The unabating drum of footsteps and horse hooves blended with the incessant chatter of earnest soldiers, the clinking jingle of mail, and the snorting and groaning of the pack animals who towed the endless line of supply wagons. The sounds had become nothing more than background noise to Rist after the second day's march. He held one hand on Trusil's reins, the other on the double-edged dagger Garramon had given him, gold crossguard glinting in the waning sun, a faint red glow emanating from the gemstone set into the pommel. He rocked slightly, still getting used to the movements of the bay gelding beneath him. His thighs chafed, and his stomach muscles burned. Trusil had been one of many gifts Garramon had bestowed upon Rist after he passed the Trial of Faith. In some ways the trial had been far simpler than the Trial of Will, but in others it had been far more challenging. As he rubbed his thumb across the semi-translucent gemstone set into the pommel of the dagger, he knew the last step would be the hardest: to take a life.
He was marching to war. To war… The thought was almost incomprehensible to him. How had he, of all people, ended up here? He wasn't Calen or Dann. Had either of them ended up in this position he would have found it easier to understand. But him? No, Rist was far more inclined to sitting by a warm fire with a good book and a tankard of mead. Yet, he felt something deep within him – a nervous energy, an excitement. He was not the boy he had once been. His muscles were thicker, more accustomed to use. As he held the dagger in his palm, he saw the callouses he'd earned from hours upon hours of sword work. But more than that, he felt the low thrum that rippled through the air as the mages of the First Army sat astride their horses around him, marching in a loose formation within the enormous column of soldiers that stretched towards the horizon both ahead and behind.
He was still Rist Havel, still himself, but he was also more. He was an acolyte of the Imperial Battlemages. And he was certain of one thing: despite how sorely he missed Calen and Dann, and his mam and dad, this was where he was meant to be. He finally had a purpose, and he was amongst those who understood him. Other mages. For the first time, Rist felt as though he truly belonged.
Garramon, Anila, and Magnus rode ahead, their long black cloaks draped over their horses' backs. Magnus's booming laughter echoed through the low valley where they marched, the mountains of Kolmir rising on their right, the Elkenwood smothering the land in brown and green to their left. Since meeting Exarch Magnus Offa, Rist had quickly taken to the man. There was a warmth about him, an honesty. He reminded Rist of the people back home.
To the right of Garramon, Anila, and Magnus, was a large retinue of a hundred riders garbed in black steel plate, roaring lion-head pauldrons on each shoulder, enormous warhorses as dark as jet that Rist knew immediately as Varsundi Blackthorns. The riders were the Blackwatch, the personal guard of the Supreme Commander of the Lorian Armies, Taya Tambrel. Rist had been introduced to the woman, along with Commander Marken Kort — commander of the First Army — the day before they had set out for Fort Harken.
Supreme Commander Tambrel was one of the tallest women Rist had ever met, taller even than Calen. Her shoulders were dense with muscle, her eyes piercing. Her long, silvery hair was tied in a single braid. Even in their short meeting, Rist could see why she bore the title of Supreme Commander. In a room with Garramon, Anila, Magnus, and a number of other high-profile warriors and commanders, Taya had talked rings around all of them. She was curt and to the point, her wit sharper than any blade.
"It suits you, you know." Neera, who was riding to Rist's left, gave him an appraising look. "You still look terrified on the horse, but the armour suits you, at least."
Rist frowned at that, patting Trusil on the neck. He tucked in his chin, looking down at the steel breastplate that Garramon had arranged for him and that now adorned his chest, the roaring lion emblazoned across its front in black. The breastplate wasn't the only thing Garramon had arranged. A pair of ornate steel vambraces that had once been Garramon's now adorned Rist's forearms. A pair of matching steel greaves protected his shins, sturdy black leather boots covered his feet, and a fine steel longsword hung from his hip.
Rist slid the dagger back into its sheath and rested his hand on the lion-head pommel of the sword Garramon had given him — an Imperial Battlemage's sword. The pommel had been carved from the tusks of a Truscan Boar. The creatures were native to the eastern cities, and from the paintings Rist had seen in Devastating Creatures: Claw, Tooth, And Fang, they stood at a height with an eighteen-hand horse, thick chested, covered in dark brown fur, and tusks thicker than Rist's legs – though that wasn't saying much.
