The sun had almost disappeared behind the mountains to the west when Rist dropped to his haunches, his fingers wrapped around the lion head pommel of his new sword, sweat dripping from his brow. He slowed his breathing. He and Sister Anila had been moving through the sword forms ever since they'd set up camp. Anila had been off kilter since they'd joined with the Fourth Army almost two weeks ago. It seemed sword forms settled her. Rist hadn't minded. He was glad to have a partner – even if Anila had been more abrasive than sand.
"You're dropping your left shoulder on form two, movement four, just as you transition into movement five," Anila said, pulling Rist back to a standing position. "It leads you to putting too much weight on your front foot, which makes you slow to pivot. Straighten your back, bring yourself into balance."
"Yes, Sister. Thank you." As an acolyte, Rist could refer to other mages by their first names, and he did — except with Sister Anila. For some reason, it felt strange to even think about doing so.
Anila nodded, taking a second to look about them.
The mages always pitched their tents at the edge of the main army's camp, which suited Rist just fine, fewer eyes watching as he practised. A few feet away, Neera, Tommin, and Lena sat in the dirt by a campfire, their tents at their backs. Around them, the other mages of the First Army stood about talking and chatting, some sipping wine and spirits from mugs. As far as Rist was concerned, taking up prime space on the wagons for casks of wine and spirits was a waste, but he seemed to be alone in that opinion. They were less than half a day's march from Steeple, and according to their scouts, a dense layer of fog was encroaching on the city from the east, stretching for miles in all directions. Garramon brought Rist to the command tent each night, where the generals and commanders discussed the battle ahead of them. They still weren't aware of who or what they were marching against. The rumours Rist had heard had stretched from Karvosi invaders, to Ardanians, to elves that had come back to claim the lands of their ancestors, all the way to Achyron himself.
Whoever, or whatever it was, they would be standing face to face within a day. But as far as Rist was concerned, it didn't matter. There was nothing in the mortal world that could stand against the Dragonguard. Since joining with the Fourth Army at Fort Harken, Rist had forced himself to wake with the sun so he could watch the creatures spread their wings in the morning sky. He had never seen such effortless power. Each dragon was easily over a hundred feet from head to tail, likely more. Helios was even bigger still.
"Acolyte."
Rist shook his head, feeling as though he'd come out of a hazy dream. Anila was staring at him, her brow furrowed, eyes questioning. "Sorry, Sister I was—"
"Lost in your thoughts." Anila let out an exasperated sigh. "That's a common theme with you. Make sure it doesn't happen in the heat of battle, lest your thoughts be permanently separated from your body."
"She's saying your head will be cut off!" Rist turned to see Magnus strolling into the mages' camp with an iron banded cask thrown over his shoulder, his voice booming over the low hum of activity. Garramon walked alongside the big man, his hands clasped behind his back, an amused look on his face. Magnus stopped beside the campfire that Neera and the others had built, dropping the cask down onto the dry grass.
"Thank you for clarifying, Magnus." Sarcasm dripped from Anila's words as she rolled her eyes and let out another sigh as if the world was nothing but an irritation to her.
"Any time, Uraksplitter." Magnus gave Anila a wink, gesturing to Tommin. "Throw us those bags, will you, lad? Need something to prop this cask on."
Tommin looked from Magnus to the two large bags that rested near his own feet. "They're the spare blankets, Exarch."
"I didn't ask what they were, lad, I asked you to throw them to me. You'll have no need of blankets after a few cups of this." Magnus patted the top of the cask, shaking his other hand at the two bags.
"I'm not sure Sister Danwar would—"
"Oh, piss off, lad. Throw me the bags before I use your back instead."
Tommin straightened reflexively, then stood and brought the bags to Magnus, who laid them one in front of the other.
"I 'requisitioned' this from the infantry," he said, tilting the cask on its rim, inspecting it. He puffed out his bottom lip in a seemingly satisfied pout, then stuck his hand into his robes and produced a handmade wooden spigot. "It's a good thing I keep one of these beauties on me at all times."
"At all times?" Neera gave Magnus an incredulous look.
"In case of emergencies." Magnus pulled a soft wooden bung from the top of the cask, tossing it to the ground and replacing it with the spigot. He slotted the spigot into the hole, then slammed it down with a thin thread of Air. His use of the Spark for something so insignificant was something Rist had noticed more and more as he'd travelled with the Battlemages of the First Army. Whereas he had only ever used the Spark when necessary, they used it as effortlessly and thoughtlessly as they used their hands and fingers.
