The clang of steel and the screams of the dying consumed everything, crashing like a waterfall in Rist's ears. He clenched his jaw, trying to ease the tremble in his hands. Ahead, the spears and swords of the First Army fought shield to shield against the elves, with the Fourth and Second armies spreading out to the left along the elven lines while Rist stood a hundred or so paces back with the other mages of the First Army, waiting, as instructed.
This wasn't what Rist had thought battle would be like. The bards had woven tales of mighty warriors charging against each other, battlerush overcoming them as they carried out feats of heroism and valour. But that couldn't be farther from the truth.
This wasn't heroic or valorous. This was slow, grinding, and dark. Ahead, bodies crunched, and shields smashed together. There were no heroes swinging their swords in arcs of triumph. There were only men and women screaming and howling as steel sliced through flesh, severed limbs, and soaked the trodden grass in blood. Those that fell were trampled, those that stood were crushed. All the while Rist waited and watched, the sounds of crunching bone and blood-chilling screams etching themselves into his mind.
If he had been forced to charge head-first into battle, he wouldn't have had the time to contemplate his own mortality. But no, each clang of steel was like a ticking clock. Each scream, a reminder. Blood and death was coming, it just had to carve its way through the soldiers in front of him first. The thought of it turned his blood cold. "Can't we do anything? We can't just let them die."
Garramon looked to Rist, then out towards the front line, moving his tongue slowly over his lips. "There is a plan, Rist. Battles are often not won in the fighting, but in the planning."
Rist swallowed hard. The Art of War, by Sumara Tuzan had often told of that very same concept. First you win, then you fight. For if you fight before winning, you will be defeated. It was a touch convoluted, but the sentiment remained the same. "Wasn't it you who told me that commitment to a broken plan is often the reason commanders send men to their deaths?" Rist asked, his tone sharper than he had intended. "That refusal to adapt is fatal?"
A rare smile crept onto Garramon's face, and he shook his head. "I need to be careful about how much I teach you," he said, casting a glance ahead towards the fighting, then looking back to Rist. "Refusal to adapt is fatal, yes. But changing the plan not because it is broken but because your nerve doesn't hold is equally so."
"It's the way of war, lad." Magnus turned to Rist, a hard look on his face. "We all have our parts to play. If we charge forward now, we'll break our own formations, pull them out of position. We need to have patience. Their mages will show themselves, and when they do we'll crack them open. I admire your will to fight, but don't be so eager to die. You'll get your chance. There's one thing about plans and battle lines – they're all well and good until someone uses the Spark. Our only advantage is the Dragonguard. We need to hold strong."
In the distance, behind Magnus, farther along the lines, Rist could see Taya Tambrel and her Blackwatch sitting astride their enormous mounts, their black plate glistening in the sunlight, hails of arrows soaring over their heads from the towers erected by the Craftsmages. She was shouting and roaring commands, the details of which Rist couldn't hear.
Magnus looked over the mages of the First Army, then across to the other blocks of swordsmen and spearmen, a pensive look in his eyes. Beside him, Garramon and Anila did the same, as did a number of the Battlemages around them.
"Brace!" Magnus called out, threads of Air and Spirit whipping around him, the other mages following suit, their threads weaving together into a Spark-wrought shield spread across the mages and the soldiers around them.
With so many mages gathered in one place, Rist had barely felt the shift in the air, the tingling sensation running along his skin. Just as Magnus had shown him, he pulled on the threads he needed and bound them to the shield of Spirit and Air the other mages had formed.
A blinding flash and then a web of interwoven arcs of blue lightning erupted from amongst the elven ranks. The lightning ripped through the soldiers at the front, slamming into the shield, tearing up chunks of earth and clay, and smashing into the archery tower that stood only twenty or so feet to Rist's left. The ground beneath Rist's feet shook as chunks of clay and stone crashed into the Lorian ranks, soldiers screaming as they were crushed and buried alive.
More bolts of lightning flashed, more towers falling, more archers thrown from their perches wreathed in flames.