"I didn't get a sword," Tommin said, a touch of sadness in his voice, white robes trimmed with a strip of brown hanging over his shoulders. Tommin rode beside Neera atop a dun gelding two or three hands shorter than Rist's mount. "I got a knife – a small one."
"You're a Healer, Tommin," Lena said with a shrug. "I've seen you with a sword. We'll be safer if you don't have one."
"I'm sorry, by the way," Rist whispered, leaning closer to Neera as Tommin and Lena exchanged insults.
Neera raised a curious eyebrow.
"For not telling you when Garramon started my Trial of Faith. You told me straight away and…" Rist stopped, seeing Neera tilt her head back, giving him the look that meant she thought he was being stupid. "What?"
She let out a sigh. "You're one of the most intelligent people I know." She narrowed her eyes, looking at Tommin and Lena. "I know that might not be saying much, but you are. Yet somehow you're also an idiot. You didn't tell me, Rist, because that's who you are. Not because you wanted to lie to me, or you didn't want me to know. You were told not to, just as I was, but unlike me, you follow rules to the point of insanity. The only time I've seen you break a rule of your own volition is when you sneak books from the library. And even that says something. Did you truly not think I knew?"
"I… wait, what?"
"Considering you have such a love for books, I'm surprised you don't realise how much of an open one you are. Your whole demeanour has changed in the last week. You spend hours on end in the library, yet when I go there I can't find you. And when we're all together, you're off in your head, thinking…" Neera scrunched her lips, contemplating. "And also you mumble in your sleep." She smiled, her nose crinkling. "I told you because I wanted to share it. You didn't tell me because you didn't want to influence my decision. It's all right. I have no doubt you weighed the rules against the impact your decision might have on my decision and came to the logical conclusion that it was best not to tell me."
Rist's head hurt, an aching thump pulsing as he tried to follow what Neera was saying. "So… you're not mad at me?"
"I didn't say that."
Rist shook his head, muttering. "Equal parts confusing, irritating, and completely unavoidable…"
Neera narrowed her eyes. "What did you say?"
"Nothing, just something my father says."
By the look on Neera's face, she was about half a second away from telling Rist precisely where he could shove his father's sayings when an earth-shaking roar echoed through the valley with the force of a raging river. Trusil jerked to a stop, snorting and tugging at his reins. All about, horses did the same – with the exception of the Varsundi Blackthorns who barely even reacted. Murmurs spread through the column.
"Is it—"
A second monstrous roar, even louder than the first, drowned out Tommin's words. Rist clapped his hands to his ears as the avalanche of sound reverberated through the valley. Horses stamped, donkeys brayed, and soldiers shouted as two enormous figures swept around the Kolmir Mountains, soaring through the valley, blotting out the light of the setting sun, their shadows blanketing the ground.
"The Dragonguard!" Shouts rang out, echoing, cheering.
Rist stared at the sky, mouth ajar. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined creatures so large. Both dragons were bigger than any ship he'd ever seen, with wings spreading twice as wide as the dragons were long. But even at that, one was clearly larger than the other, covered in an ocean of black scales, its chest as deep as a house, neck thick like the trunks of multiple trees strapped together. The other dragon had scales of a deep red that gleamed as they reflected the fading light.
The dragons soared through the valley, their wings spread, moving with an effortless grace that should not have been possible for creatures their size.
"That one's Helios," Magnus called as he pulled back to the acolytes, Garramon and Anila staring after him. Even through his thick black beard, the smile on Magnus's face was clear. He pointed towards the enormous black dragon, who flew in front of its companion, drawing closer at a frightening speed. "The dragon bound to Eltoar Daethana. High Commander of the Dragonguard. That elf is a legend among legends. The finest warrior I've ever seen. Even in the old days, Eltoar was First Sword of the Draleid." The two dragons ripped through the sky overhead, a ferocious gust of wind following in their wake, whipping up dried leaves and dirt. Rist's cloak billowed, his hair blowing back. Magnus raised his voice, bellowing. "Efialtír bless whichever army stands in their way!"
Less than an hour after seeing the dragons, Rist's section of the column emerged from the Kolmir Valley and out onto the open plains that lay before Fort Harken. The Fort was hemmed in against the mountains by enormous stone walls twice as thick as any Rist had laid eyes on, including those at Al'Nasla. A number of towers and high buildings rose above the walls, each with flat tops rimmed with battlements. The keep loomed at the back of the fort, rising almost seven storeys and built from stone with a black hue.
