Rist stood atop a rise of earth and clay that had been forged into an observation tower by the three Craftsmages of the gathered Lorian armies. The tower had been constructed to give a better vantage point overlooking the would-be battlefield. It wasn't a complex structure by any means, but it was effective in its simplicity – something Rist was sure Andelar Touran would approve of. The tower rose as high as a two-storey house, steps of clay leading to a flattened landing at the top. Rist, Garramon, and all the commanders and generals of the First, Fourth, and Second armies stood upon the landing, gathered around a Spark-forged podium of stone and clay that held a scale reconstruction of the area around the city of Steeple. Rist had only been permitted to attend because Garramon was his sponsor, and even then he had drawn a few looks from the gathered generals.
News that elven scouts had been found skirting the River Gurdil at night had spread through the camp like wildfire that morning. The commanders and generals had been at the tower since just after the sun had risen, arguing over tactics, manoeuvres, logistics, and positioning. The talks had held Rist's interest for a while, but eventually it had descended into a repetition of the same points, along with far too many 'what-ifs'.
With the voices of the arguing commanders floating to the back of his mind, Rist turned from the clay map and looked over the landscape ahead. The Three Sisters – River Halda, River Gurdil, and River Dalwin – carved through the plains of grassland that spread for miles, joining together some distance in the north. The tower had been built with the River Dalwin at its back, the rivers Halda and Gurdil splitting the lands at its front.
Rist drew in a deep breath and held it for a few moments, trying to settle himself as he gazed out at the fourteen thousand Lorian soldiers who were spread across the grasslands below the tower, stretching to the banks of the river Halda, the city of Steeple off to the right.
He had never seen as many souls gathered in one place as they were now. Of course, he'd been in Camylin and Al'Nasla, where many times that number resided. But he had never actually laid eyes on what fourteen thousand people truly looked like, steel glinting in the light of the blazing morning sun, movements rippling across the ranks like waves. With so many in one place, even the most subtle sounds – the shuffling of feet, the rubbing of steel plate and leather – could be heard far and wide.
Several more towers of clay and stone, constructed by the Craftsmages, rose throughout the ranks of soldiers, regiments of archers perched at their tops.
There had once been a time where Rist had seen the town guard of The Glade as the mightiest of warriors. In their steel breastplates and tabards of regal blue, swords strapped to their hips. It was only the guard that could stand against raiders, Uraks, and brigands. They were the strongest of the strong and the noblest of the noble. Rist still saw those men and women as strong, noble warriors, but looking out over the combined might of the First, Fourth, and Second armies of the Lorian Empire, he understood just how naïve he had been in thinking the town guard could ever have stood against this kind of power. Though, if there was one thing he'd learned during his time in Loria, it was that the empire wasn't the enemy. The Uraks didn't care what flag they waved, they would kill them all the same. The North and the South would be stronger together.
Looking past the River Halda, across a wide plain of grass, and then to the River Gurdil, Rist could see the thick wall of grey fog spreading for miles left and right, rising over a hundred feet. The fog had reached the banks of the River Gurdil the night before and then had simply stopped, as though waiting. Rist had already decided there was nothing natural about the fog. It was a construct – of that he was sure. But of what, he still hadn't worked out. There was nothing in his memory from A Study of Control or The Spark: A Study of Infinite Possibilities that seemed to fit. Nor could he pull from any of the other seventeen manuscripts he had read that pertained to the use of the Spark. He flicked through the pages of the books in his mind, searching for something, anything that might fit. He tilted his head to the side, narrowing his eyes, trying to see deeper into the fog. What if it isn't the Spark? What if it's something else entirely? A Skydruid?
"You can feel it in your bones, can't you?" Magnus stepped up beside Rist, scratching at his beard while looking out at the Lorian forces. Every time Rist set eyes on Magnus, the man seemed taller and broader. "The air changes before a battle. Your mind grows restless, your blood turns wild." Magnus let out a long, ponderous sigh. "Elves… I can't say I've ever looked forward to having to face them on the field of battle again."