Rist's breath caught in his throat, panic setting into his veins. He called to Neera, but his voice was drowned out by more screams and then the soldiers ahead of him were hurtling through the air, crashing against each other and slamming off the ground as threads of Air swept through the Lorian ranks, tearing them asunder. Rist could see threads of Fire and Spirit joining the threads of Air, weaving around them, and he recognised the movement. An invertedLightning Storm. It was a variation of one of the five primary Spark formation movements Magnus had taught Rist and Neera.
"Hadlbrak, Torin – support. Garramon, Uraksplitter – counter!" Magnus roared, thrusting his sword into the air. The man charged towards the wide opening created by the first phase of the Lightning Storm, other Battlemages moving with him, threads of Spirit, Fire, and Air weaving around them.
Rist felt a hand grabbing at his cloak and he looked up to see Garramon staring into his eyes. "Feel the fear, use it." The man's voice was sharp, the muscles in his jaw tensing, and then he pushed Rist forwards, Neera and Anila charging beside them.
The blend of panic and power that coursed through Rist's veins numbed him to the vibrations of each step drumming his legs. The feeling of so many mages drawing heavily from the Spark was like lightning surging through him, igniting his blood. Sounds drummed and thrashed in his ears, his senses dulling to the euphoria of the Spark. Then he drew in a short breath, his training flooding his mind, Magnus's voice echoing.
"Counter!"
Rist's senses burst to life as he pulled on threads of Fire, Spirit, and Air. Beside him he felt the others doing the same, and then their threads were slicing through those of the elves, severing the Lightning Storm before it could grow any more fierce.
Threads of Fire and Air swirled around the Battlemages, augmented by threads of Spirit.
"Stay beside me!" Garramon called out, not turning his head.
Rist met Neera's gaze for a moment. A pang of worry flashing through him. What if she died? What if this was the last time he ever saw the light in her eyes?
Something heavy crashed into Rist's stomach, knocking the air from his lungs and sending him careening the ground. He gasped, squeezing his fingers tight, the resistance telling him he still held onto the hilt of his sword. The ground sloshed beneath him, the grass trodden and soaked in blood. An elf stood over him, golden armour shimmering, crimson tabard blowing in the wind. The elf pulled its spear back, then crumpled as a sword crashed into its face, teeth snapping, mouth peeling open.
Rist's breaths trembled as he lay in the blood-soaked mud, feet stamping around him, the bodies of humans and elves trampled where they lay, then Neera was hauling him to his feet, blood dripping from the length of her sword. "Are you hurt?"
Rist shook his head, unable to form words. A glint of steel flashed to his left, and he spun, bringing his sword up just in time to turn a blow from an elven spear. The elf drew the spear back and made to run it through Rist's gut. In a panic, Rist swung his sword, but the elf swatted it away and jabbed forwards. Before the blade could slide through below Rist's breastplate, he wrapped it in threads of Air, angling it to his left, then pushed threads of Earth into the elf's plate and squeezed, his pulse pounding in his head, fear clenching his heart.
The elf's breastplate held for a moment, then collapsed inwards in a vicious cracking and snapping of bones, blood spraying. A look of shock crossed the elf's face, and then they dropped to the ground.
Rist stood in the chaos, his eyes fixed on the crumpled elf, his drumming heart swallowing the sound of the fighting around him. He lifted his gaze. The elves' Lightning Storms had shattered the Lorian front lines. Everywhere Rist looked, elven spears, swords, and axes carved through Lorian leather, blood soaking the ground. He froze, unable to process the carnage, his hands shaking.
"Form up!" Garramon's voice pushed through the drumming of Rist's heart, and a hand grabbed the collar of Rist's cloak, dragging him back into place. "Dragon's Maw!"
Farda's blade rasped as he dragged it free from an elven breastplate. He leaned forwards, pushing the elf to the ground, then plunged his sword into the neck of another. His mages held a tight formation around him as they pushed their way through the elven flanks. A little over sixty of them had survived from the battle at Fort Harken, and he counted no more than four or five lost here.