Trampled farmland and the husks of burnt-out buildings sprawled outwards from the foot of the walls – a field of ash, blood, char, and death. The Uraks had likely burned everything outside the wall when they'd attacked.
Past the fort, set on the top of a rise, was a war camp, red banners bearing the black lion of Loria fluttering in the breeze. The camp sprawled in all directions, a sea of canvas tents. The now-familiar noises of a war camp drifted on the breeze: the clamouring of runners and porters, the hammering of steel and iron, the whinnying of horses, the calls and shouts of soldiers.
Despite the war camp's sprawling size, it was still smaller than it would have been before the battle that had taken place here only a few weeks before. Garramon had told Rist the Fourth Army had lost almost a third of its strength.
Ahead, Garramon turned his horse and rode towards Rist, Neera, Tommin, and Lena. "Rist, Neera, come with me, Magnus, and Anila. Lena, Brother Halmak is looking for you. He would have you join him before heading to the command tent."
"What about me?" Tommin asked, raising his brows hopefully.
Garramon frowned but didn't get a chance to answer as Sister Danwar approached on a skewbald, fiery hair falling in long curls, white robes rippling behind her. "The command tent is no place for a Healer, Acolyte. That is where soldiers go to arrange death." She threw a glance at Garramon. "We will go to the triage tent. The last battle left many wounded, and they require as many Healers as can be mustered."
"Yes, Sister Danwar." Tommin pulled away on his dun, joining Sister Danwar as they rode off with the other Healers. They separated from the main column headed towards the western edge of the Fourth Army's war camp.
"Damn Healers," Magnus scoffed, rolling his head around, eliciting a series of violent cracks. "Bunch of self-righteous pricks."
"They do quite literally save lives, Magnus," Sister Anila said, her lips twisting somewhere between a smile and a frown. Her horse's reins were looped around the stump of her left arm, resting in the crook of her elbow, which she pulled tight to her chest.
"They do," Magnus said with an irritated shrug. "But they don't have to be so fucking smug about it."
"Come." Garramon stared up the column, searching for something. "Let us find Supreme Commander Tambrel and Commander Kort. We are to meet with the Fourth Army's command while our forces rest and resupply."
Horns bellowed outside as Farda stood with his left arm crossed, propping up his right. He ran his thumb over the gold coin, feeling the familiar nicks and grooves, the rise and fall of the embossed crown, worn over time. He was in the command tent of the Fourth Army, standing before a long wooden table with a map of Epheria tacked down into the wood. A number of thick, slow-burning candles were perched atop the table and set about the tent, supplementing the fast-dying light of the sun that drifted through the tent's opening.
Commander Talvare leaned against the other side of the table, her palms pressed against the wood, her gaze fixed on the map. Her surviving generals were arrayed around her. "Two weeks forced march to Steeple."
"We could shed some of the convoy, Commander," Guthrin Vandamire suggested, plucking at the corner of his moustache, his oily hair shimmering in the candlelight.
"An excellent idea, General." Farda flicked the coin in the air and was disappointed when he saw the crown staring back at him. "We will move faster with fewer wagons. Food and supplies be damned. If we get hungry, we'll eat the horses."
Commander Talvare lifted her gaze from the table, strands of grey-black hair falling down over her sweat-touched face. She gave Farda a wry smile.
"I was only trying to make a suggestion, Justicar Kyrana."
"Make an intelligent one next time, I implore you."
"Are you going to let him speak to me like this?" Guthrin snorted, throwing out his hands at Talvare.
Talvare frowned, glancing from Guthrin to Farda and back again. "Let him? He is a Justicar of the Imperial Battlemages. Did you not see him on the battlefield, General Vandamire? Or were you too far back to see the front? Justicar Kyrana was right, your suggestion was idiotic. Get out of my sight before I have you flogged."
"Commander, I—"
"Did I speak too quietly for you, Guthrin? Did I stutter? Get out of my sight."
Guthrin looked around for support, but the other generals averted their gazes. Only Farda met the man's stare, and he purposely smiled as broadly as he possibly could. There were few pleasures in life, and many of them were small and fleeting. But seeing the look on that dimwit's face before he stormed from the command tent was a moment Farda would savour.
"I despise that man." Talvare stared after Guthrin for a moment before turning her gaze back to the map on the table.
"And yet he is a general in your army."