Rist looked to the man, then back out across the landscape. "Are they much different from us?"
Magnus shrugged. "Outside of living to see twice our natural summers, they're skin, bone, and blood. So in that sense, no. Take their heads, pierce their hearts. They'll die just like we do. But it's not what they are, more who they are. Even before the liberation, they were relentless, single-minded, and brutal. If the legends are to be believed, when humans first arrived in Epheria, it was only the grace of the Jotnar that stopped the elves from slaughtering us to the last." A smile curled on Magnus's lips as he shook his head. "I'd bet they fucking regret that now. They will want blood and vengeance. Their honour will demand it."
"The commander of the Dragonguard is an elf, is he not?"
"Touchy subject, lad. Eltoar is a Draleid. I know we don't use the word anymore, but it's more than a title. It's a species. He's as much an elf as a dragon is a snake. In the old times, when one was bonded to a dragon, they were considered to have become something… different. He is an elf, but he is not. He will take no pleasure in this battle, but nor will he shy away from it. Ah," Magnus said, raising an eyebrow and inclining his head towards something in the distance. "Speak of The Saviour and he shall appear."
A rumbling cheer rose from the gathered soldiers below, and Rist looked up to see the gargantuan shapes of three dragons dropping from the sky, blotting out the light of the sun, wings spread like the embracing arms of Heraya herself, colossal shadows sailing over the armies below. The dragons swept over the Lorian forces to raucous applause, then climbed, soaring over the tower upon which Rist and the others stood.
Rist tilted his head back and watched as the gargantuan, black-scaled body of Helios tore through the sky above him, unleashing a monstrous roar that only drew further chants and shouts from the soldiers below.
"They're always so fucking dramatic." Magnus shook his head as the other two dragons, Karakes and Meranta, soared after Helios, sweeping in a wide arc, then turning back to alight on the grass near the base of the tower. "I'm surprised they don't attach tassels to the dragons' tails – make more of a show and dance about it. Come." Magnus turned back towards the others. "Let's see what news they bring."
The Supreme Commander, Taya Tambrel, dipped her head as the three Dragonguard reached the top of the clay steps, their dragons resting on the grass below. "Commander Daethana. Lyina, Pellenor."
Rist had seen the Dragonguard from a distance, but he had not seen them up close. They each wore suits of stunning white plate armour that seemed both impossibly light and incredibly strong. Golden ornamentation decorated the edges of the armour with a level of detail that would have looked more at home on a painting or tapestry, and a flickering black flame was emblazoned on the centre of each breastplate.
Tense silence held in the air at the top of the tower as the three Dragonguard removed their helmets. Rist swallowed, his mouth growing dry. The three warriors radiated an unerring sense of power and calm, their presence alone shifting the atmosphere in an instant. There was no arguing or bickering, only silence and, in some cases, reverence.
Commanders and generals stepped aside, allowing the Dragonguard to take their place beside the clay map.
"What news do you bring, Eltoar?"
"Nothing we don't already know, Commander Tambrel." Eltoar extended a finger towards the map. "The fog spreads from here to here. Stretching back for about five miles."
"Do we just sit and wait then?" Olivan Karta, the commander of the Second Army, said, incredulous. Rist had only met the man a handful of times. He'd seemed decent but also brash and impatient, a certain anxiety about him. More than a few heads turned at his words, but Rist's gaze focused on the two Dragonguard either side of Eltoar.
An amused smirk spread across the face of the Dragonguard to Eltoar's left, who Rist figured must have been Lyina Altair, judging by the fact she was the only woman amongst the three. While the Dragonguard at Eltoar's right shoulder, Pellenor Dambren, simply raised a curious eyebrow, glancing towards Lyina.
"You seem eager…" Eltoar shook his head, waving his hand as though searching for a name.
"Olivan Karta, Commander. I am the leader of the Second Army. And I am eager. My sister's forces were stationed just north of Gildor. We've had no contact in weeks. Months."
