swung his neck around, snatching one of the creatures in his jaws before slamming it down with such force cracks spread through the stone beneath it.
Calen reached down and heaved Vaeril to his feet. But as the elf said his thanks, the words drowned in the back of Calen's mind. The only sound Calen could hear was the thump of his and Valerys's heart, the pulsing of the blood in their veins, the slow drag of the heavy breaths leaving the dragon's nostrils. Pure power radiated from Valerys's mind, primal and raw. The dragon's rage was a tangible thing. These creatures would never threaten his family, would never harm his soulkin. He would not allow it. Valerys's head kicked back.
"Erik, Tarmon, get down!" Calen grabbed Vaeril and dragged him to the ground as Valerys craned his head over them, unleashing a river of dragonfire that illuminated the night like a blazing sun. Valerys's lavender eyes gleamed in the light of the flames, shadows dancing across his horn-ridge face, his white scales painted an orange-red hue.
His heart pounding, Calen rose to his feet, pulling on threads of Fire and Spirit. One of the creatures leapt from the shadows, scythe-like limbs bared, razor teeth glistening. Calen pulled on threads of Air, catching the creature mid-flight, Valerys's bloodlust searing through his soul. One twist and the beast's neck snapped. Calen let it drop to the floor. He funnelled his threads of Fire and Spirit into Valerys, feeling the dragon's rush as his flames grew brighter and burned hotter.
In the light of the flames, Calen saw Tarmon and Erik in the sand by the edge of the plateau, their eyes fixed on Valerys's fire, their swords gripped in their fists. A long gash ran along Erik's left arm, and Tarmon had a cut above his eye. Around them, the creatures that hadn't been caught in the flames fled into the night, hobbling, hissing, and shrieking.
Calen knew he should release his threads, let the Spark dissipate, but the power was intoxicating. He could feel Valerys in his mind, pushing him on, urging him to take more, pull deeper, let the flames burn brighter. A desperate urge to protect roared at the back of his mind, blending with fury, beating back flashes of loneliness, an unwillingness to let any harm come to the bond. Calen slowed his breathing, trying to pull himself back. He rested his hand on the scales of Valerys's chest, just below where his wing sprouted.
"It's all right." Calen released his threads of Fire, drawing solely on Spirit, weaving them into Valerys's mind, just as he had done in the tunnels below the mountain. "We're safe, Valerys. Du vyin alura anis." You can rest now.A tentative calm washed over the dragon at Calen's words, and Calen could feel Valerys begin to let go of his fire, his heart slowing, his fury ebbing.
Once Calen had reached out to the Spark, he had almost forgotten the chill that had descended over the wasteland as night fell, but as he slowly released the threads of Spirit he'd weaved, the cold crept back in, sending a shiver through him.
As the flames of Valerys's dragonfire died out and faded, the ground was covered in crumpled husks, charred fur and skin still glowing bright orange, snapping and crackling, sparks drifting on the breeze. The smell of burnt fur and boiled blood hung heavy in the gelid air. Once, that putrid smell would have turned Calen's stomach, but now, with Valerys's mind entwined with his, it was a war drum, a feverish calling. He pushed it back, squeezing his fingers around the hilt of his blade, surprised at the strength it took. His own breaths vibrated in his ears. He drew in a deep lungful of air, then let it out slowly, running his free hand across Valerys's scales. "It's all right."
The words were more for him than Valerys.
"Draleid." Vaeril's hand clapped down on Calen's shoulder, his eyes searching Calen's, then checking over him.
"I'm fine, Vaeril. But you're not." Calen reached out his hand, pushing Vaeril's cloak aside to show a long slice through the left breast of the elf's leather armour, blood seeping through.
"It's nothing," the elf said, looking at the wound as though it were nothing more than a scrape. "It will need stitches and some brimlock sap."
"They're ugly bastards." Erik grimaced as he stepped onto the plateau, kicking one of the creatures onto its back with his foot.
"Takes one to know one." Tarmon wiped the blood from across his brow, looking down at the creature, then back over towards Calen and Vaeril, his gaze resting on Valerys for a moment. "Everyone all right?"
Erik glared at Tarmon, shaking his head as he dropped to one knee beside the creature.
"We're fine," Calen said. "Nothing a few stitches can't fix, aye Vaeril?"
Vaeril inclined his head, his attempted smile interrupted by a twinge of pain.
