7. Guardians
Chapter 7
Guardians
6 th Day of the Blood Moon
Aravell – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Calen stood in the eyrie connected to Alura. In the distance, the Blood Moon’s crimson light sprayed over the rocky cliffs, igniting the thin clouds in an incandescent fury.
Before him, Valerys’s snow-white scales glistened, tinted with a ruby hue. In the dragon’s attempt to fly to Calen, he had reopened several wounds sustained in the battle and now groaned in discomfort as the elven Healers pushed themselves to exhaustion trying to sew the injuries back together with the Spark.
The four elves applied healing salves to the open wounds on Valerys’s underbelly, wings, and legs, threads of each elemental strand swirling around them. From what Calen understood, the concoctions helped to take the burden off the Healers, allowing them to work for longer. Even with the salves, lethargy seeped into their movements with each passing moment, the drain sapping at them as they worked.
From what Vaeril had told him, when it came to healing with the Spark, the larger a creature, the more complex their workings, the deeper the wounds, the more energy it required to heal. Dragons, as Vaeril had explained to him, were the most difficult of all, and Valerys was not the only dragon that had sustained deep wounds during the fighting.
Off to Calen’s right, on another of the Eyrie’s platforms, the two surviving Rakina dragons – Varthear and Sardakes – lay curled together, enormous masses of blue and black scales.
“I told you not to come,” Calen whispered as he looked into Valerys’s lavender eyes. He cast his gaze over the dragon, feeling Valerys’s pain in every breath. Calen hated seeing him like this. “You need to rest.”
Valerys lifted his head and shook his neck – much to the dismay of the elven Healers – letting out a warm breath of air that smelled of smouldering coals, a defiant rumble in his chest. He pushed his snout into Calen’s chest with enough force that Calen had to brace himself to stop from falling backwards. No words were needed. Calen could feel Valerys’s intent: you should not have put yourself in danger.
“Faenir wouldn’t have harmed me.”
The images that flashed in Calen’s mind let him know that Valerys disagreed with that assessment. Would Faenir have done him harm? It was near-impossible to imagine, but the wolfpine was different than Calen remembered. Larger, more savage. There had been something in his eyes as he stood over Ella – a ferocity.
Calen let out an exhausted sigh. So much had changed in the last two years. Everything he had known about the world had turned on its head. Why was it so hard for him to believe Faenir was any different? Probably because he had known Faenir since the wolfpine had been nothing but a pup, small enough to hold in the crook of his elbow. Calen remembered the first night that tiny ball of fur sat in his arms by the fire. Faenir had spent the whole night whimpering, so much so that Calen had left his bed and slept on the floor with the pup all night, and every night thereafter for a week.
Allowing the memory to linger, he rested one hand on Valerys’s snout, then ran his other along Valerys’s scales. Calen’s fingertips slipped into the cuts and gouges that marked the dragon’s body, tracing over the rough edges. Valerys’s scales had once been smooth as polished stone, and he, too, had been as small as Faenir had been. That seemed so long ago now.
He looked down at the discoloured scar on the back of his own hand where the lance of stone had ripped straight through his palm during the battle for the city. The Healers had offered to rid him of the mark – it had been fresh enough to heal fully. He’d been tempted, but ultimately, he’d refused, just as Dann had when the Fade had struck him with lightning in Belduar. Some scars were worth keeping, if only to remind a person of how close they’d come to Heraya’s embrace.
Lucky didn’t come close to encapsulating what Calen had been the night of the attack. Had Tivar and Avandeer not appeared, he and Valerys would have been ripped to pieces.
If Ella hadn’t roused the Rakina dragons. If they hadn’t caught Eríthan by surprise. If the Dragonguard hadn’t been so sure of their advantage.
If. If. If.
All that had separated Calen and Valerys from death was an ocean of ifs. Sensing Calen’s thoughts, Valerys nuzzled his snout harder against Calen’s body. The dragon matched Calen’s gaze, unblinking. Those enormous lavender eyes shone as they stared at him, images flooding from Valerys to Calen: Dann, Haem, Erik, Tarmon, Vaeril, Ella… so many more.
The images, no, the memories continued to flow like a river through a broken dam.
The white spires of Aravell, the crashing waterfalls, the trees, the elves.
It took a moment, but Calen finally understood what Valerys was trying to tell him: it didn’t matter what could have happened or what should have happened. All that mattered is what did happen. Their friends, their family, and their new home were safe. Tens of thousands drew breath who otherwise would have burned alive in dragonfire.