Eltoar stared at Olivan, his gaze unwavering. "In your eagerness, what would you have us do, Commander Karta?"
Olivan returned Eltoar's stare for a moment before dropping his gaze.
Eltoar drew in several long breaths, extending the tense silence. Rist couldn't get over the way in which Eltoar used the absence of words to smother Olivan with his authority. Eventually, Eltoar turned his gaze from Olivan and looked out at the River Halda and River Gurdil. "The true warrior forces the enemy to move and is never moved by them, Commander Karta."
Rist recognised the words immediately. They were from The Art of War by Sumara Tuzan.
"The elves have come along the eastern coast, razing everything in their path." Eltoar glanced at Olivan, sympathy touching his face. "They are here for a reason, and they will not simply stop where they are. They will leave the cover of that veil, or we will fight within it. Our position is strong, and it would be unwise to abandon it. The elves have come this far. Their honour demands they fight. Patience is half the sword. When the battle does commence, my wing and I will not be able to charge headfirst into the fray. The elves have had centuries to prepare for this. They will come ready to face dragons. We will need your mages to focus on engaging their counterparts and eliminating any projectile-based weaponry."
"Are we absolutely certain it's the elves?" Marken Kort, commander of the First Army, said, puffing out his chest and folding his arms.
"I can fetch you their heads, if you'd like?" Lyina gave an upturn of her lip, opening her arms. "They're a little bloody. But if our word isn't good enough, I can surely go and fetch them for you, Commander. It's no trouble at all."
Before Marken could respond, a cacophony of sound rose up behind Rist, emanating from the gathered soldiers at the foot of the tower. Whispers blended with shouts and clanging steel. As Rist turned to face the landscape of the Three Sisters, his jaw slackened, eyes widening, his skin prickling. He took a step closer to the edge of the landing.
Past the Lorian forces, past the banks of the River Halda, and past the banks of the River Gurdil, the fog was dissipating, tendrils of grey snaking outwards across the water and grass, thinning and fading.
At the edges of his vision, Rist saw Magnus, Garramon, and the Justicar, Farda Kyrana, standing beside him, others shuffling, trying to get a better look. As the fog thinned, more than a few gasps came from the generals and commanders around Rist, and a lump formed in his chest.
An ocean of gold and red lay on the other side of the River Gurdil stretching back and over a rise in the land. Sunlight glinted off polished steel, red cloths and tabards striking against ornately carved golden armour. Enormous crimson banners rippled in the wind, the sigil of a golden stag emblazoned across their front. Rist could not even begin to determine the size of the elven host. But what was clear was they numbered at least twice that of the combined Lorian forces. Thirty thousand at the very least…"Eltoar," Magnus called out. "I think we're going to need those dragons."
The meeting of opposing commanders before a battle was an old elven tradition, from long before even the Blodvar. It was a way of determining whether a battle could be avoided and if not, it was a sign of respect. It was not a custom that Farda had seen observed in a long time, but when they had seen the elven party separating from their forces and moving towards the river Dalwin, Supreme Commander Tambrel had ordered Farda, Magnus, and Commander Talvare to ride out with her and meet them. The other commanders – Marken Kort, Olivan Karta, and the mage commander of the Second, Urla Rint – had stayed behind with the armies. Taya had invited Eltoar and the others but they had refused, which Farda had expected.
And so that was where Farda now stood, in the open grass between the River Halda and the River Gurdil, the sun resting in the sky, his gaze fixed on the approaching elves.
"I still say we should have brought horses," Magnus whispered to Farda.
"I don't think that would have gone down too well with the elves," Farda answered back.
Magnus snorted. "They've just burned four cities to the ground and slaughtered hundreds of thousands. Do you really think us not riding horses is going to cause them to say 'Oh, this has all been a terrible misunderstanding, we'll turn around now'? This is all a waste of time if you ask me."
Taya threw Magnus a scowl, her red-trimmed black plate glistening in the light of the sun overhead. "We are trying to avoid bloodshed here."