Calen leaned over Erik, who was examining the body of the creature. Up close, Calen could see it wasn't actually covered in fur, at least not any kind of fur he recognised. It was more akin to a blackish-grey leather that looked as though it had been cut short and stretched over the creature's bones and muscles. Its head was similar to a kat's, but where its ears should have been were deep recesses that sank into a compact skull. The muscles on its neck and shoulders were thick and bunched, while its tail was long, sleek, and muscular, tapering off to a point. Its hind legs were long and dense with striated muscle, while its front legs were slightly shorter and more similar to arms. Both pairs of legs ended in obsidian black claws that looked as sharp as any blade. The scythe-like talons on the creature's third limbs were as long as daggers, curved and smooth as glass.
"What in the gods…" Erik emphasised every word as he pulled back the creature's top lip, exposing a powerful set of jaws set with thick, razor-sharp teeth, a pair of large fangs on both the bottom and top rows. He ran his finger along the scythe-like talons of its third limbs, resting his hand along the gaping wounds in the creature's side where Valerys's teeth had punctured.
Calen shifted, allowing Valerys's head to extend past him and crane over the dead animal. The dragon watched with interest, the cold light of the moon causing his lavender eyes to glimmer. A feeling of confusion drifted through the dragon's mind, blending with anger, guilt. It took Calen a few moments to realise the cause of the dragon's emotions: Valerys hadn't seen the creatures coming until they had almost been upon them. He hadn't been able to sense their heat or pick up their scent in the wind. It had been a stroke of luck that the dragon had glimpsed the shifting shadows as they stalked the group.
"It is an N'aka," Vaeril said, looking down over the creature. "From time to time they stray from the Svidar'Cia in search of food. They stalk the outer woods of the northern Aravell. Those of my people who were alive before The Fall say the N'aka only first appeared after Fane created the Svidar'Cia. Many believe they are twisted forms of creatures that once were. They are scavengers mostly, but in packs this size they can be deadly. We've likely given them cause to steer clear, particularly with Valerys by our side, but I would still be surprised if they abandon us entirely. There are likely far more of them out there, and I would think there is significantly more meat on our bones than their usual prey."
"At least we know they can bleed," Tarmon said, wiping the N'aka blood from his greatsword with a cloth. "I'm happy to face anything that isn't a Fade. If it bleeds, I can kill it. Is the meat edible?" There was no humour in Tarmon's voice. "They look like they're mostly skin and bone, but we need to conserve as much of our cured food as we can. There's no telling how accurate Captain Kiron's map actually was."
"You want to eat that thing?" Erik stared at Tarmon, eyes wide.
"Meat is meat." Tarmon shrugged, looking to Vaeril for an answer.
Vaeril shrugged. "I don't know anyone who has tried."
Valerys leaned forward and snatched the creature into his jaws. Its limp body dangled while blood dripped onto the stone. Jerking his head upwards, Valerys shifted the creature in his mouth, then clamped his jaws down and ripped his head to the side, tearing the N'aka in half. Calen winced at the crunches and snaps of bone. The other half of the creature's body hit the stone with a wet slap, entrails spilling out, blood splattering.
"Beautiful." Erik covered his mouth with the back of his hand. "Now he decides to share food."
"What does he think?" Tarmon asked, a smile touching his lips.
"He'll live." A rapacious hunger radiated from Valerys as the dragon choked down his meal of skin, bone, and tendon.
"Suddenly, I'm not very hungry." Erik stared at Valerys, open-jawed.
"Valerys has found some smaller creatures that roam the dunes. They don't have much meat, but they'll keep him going if he can catch enough. For now"—a lump caught in Calen's throat as he looked down at the N'aka's sloppy remains, the taste of vomit hitting his throat at the idea of eating it—"Vaeril, can you cook that? Once we eat, we can sleep for as long as we can spare, then keep moving at first light."
Calen turned to Erik. "Can you keep an eye out in case any more of these N'aka come looking again?"
Erik inclined his head and turned to look over the ocean of sand that still held a surprising visibility, even in the night.
"What are you going to do?" Tarmon asked.
"I'm going to check deeper inside the cave," Calen said, reaching out to the Spark, pulling on threads of Fire, Air, and Spirit, weaving them together until an orb of bright white light coalesced before him. "Make sure there's nothing waiting for us in there. I've made that mistake before."
Tarmon pulled his short sword free of its scabbard. "In pairs."