In a feat of strength that Rist was sure he would have no chance of replicating, Magnus heaved the cask up and dropped it on its side atop the bags. He called for Tommin to fetch him a cup, to which Tommin responded like a puppy desperate to please.
It wasn't long before they were sitting around the fire, sipping away at their second – or fourth, in Magnus's case – cup of wine, the last rays of the setting sun lingering along the horizon. Rist had not tasted wine until he arrived at the embassy in Al'Nasla. He hadn't been sure he liked it at first, but it had grown on him. The wine that he now swirled in his cup though was better than any he'd tasted in all his time at the embassy. It was sweet and full, its aftertaste melting into his mouth.
"Not quite the same as what we get in the embassy," Garramon said with a short laugh, nodding towards Rist's mug. The man sat to Rist's right, knees pulled to his chest, firelight flickering across his face. "It's a tradition," he said, lifting his cup to his nose and drawing in a whiff. "The finest wine in the North is made just a few days ride southwest of Catagan, on the other side of the Kolmir Mountains in a small region known as Etrus. The weather there is ideal for growing grapes. The heat of the Burnt Lands is balanced out, the soil is perfect, and it rains just enough. Each year, half the casks are brought to Al'Nasla. From that, half again are taken for the emperor who distributes them as he needs – most ending up in his own cellar. The other half are given to the armies to carry with them whenever they march."
"Why?"
Garramon gave a slight shrug, tilting his cup outwards. "On the eve of battle, the least you can give those willing to lay down their lives is a good cup of wine." He laughed as he spoke, shaking his head. Although Garramon had grown warmer towards Rist since they'd first met, Rist had never seen the man laugh like he did then. It was likely the wine more than anything, but whatever it was, it was nice. "Honestly, Fane has always loved wine. It was his idea. A simple gesture, but an appreciated one."
Rist took a mouthful from his cup, savouring the fruity flavours on his tongue. It was strange to hear the emperor of Loria referred to simply as 'Fane'. So many bards' stories in the villages had been spun of 'the dread emperor Fane Mortem', or 'Fane Mortem, the mighty hero', depending on which bard was telling the tale. Descriptions of Fane tended to vary wildly, but the one thing that always stayed the same was the power the emperor possessed. Even after meeting the man himself and seeing that Fane Mortem was truly a living, breathing human and not a demi-god, Rist had still been awed by the aura of power that radiated from him. So to hear Garramon mention him as though he was nothing more than a childhood friend was like hearing a dragon described as a lizard.
"All right," Magnus said, wine sloshing in his cup as he heaved himself to his feet. He looked around at those gathered about the fire. As they had begun drinking, more of the First Army's mages had joined them, grabbing cups of wine and sitting beside the fire. "As is tradition… hic… apologies, drank my wine too fast." Magnus held his breath for a moment that let out an enormous belch, followed by a sigh of relief. "Much better. Now, as is tradition, who'd like to hear a story?"
Cheers and claps rose around the crowd. More mages drew closer and settled on the grass.
Magnus gave a mock bow, holding his arms out wide, droplets of wine dripping from his thick, black beard. "How about I tell the tale of how the legendary Anila Uraksplitter lost her arm?"
More claps and cheers. Rist looked over towards Anila, who sat beside two Battlemages Rist knew as Talik and Mura. If looks could kill, then the glare on Anila's face would have skinned Magnus alive. "You can tell it, Magnus," Anila said. "But if you do, the next story you'll be telling is of how the great Magnus Offa had his balls cut off in the night."
Roaring laughter erupted, mages clapping and stamping their feet. Magnus laughed as hard as anyone. Anila smiled as she shook her head.
"Well, seeing as I'm rather fond of my balls, I think we'll steer clear of that particular tale." Still laughing, Magnus raised his cup towards Anila, inclining his head, to which she responded in kind. "How about, instead, I tell you of the time I rode the legendary Sea Snake along the Lightning Coast?"
Rist looked to Garramon. "Did that actually happen?"
"No," Garramon said with a laugh, giving a shrug. "But it's a good story. And all good stories hold a little truth."