"Apologies, Supreme Commander." Magnus gave Taya the most dramatic bow Farda had ever seen, then turned back to Farda, whispering, "Tell me you've never fought elves without telling me you've never fought elves."
Farda smiled at that but didn't respond. Instead, he tapped his fingers against the coin in his trouser pocket, contemplating. As the elves drew closer, Farda's chest tightened, memories bubbling to the surface. Memories of Ilnaen, of blood and fire. Memories of the years afterwards, of the wars and death. Memories of Shinyara. He settled himself with a long breath, still tapping the coin in his pocket.
The elves came to a stop about ten feet from Farda and the others, each garbed in flowing gold plate and coats of shimmering mail, teardrop-shaped shields strapped to their backs. One elf stood at the front, a crimson cloak embroidered with threads of gold knotted at her shoulders, a long-shafted battleaxe protruding above her shield. Farda recognised her immediately. Princess Vandrien of Lunithír.
Magnus leaned in and let out a puff of air. "Well, that's not good."
Before The Fall, Princess Vandrien was one of the most renowned mages in all Epheria. At that point, she had seen no more than a hundred summers and yet was already a living legend. Vandrien was not somebody Farda had expected to lay eyes on ever again. In truth, he had hoped she'd died in the chaos. Her presence here changed everything.
Silence held between the two groups, the steel of armies glinting at their backs, wind rustling in their ears.
Supreme Commander Tambrel glanced towards Farda and the others, then spoke, her stare fixing on Vandrien. "I am Supreme Commander Taya Tambrel of the Lorian Empire. There has not been war between our peoples in centuries, and now you come from your trees, burn cities, and slaughter thousands. Today will be your reckoning. You will pay in blood for what you have done. But first, I would know your name so I can tell my emperor who died here today."
Magnus whispered to Farda, his mouth scrunching. "Very diplomatic… I thought she wanted to avoid bloodshed. Do you think we should tell her who she's talking to?"
Farda gave Magnus a sideways glance but didn't answer.
Vandrien stepped forwards, the two elves closest to her matching her step. She looked over those gathered, strands of her white-blonde hair visible beneath her helmet, her gaze holding on Farda for a fraction of a second longer than the others. He was Rakina. She knew him, and she knew that he had been part of everything that had happened. "En aldin går til dauva, Taya Tambrel. Laël Vandrien Lunithír, Aldryr un evalien, Inarí un Numillíon."
Taya looked back at Farda.
Farda pressed his tongue against his teeth, drawing in a long breath and looking from Vandrien to Taya. "She says her name is Vandrien Lunithír, Fire of the elves, and queen of Numillíon – Lynalion. She says it's a good day to die."
Judging by the scowl on Taya's face, she was not impressed.
"Speak plainly." Taya's voice dropped to a growl as she turned to Vandrien. "I know you speak the Common Tongue. Why are you here?"
The slightest of smiles touched Vandrien's lips. "It is custom among my people to speak before we kill each other. I have come to offer you the rite of Alvadrû – combat sacrifice. You and I. When I win, your forces will kneel and be taken as prisoners, but they will not be harmed."
"And if I win?"
"You will not win."
Farda reached into his pocket while Magnus stifled a laugh at his side. He pulled the coin free, ran his thumb over the lion marking, then flicked it into the air. Clink. A simple question. Does he take the Alvadrû or not? If he wins, mass bloodshed is avoided. If he loses, he is with Shinyara once more. Magnus looked at him out of the corner of his eye. The coin hit his palm. Crowns. He nodded, exhaling through his nose, then placed the coin back in his pocket. Not today, then."If I will not win," Taya said, a tremble of anger seeping into her voice, "then why would I accept this Alvadrû?"
"To save the lives of your warriors." The pure calm on Vandrien's face was unnerving, even to Farda. "Do you accept?"