Calen leaned forwards and pressed his forehead against the dragon’s scales, closing his eyes and allowing Valerys to take his weight. The dragon’s warmth seeped into him, easing the pain in his soul. “Du aendret myia vi?l, Valerys. Myia nithríen. I denír vi?l ar altinua.”
You changed my life, Valerys. My soulkin. In this life and always.
A deep rumble resonated in Valerys’s throat, the dragon’s scales seeming to grow warmer to Calen’s touch. They stayed like that, unmoving for minutes until a gasp broke the silence.
Valerys and Calen broke apart, shifting to see that one of the elven Healers had collapsed on his side, limbs splayed in all directions.
The other Healers knelt beside him, lifting his head and checking his eyes.
“He has nothing left, Draleid,” one of the Healers – an elf by the name of Namír – said as Calen approached. The elf bowed at the waist. “I will send for porters to carry him back and for another to take his place.”
“No.” Calen looked down at the collapsed Healer.
Namír stared back at him in confusion. “But your soulkin, Draleid. He still suffers. He cannot?—”
“We all suffer, Namír. There are thousands of injured in the city that need a Healer’s hand. You could save hundreds with what you give to Valerys. He will heal. All he needs is rest. Your gift to him is time, your gift to others is life. Valerys will not need any more healing.”
“But, Draleid…”
The elf trailed off as Calen shook his head, then gestured towards the collapsed elf. “Go. Ensure that he gets seen to. Valerys is strong enough to make his way to the ceremony.”
The elf gave a brisk nod, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor, then turned back towards the others.
“Namír.”
The Healer looked to Calen, more than a touch of apprehension in his eyes. “Du haryn myia vrai.” Calen inclined his head to the other Healers. “Du aillin ata.”
You have my thanks. You all do.
Namír’s generally severe expression cracked, a half-smile touching his lips. He clasped his hands and inclined his head. “Du gryr haydria til ourín elwynar.”
You bring honour to our hearts.
As the Healers packed their things and set off, Calen dropped to the ground beside Valerys. He leaned against the dragon’s scales and took that precious moment of peace where there was nothing else but him and the other half of his soul. That peace was short-lived though as he lifted his gaze to the crimson orb in the sky.
In the days since the battle, he hadn’t had much of a chance to truly let that fact settle in, to truly think on what that red moon meant, the gravity of it. Much like everything else that had happened in the past two years, the Blood Moon had been nothing but a legend to Calen, a myth, something conjured by bards to lend weight to a tale. From all the stories, and from what Chora and the others had said, it was the herald of death and devastation, and it would taint the skies for a full month.
Calen pushed his chest forwards, his back cracking, tense muscles stretching. And as he did, a roar tore through the night, echoing off the rock.
Calen sat up straight and Valerys shifted behind him. The dragon lifted his head, a blend of anger and sorrow seeping from his mind and causing Calen to clench his jaw. Across the way, both Sardakes and Varthear had stirred, their gazes fixed on the same thing as Valerys’s: a passage in the rock on the western edge of the Eyrie.
A second roar followed the first, resonating in the mountain basin. It reeked of pain and suffering.
Valerys pushed himself upright with his forelimbs, a deep rumble in his chest, his limbs screaming out in complaint.
“After the ceremony,” Calen whispered, standing. He rested his hand on the old wound from the Fade’s lightning that had marred Valerys’s side since Kingspass. “They will not have to wait much longer.”
A third roar erupted from the passage.
Valerys turned his head and looked to Calen, only for a moment, anguish and rage in his eyes. The dragon turned back to the passage and unleashed a roar of his own in answer. Calen’s entire body shook from the vibrations that travelled from Valerys up through his hand and arm. And with Valerys’s roar, two more joined. Sardakes and Varthear now stood tall on the other plateau, their scales sparkling in the crimson light. The entire Eyrie shook, the dragons’ roars sounding like a thunderstorm raged in the basin.
The sight of all three dragons roaring set every hair on Calen’s body on end and caused his pulse to quicken. He clenched his jaws, curling his fingers into fists as Valerys’s fury overwhelmed him.
When the roars died out and the rage ebbed, the sound of crunching dirt reached Calen’s ears. He turned to find Aeson, Chora, Atara, and Harken approaching.