"Not by choice. Some appointments are out of our control. It doesn't matter. I will ensure he rides in the vanguard for the battles to come. That will either temper him or deal with him. Either way, he'll be less of a pain in my arse."
"Commander." A man no more than twenty summers stepped into the tent and bowed. By the sweat on his brow and his heaving breaths, he'd likely run from the far end of the camp to deliver his message.
"Yes? I'm assuming there was more to your message than simply my title?"
"Yes, Commander Talvare. Apologies." The young man swallowed hard, standing up straight. "The commanders of the First Army approach. They are making their way through the camp now."
"Send them through, soldier."
"Yes, Commander."
The messenger was gone from the tent no more than a short while when two towering warriors in jet-black plate stepped through the tent's entrance, pauldrons shaped in the likeness of roaring lion-heads, longswords at their hips, shields strapped to their backs – Blackwatch. The soldiers moved to either side of the entrance, statues of black plate.
Supreme Commander Taya Tambrel followed the warriors through the entrance, her silver hair tied back in a braid, red-trimmed black plate clinking as she moved. She scanned the tent as she entered, assessing, judging. Across the centuries, Farda had seen many men and women take the title of Supreme Commander. But none of them had compared to Taya Tambrel. She was cold, curt, and harsh. But she was also straightforward, no-nonsense, and fantastically good at what she did.
As Talvare welcomed the Supreme Commander, Farda watched over the rest of the new entrants. Commander Marken Kort of the First Army was next through the doors, chin lifted so high Farda thought he might scrape it off the tent's roof.
The man's generals were next, ten in all, some Farda recognised, some he didn't. Brother Halmak of the Consuls followed, a blonde young acolyte at his heels.
"Farda Kyrana, of all the tents in all the lands, you're standing in this one. C'mere you old dog." Magnus Offa was not one for etiquette or standing on ceremony, which was something Farda appreciated. The hulking giant of a man stepped through the entrance and pulled Farda into a bone-crushing embrace, clapping him on the back and lifting him off his feet. "It's good to see your angry face, little man."
Only Magnus could call Farda 'little man'.
"It's good to see you, too, Magnus. Now, put me down."
"You're just as grumpy as you've always been. Good to see you haven't changed. Look who I've brought with me." Magnus turned back towards the tent's entrance, bowing and spreading his arms in a theatrical fashion.
"Anila…" Farda took a step forwards as Anila entered the tent, silver-trimmed black cloak flowing behind her, steel breastplate glistening, a sword strapped to each hip. Her golden hair tumbled over her shoulders, streaked with silvery-white. Farda saw her look of surprise – watched it twist into a scowl.
"Good old Uraksplitter herself," Magnus bellowed, clapping Farda on the back.
"Farda." Anila inclined her head.
Before Shinyara died, Anila and Farda had been close. Lovers and friends both. But ever since, Farda grew distant, apathetic. He hadn't spoken to Anila in almost two hundred years. In all that time, he hadn't seen the wrong in his isolation, but whatever Ella had awoken in him, he could see it now, and it twisted in his chest. Farda pulled Anila close.
"What in the fuck are you doing?" Anila pushed him away, an incredulous look on her face, her stoic façade cracking.
"Saying hello to an old friend." Farda nodded, a soft smile touching his lips. Even as Anila continued to frown at him, Exarch Garramon entered the tent, two acolytes at his side.
The first of the acolytes was a young woman with raven-dark hair and shrewd eyes. She walked with a confidence usually reserved for those who had seen many more summers, her shoulders pushed back, chest out.
The other was a young man whom Farda couldn't help but feel he recognised.
Farda could feel the power radiating from him. It was nothing compared to that which came from Magnus, Garramon, or Anila, but for one so young, it was impressive, more than impressive — it was curious.
"Farda, it's good to see you." Garramon grasped Farda's forearm, inclining his head. "From what I've heard, the fight we are marching towards will not be a simple one. My reports also tell me there are a number of Justicars who march with the Second Army."
"Garramon. It's been a few years. You've sponsored?"
"Aye." Garramon gestured towards the young woman. "This is Acolyte Neera Halar, she is not my charge. But her Sponsor, Sister Ardal, is of the Consuls. She does not march with us, Neera travels with me." Garrmon laid his hand on the young man's shoulder. "This is Acolyte Rist Havel. Rist, this Farda Kyrana, Justicar of the Imperial Battlemages."