Taya Tambrel's plan was working so far. The elves had done as anticipated and barged through the centre of the Lorian lines, believing their strength to be far superior. And with that, the Lorian mages had crashed through the openings and spread along the flanks, funnelling the elves inwards. Elven arrogance.
Horns blew, sharp and short. Five bursts. The horns were answered by a series of earth-shaking roars.
Time for the next step. Hopefully Magnus and the others are in position. Farda opened himself to the Spark, drawing heavily on threads of Earth and Spirit. "Fissure!"
Eltoar held his breath as every muscle in Helios's body tensed as the dragon lunged upwards, cracking his wings against the air, his body snaking side to side to gain leverage, muscles rippling. A moment later and they were lifting higher, the wind crashing against Eltoar's face from the west.
Over Helios's left wing, the deep red scales of Karakes glistened in the warm sun, Lyina mounted at the nape of her soulkin's neck. Pellenor and Meranta flew to Eltoar's right, wings spread wide, riding the currents of air as they banked left, turning towards the battlefield.
"It worked," Lyina called, her voice funnelled on threads of Air.
Eltoar looked down over the mass of crashing bodies. From atop Helios's back, the separation of elves and men was clear. On the western side, below the foot of the observation tower, the black and red of Loria flowed across the grasslands, smashing into a field of glittering gold armour. At the centre, the black and gold were a chaotic mess. The lines had broken, and the elves were pushing through, emboldened by the bloodshed. That had always been a weakness of elves, one they shared with many of the great predators. If they smelled blood, they were relentless in pursuit of the kill, their arrogance blinding them to their weakness.
As Helios, Karakes, and Meranta swept south, along the edge of the battlefield, Eltoar pulled his and Helios's minds together, seeing through the dragon's eyes. Below, he could see the Lorian Battlemages charging along the elven flanks, funnelling the elves inwards. Then he felt a pulse of the Spark ripple and watched as the Battlemages on either side performed the Fissure movement.
Rumbling cracks sounded as threads of Earth and Spirit burrowed into the ground below, deep fissures ripping through the earth. The fissures spread about ten feet wide, tearing through the elven forces, ripping through rock and clay. From dragonback, Eltoar watched as elves stumbled backwards, some falling, bones breaking. Within moments, the fissures had spread from both flanks and joined in the middle, creating a physical divide in the battlefield and slicing the substantially larger elven forces in half.
On one side, the elves who had pushed forward were now caught between the advancing Lorian forces and a ten foot wide trench of shattered rock, cut off from the main body of their host. On the other side, the remainder of the elven forces were trying desperately to traverse the trench, but it was deep and wide, and the Lorian Mages were preventing the elven mages from closing it.
Eltoar tore his eyes from the battlefield and drew in a deep lungful of air, pressing his forehead against the scales of Helios's neck. There was a time when he would have called these elves his kin. That had changed when he became a Draleid, and it had changed even more with the fall of The Order and the wars that followed. Even if he had still considered them his people, they would not consider him theirs, and there was not a doubt in his mind they would take his head from his shoulders the first chance they could. But none of that meant he would take any pleasure in what was to come. "Må Heraya tuil du ia'sine ael," he whispered. May Heraya take you into her arms. Eltoar lifted his head, the icy wind slicing through the slits in his helm, Helios's body shifting beneath him. He let out a resigned sigh, then pulled on threads of Air, channelling his voice to Lyina and Pellenor's ears. "Endryía."
Engage.
With that, the three dragons dropped towards the battlefield, swooping down the cliff face. Eltoar rested his hands on the sides of Helios's neck, their hearts beating as one, their lungs swelling with cool air. The ground rushed towards them, their gaze fixed on the shimmering gold of the elven ranks caught behind the trench. Through Helios's eyes, he could see the realisation setting in on the elves' faces as they looked to the sky. Even as the dragons drew closer, some of the mages were still trying to close the fissures, the Lorian Battlemages holding them back. "Du vyin alura anis. Haydria cianor val diar dauva."