Farda stood between two pitched tents, his arms folded, his head tilted to the side. He pinched his top lip with his bottom teeth, thinking. Ahead, in a small clearing surrounded by tents, mages of the First Army had gathered around a campfire while Magnus Offa told his story of the time he rode the Sea Snake from the cliffs of Khergan to the edge of the Lightning Coast. Farda had heard the story many times, though it had been centuries. In reality, Magnus had eaten enough hallucinogenic mushrooms to kill a horse and had leapt off a low cliff near Khergan while clinging to the felled trunk of a small tree. The man was lucky he hadn't died. They'd found him almost a week later, after he'd been washed ashore at Bromis. As far as Farda was concerned, in this particular instance, the truth was far funnier than the lie, but as long as Magnus was the one telling the story, the truth would seldom be told.
Magnus had invited Farda to sit and drink by their fire, but even if Farda had enjoyed the company of people, he owed it to the mages of the Fourth Army to drink with them that night. If they were going to fight at his side, the least he could do was share a drink by theirs.
Even so, Farda had not been able to stop himself from passing by Magnus's camp on the way. There was something scratching at the back of his mind, a puzzle that needed working out – the young man that Garramon had sponsored. Farda could see him now, sitting in the grass beside the other acolyte that was travelling with Garramon, a mug of wine gripped in his hand. Not only was something about the man's face irritatingly familiar, but his name had also rung a bell in Farda's head. Rist Havel. Why is that name so familiar?
Farda spent a few long moments looking at the young man, trying to place him. He knew the answer to his riddle was floating just out of reach in his mind.
Without even realising he'd removed it from his trouser pocket, Farda felt the familiar touch of the coin in his palm. Magnus was at the part of the story where he'd used seaweed to create reins for the Sea Snake. The only true part of the story involving seaweed was that when Magnus had washed ashore, he'd been almost covered in seaweed. Letting out a sigh, Farda slid his coin back into his trouser pocket, turned, and made his way to the other side of the camp, where his own mages had pitched their tents.
"So all it takes is war to see you again, you crusty bastard?"
Farda stopped, trying to place the voice, then turned to see two women and a man strolling towards him, the light of the moon and the campfires illuminating their faces.
"Hala, I'd heard you were travelling with the Second Army from Arginwatch." Farda reached out and grasped Hala's forearm as she extended it. It had only been ten or twenty years since Farda had last seen her. Not a particularly long time. He still found it strange to look upon her since her soulkin, Dalyianír, was taken from the world. Farda had been fortunate – if he dared use that word – that the things Shinyara had taken with her had not been physical. She had taken his pain, his empathy, his ability to care. But when Dalyianír was slain over the Bay of Light only two or three decades after The Fall, the colour in Hala's hair had drained to snow white. Even her brows and the hair on her arms. Along with that, Hala's fingers on her left hand had curled up into a perpetual fist, hardened like stone. Other things had been lost too. Things below the surface. But the woman never lost her heart or her humour.
"I see you've been busy trying to track us down then," the other woman, Gunild, said, her head twitching as it had since she'd lost Borallis. She gave Farda a smile that held more than a drop of pity.
"I've been—"
"Busy gallivanting, I suppose." The last of the three, Ilyain, offered a hand to Farda. If it wasn't difficult enough to be an elf without a dragon in an empire dominated by humans, the gods had decided to strip Ilyain of his sight when Voraxes was torn from him.
Farda drew in a long breath, letting out a sigh as he grasped Ilyain's forearm. "Something like that."
Farda looked over each of the three that stood before him. Just like him, they were Justicars – the name Fane had bestowed upon those who had become Rakina since the days of The Fall. Farda despised the title. At least to be Rakina meant something. One who survived. Justicar was simply a title given so soldiers knew what to call those who were no longer Dragonguard. It had been meant as a sign of respect – a reminder that they still had a place within the empire. But Farda had always seen it as an insult – a reminder of everything he had lost and everything he had turned his back on.
"You're on the way to drink?" Hala said.
Farda was unable to decide whether it was a question or a statement. He treated it as a question. "I am."
"Well then, lead the way."
Farda raised a curious eyebrow. "Will you not be drinking with the Second Army? You arrived with them."
"You drink with those you are willing to die beside," Ilyain said, turning his head in the direction of Farda's voice. "We marched with those of the Second Army. But if it's all the same to you, in the morning, if we're to die, we'd rather do it with our own kind."