Taya's hand dropped to the pommel of the sword at her hip, fingers tapping against the steel. The mere fact that she was even contemplating it spoke volumes about who she was. But Farda hoped the woman declined. Taya was a fine warrior, and much like Commander Talvare, she was direct and honest. Farda admired her and would rather not see her blood splattered across the grass. He might have stood a slim chance against Vandrien, but Taya was a lamb staring down a lion.
"No." Taya shook her head. "I will not allow this battle to be decided on the stroke of a single sword."
Vandrien inclined her head ever so slightly. "Dauva alaith."
Without waiting for a response, Vandrien turned and started back towards the bank of the River Gurdil, where her forces awaited, the shimmering gold of their armour sweeping across the landscape. Without Eltoar, Lyina, and Pellenor, the battle would already be lost ten times over. But with them, they stood a chance.
"What did she say?" Taya asked, turning to Farda.
Farda let out a sigh. "Die well."
Rist watched as Taya Tambrel and the other commanders turned and marched back towards the armies. Horns sounded, and soldiers rushed into formation as the commanders separated and made their way towards their respective forces.
"It didn't go well then?" Garramon called out to Magnus as the Exarch pushed his way through the soldiers of the First Army, reaching the mages.
"About as well as setting fire to your own shit," Magnus said with a shrug. "It's Princess Vandrien, Garramon. Well, Queen Vandrien now. And she's not here to play nice."
Rist had never heard the name, but the look of uncertainty on Garramon and Anila's faces told him all he needed to know.
"At the moment, there's no way of knowing how many mages are on their side, but I think it's safe to say they won't be short in that area. Taya wants us to hold back at first. Gauge what kind of strength they have. Once Taya gives the signal, or the elven mages show themselves, we're to split into five groups of twenty. Two groups will stay back and provide support for the dragons when they're airborne. The other three will cut into the elven lines from the flanks, force them inwards where the dragonfire can do the most damage. The other armies will do the same. Our priority is countering the elven mages. We can't let them focus on the Dragonguard. I'll get Hadlbrak and Torim to lead the support groups. Uraksplitter, Garramon, would you do me the honour of leading the other forward regiments? There's few among us who've faced elves before. Your experience could be the difference."
"It would be my honour, Brother," Garramon said, inclining his head.
"And mine." Anila mimicked Garramon's gesture.
"How kind of you to give me a hand, Uraksplitter." Magnus raised his eyebrows, looking from Rist to Neera – who stood at Rist's side – then back to Anila.
"I'm going to kill you in your sleep if we live through this, Magnus."
"If you want into my bedchambers, Uraksplitter, all you need do is ask."
More horns signalled for the armies to take their final position.
"I'm going to cut your stones off." Anila patted her hand on the pommel of the sword that hung at her right hip.
"Oh, talk filthy to me, Uraksplitter."
Rist felt something graze his hand, and he turned to see Neera staring at him, her gloved hand touching his. She was garbed just as he was: a coat of mail, a lion-emblazoned breastplate, vambraces, greaves, leather boots, and a brown-trimmed black cloak draped over her shoulders. Her dark hair was tied back with a piece of twine, and she gripped her helmet in her right hand.
"Are you scared?"
Rist nodded. He was terrified. Even more than he'd been during The Proving. More than when they'd found the bear in the cave, more than when Fritz had put the arrow through him, and more than when the Uraks had attacked. Calen and Dann had been by his side then. He'd still been scared, but having them there had made it somehow more bearable. Now though, he stood on a grassy field, thousands of miles from the place he called home, wearing the black cloak of an Imperial Battlemage, staring down an army of elves, and he found himself asking the question: what in the gods was he doing here?
Rist stared back at Neera, hearing Magnus and Anila arguing behind them, knowing that Garramon was simply giving the pair his patented unapproving look. The North wasn't his home, and the empire was far from loved in the villages. But, in the Circle, Rist had found something that had always evaded him – a sense of understanding, a sense of belonging. No, this wasn't his home. But he had no way of getting back to the villages, and the Circle had begun to teach him of who he was and who he wanted to become. The Spark was a part of him now, and he a part of it. Besides, something told him that these elves, just like the Uraks, wouldn't stop in the North. And so, even though he was a hair's breadth away from soiling himself, he was certain this was where he needed to be.