You can rest now. Honour comes with your death.
There was fire in Eltoar's soul as Helios filled his lungs, the pressure building within him, hands clenching, jaw tightening. Then, as one, both Eltoar and Helios let the air free from their lungs. A raging column of dragonfire crashed down into the elven ranks. The force of it tore chunks of earth and clay free. Those who weren't turned to ash and dust were lifted into the air as the mightiest dragon the known world had ever seen cast his fire upon them.
Two more streams of dragonfire poured forth from Karakes and Meranta on either side of Eltoar, and all three dragons angled their wings, sweeping across the battlefield, raking their fire through a sea of shimmering gold. The sheer force from the manoeuvre pressed against Eltoar's body, shaking his bones, but he held on, feeling the rage and bloodlust that seeped from Helios.
A ripple of the Spark pricked in the back of his mind, and arcs of lightning surged upwards from the elven ranks. All three dragons ceased their fire, wheeling and spinning, the lightning sweeping past them. And as more arcs rose, Eltoar felt the Lorian Battlemages doing their part, slicing through the elven threads with the Spark.
"Again," Eltoar whispered, a rumble of acknowledgement from Helios touching the back of his mind. The dragon lifted higher into the air, Karakes rising to his left, Meranta to his right. As they reached the edge of the battlefield, the dragons carried on to where the two remaining rivers joined into the River Caldír, then banked to the right, holding formation as they did, centuries of attunement to one another allowing them to move in perfect synchronisation. The three dragons were three parts of a singular whole.
As they came back around, the damage they had wrought came into view. Streaks of char as wide as two wagons were lined with raging fires as flesh, wood, and earth burned, melted pools of armour clinging to bone.
Eltoar took a brief moment to feel guilt and sorrow, then set the feelings ablaze. The elves still outnumbered the Lorians by a wide margin. "Endryía!"
At the command, the dragons plummeted once more, spreading their wings at the bottom of the dive and unleashing torrents of earth-shaking dragonfire. They were the harbingers of death, the augury of Heraya's embrace.
As flames poured from Helios's jaws, Eltoar opened himself to the Spark and pulled on threads of Spirit and Fire, funnelling them into his soulkin pushing even more power into the dragon's fire. The elves would not break and rout, but if he could cause enough damage to make a tactical retreat a viable option, they might take it.
As the dragons carved paths of fire through the elves, Eltoar looked to where the Lorian forces had closed around the elves who had been trapped by the trench. Cutting off the escape route meant those elves would fight to the death and take as many souls with them as they could. It wasn't an ideal plan, but it was the only one that would give them a chance. The division of the elven forces allowed for limited collateral damage from the dragonfire.
Eltoar jerked forwards as Helios cracked his wings and changed direction to avoid a spear thrown with threads of Air. More spears ripped through the sky as though they had been launched from dwarven Bolt Throwers, but whips of Air and Fire from the Lorian Battlemages tore them out of the air. Even if the mages had not been providing support, hitting a dragon with a spear in full flight was akin to trying to catch the wind. It happened, but it was rare.
As Helios, Karakes, and Meranta reached the far side of the battlefield and swept upwards, a monstrous roar shook the air, and Eltoar's blood turned cold.
Eltoar didn't need to look to Lyina and Pellenor to know they felt the same trepidation. That was a dragon's roar; there was no mistaking it. Seconds passed, the three dragons soaring towards the mountains of Mar Dorul, and then an enormous figure burst from within the cover of the jagged peaks, black as a shadow against the light of the blazing sun, wings spread wide.
"Eltoar?" Threads of Air carried Lyina's voice to Eltoar's ears.
Before Eltoar could even begin to gather his thoughts, another shadow-clad shape, this one even larger than the last, rose from within the mountains, sweeping upwards into the sky.
It cannot be.
Then a third shape emerged, and a fourth, and a fifth… and a sixth.