From where Eltoar stood upon one of the few plateaus amidst the jagged peaks of Mar Dorul, he could see for miles in either direction, the chill of the sharp wind cutting against his face. Thousands of feet below, the city of Steeple sat atop the River Halda – the middle of the three rivers known as The Three Sisters. Two walls encircled the city, lanterns burning along the ramparts and in the windows of homes. Beyond the protection of the walls, more homes, farms, and markets sprawled outward, the dim glow of candles in windows.
West of Steeple, the campfires of the Lorian armies spread far and wide, the landscape looking as though it was a mirror of the star speckled sky cast in an orange hue. To the east, however, through Helios's eyes as the dragon soared overhead, his presence only visible where he blotted out the stars, Eltoar could see a thick layer of fog rolling across the land, tendrils of grey slithering outwards like snakes.
"What do you think?" Beside Eltoar, Lyina stroked a long braid of her blonde hair, staring at the rolling fog, her white plate glowing as it reflected the light of the moon.
Eltoar folded his arms, his foot tapping against the dust-covered rock. His gaze didn't shift from the west. "I think many are going to die tomorrow."
Lyina let out a sigh but carried on. She'd always done that, always tried to push through Eltoar's dark moods. "I've never seen anything like this fog." Lyina took a step closer to the edge of the plateau, and Eltoar could feel her pulling on threads of Fire and Spirit, weaving them through her eyes, granting herself Moonsight. "It's as though it's alive. You said it spread for miles when you were north of Bromis?"
Eltoar nodded. His meeting with Tivar had left a sour taste on his tongue, and he'd not had much desire for conversation since.
"It would take thousands of mages to hold something like that in place over such a distance. And even then, I'm not sure how feasible it would truly be." Lyina let the silence hang in the air between them, waiting for Eltoar to contribute, then turned. Eltoar had expected her face to be all scorn and irritation, but instead he found soft eyes and a look of empathy. "Tivar will come around, Eltoar. She will."
Eltoar shook his head. "No, she won't."
I will not put another of our kind in the ground. I will not tear another soul in half. Eltoar had not been able to push Tivar's words from his mind.
"Pellenor said he believed the new Draleid would go to the temple and light the beacon. It could take days, months, years. But Pellenor is almost never wrong with these things. If I was this new Draleid, I would want to know the past. I would want to speak to the only true kin I have. When he goes to the temple, he will see Tivar, and she will see the light of hope in what he can bring." Lyina leaned forwards, drawing Eltoar's gaze. "We will make it right."
"Can it ever be right, Lyina? It is Aeson Virandr who teaches him. Aeson will never forgive what we did. Never. And neither will the others. Even if this new dragon brings new life, can the past ever truly be reconciled?"
"There is always hope, my friend. And it is towards hope we will stride, come of it what may."
Eltoar gave Lyina a soft sigh, then looked back out over the land before him. Moonlight glinted off the rushing water of the Three Sisters. "Tivar said something that I can't get out of my head. She said the dragon eggs have not hatched because the gods are punishing us for what we did."
"Perhaps," Lyina said, folding her arms and looking out over the campfires of the Lorian armies. "But if that is truly what has happened, then they are no gods worth following."
Wing beats sounded, a gust of wind sweeping Eltoar's hair forwards. The sandy-scaled body of Meranta soared overhead, wings spread wide as the dragon turned towards the plateau, dropping lower, icy blue eyes glimmering in the moonlight. Meranta was the smallest of the three dragons there at the Three Sisters. But even then, she was only a few handspans shorter than Karakes from head to tail, while being considerably slimmer in build.
The plateau was far too small for Meranta to land, so instead, the dragon cracked her wings, holding in the air as Pellenor slid from her back and dropped the twenty feet to the plateau, softening his landing with threads of Air. Wisps of dirt and dust were swept up and caught by the wind as Pellenor landed gracefully, his knees and back slightly bent, something gripped in his fist. Pellenor straightened his body as Meranta lifted higher into the night sky, moving to join Helios and Karakes as the three dragons spiralled around each other, playing as children would.
"Anything from the other side?" Lyina asked.
"This should put the debate to rest," Pellenor said, tossing whatever he had been holding at Eltoar and Lyina's feet. "Scouts. Five of them near the source of the River Girdil."
Eltoar nodded. At his feet lay the helmeted head of an elf, blood still dripping from its severed neck.