Rist closed his fingers around Neera's, squeezing. He had been so single-minded in his studying and practising over the past while that he had spent very little time by her side. And yet, Neera was a large part of Rist feeling like he belonged. She was even more sarcastic than Dann, equal parts infuriating and confusing, and she pushed Rist outside of more comfort zones than he'd even known he'd possessed. But she was also caring, and witty, and strong. She accepted Rist for who he was and asked no apologies of him. "We'll get through it," Rist said, resting his other hand on Neera's cheek and leaning in to kiss her.
"Agh!" Rist let out a grunt as a sharp pain twisted in his wrist.
"You're not kissing me here," Neera said, incredulous. "We're on a battlefield, you goat."
Rist pulled his hand away, shaking it as he tried to relieve the pain. "Sorry. Damn, that hurt." He rubbed his right hand over where Neera had twisted the joint on his left wrist. "I just thought—"
"No." Neera cut across. "After. I'll feel your warmth after. You keep me alive, and I'll keep you alive. Deal?"
"Aren't you two fucking adorable?" Magnus craned his head past Garramon, a broad smile pushing through his thick, black beard. "Uraksplitter, this could be us. See what you're missing?"
"Enough, Magnus." Garramon looked to Magnus, then nodded to where the elven forces had begun to march.
The smile vanished from Magnus's face.
The low rise upon which Rist and the other mages stood allowed them to see just over the heads of the soldiers positioned in front of them.
Sunlight glinted in a rippling wave across the ocean of golden armour as the elven forces marched, their numbers covering every blade of grass. The sound of so many armoured boots filled the air, drowning out the burbling of the Three Sisters, the murmurs of the Lorian soldiers, and even the whispering of the wind. The elves moved with such precision, if Rist had closed his eyes he would have thought their footsteps were the beating of a drum, methodical and hammer-strong.
As they reached the bank of the River Gurdil, the advancing elves ground to a halt. The metallic clang of thousands of boots and steel plates coming to a stop resounded across the field in a singular snap. And then a thrum resonated through Rist, the hairs on his arms and neck pricking, the sensation of the Spark pulsing through the air in waves of immense power. The feeling was so intense Rist's breaths trembled, and his hands shook.
Innumerable threads of Fire, Earth, and Water erupted from within the ranks of elves and plunged into the river. Within seconds, the flowing water before the elves, was gone, lifting towards the sky in clouds of wafting steam. Then the ground shook, and the riverbed rose, its banks sinking inwards until it was nothing more than a gentle slope in the ground, dead fish and dried reeds laying in the dirt.
As Rist watched, he was reminded of the opening paragraph in The Spark: a study of infinite possibilities.
The Spark is power incarnate. The power to create, the power to destroy, the power to bend, fold, and manipulate the world itself. Before the ships of men arrived on Epherian shores, the elves and Jotnar shaped the lands to their will. They carved rivers, dragged mountains from the ground, and sung forests into existence. The Spark's only limit is the scope of our own understanding and the bounds of our own inability to see the world beyond what we can touch.
"Well," Magnus said. "I guess it's the Two Sisters now."
For the first time, Magnus didn't laugh at his own joke. In fact, his expression didn't change at all.
A moment passed, then the elves were marching across the ground that had once been the River Gurdil, the drum of their footsteps echoing.
Rist squeezed Neera's hand one more time, then pulled away, resting his palm on the lion-head pommel of the sword at his hip.
Horns bellowed, three sharp bursts followed by two longer bursts, and then the Lorian armies were moving into their final positions before the elves crossed the River Halda. Rist's heart was beating like a hammer.
As they moved, Garramon turned to Rist. "Feel the fear, Rist. Acknowledge its existence, but never let it control you. Today is the day you earn your colours."