Atara and Harken inclined their heads to Calen, pressing closed fists to their chests, while Aeson gave the shortest of nods and Chora ignored him entirely. They hadn’t spoken since Calen had discovered both Tivar and Avandeer had survived the battle and Chora had insisted on imprisoning them both until a decision could be made on the path forward. Calen understood the choice on a practical level, but it didn’t mean he agreed with it.
Chora’s gaze moved to the three dragons as she wheeled towards Calen, a pensive look in her eyes. She stopped near Valerys, seemingly lost in thought as she blew a strand of straw-blonde hair from her face. “Fascinating.”
“What?”
“I’ve not seen either Sardakes or Varthear show this kind of emotion since before they were Broken. I’ve not seen it from any dragon who has become Rakina. Not even Ithrax.”
Calen took a step towards Chora, allowing some of Valerys’s anger to burn in him. “You have one of their kin in chains – one of ours.”
“A traitor,” Chora snapped, her demeanour shifting in an instant. She glared at Calen. “The both of them.”
Valerys reared behind Calen, fury burning away the pain of his wounds. The plateau shook as the dragon approached and lowered his head over Calen. Calen glared at Chora, his and Valerys’s anger blending.
Both Atara and Harken stared up at Valerys, visibly tensing. Chora, however, returned Calen’s stare without flinching, not even glancing at the looming dragon.
Calen spoke with a level tone, but his voice was ice. “If it weren’t for those traitors , we would all be dead. Every one of us. Every elf, every human, every Angan and Jotnar – every soul in this city. And you wouldn’t be here to cast sentence over them. You owe them a debt.”
With an eerie sense of calm, Chora placed her hands on the wheels of her chair and pushed forwards until she was a foot from Calen. “Those traitors and others of their kind are the reason we’ve spent the last four hundred years hiding.” Even with Valerys’s warm breath blowing her hair, Chora did not waver, her eyes cold and hard. “You think Tivar and Avandeer are any different to Farda, or Ilyain, or Hala, or Eltoar Daethana himself? They have slain both dragons and Draleid. They have laid waste to armies and levelled cities. They are the reason my Daiseer lies cold in the ground. They are the reason the ones I loved no longer draw breath.” Chora’s voice grew harsh and dark. “They are the reason my world burned. One noble deed does not balance a lifetime of darkness. I owe them nothing .”
Calen’s breath trembled as he stared back at Chora. Since meeting the woman, he’d found her to be stern, at times harsh, but always with glimpses of levity. That was gone now; her eyes held only fury and loss.
“This is not the time nor the place.” Aeson stepped between the two of them, tilting his head and raising his hand. He locked his gaze on Calen’s for a moment before staring at Chora. “We said we would hold off on the decisions until after King Silmiryn’s successor was announced and the mourning ceremony was held. We still have respect for the dead, do we not?”
Chora ground her teeth, fingers pressing against the bone-white plates at the side of her chair’s wheels. She looked as though she was about to challenge Aeson but instead she gave him a sharp nod.
Aeson looked to Calen, who mimicked Chora’s gesture.
“Good. With the Blood Moon in the sky, the elves of Lynalion burning the North, and the imperial armies marching across the South, decisions must be made swiftly. Fane and the empire will not take this defeat lying down. We must be ready. But before that, we must ensure our house is tidy. After the ceremony, we shall reconvene here along with the others. This is the time we’ve been waiting for.”
“Agreed.” Harken folded his arms, dense muscle bulging through his shirt. The man was so large he looked as though he were part Jotnar. He flashed a glance across the Eyrie towards the passage to where Tivar, Avandeer, and the others were being held. He nodded softly, as though accepting something, then sighed. He looked to Calen. “With that, we must make haste. The mourning ceremony will begin shortly, and our lateness would bring great dishonour. Valerys has recovered enough to attend?”
“He has.” Calen reached up and brushed his fingers against one of the horns that framed the bottom of Valerys’s jaw. “It’ll be a few days before he’s ready to truly take flight, but he is strong enough for this.”
“Let us be gone then,” Harken said, turning as he spoke. “King Galdra is not known for his patience.”
“Give me just a moment,” Calen asked, inclining his head and making his way across the Eyrie to where Sardakes and Varthear occupied a plateau of thick grass.
The two mighty dragons watched Calen approach, a brightness in their eyes that had not been there the first time he’d entered the Eyrie. They shifted as Valerys moved behind Calen. Both dragons were at least twice Valerys’s size, but even still he stood tall, a deep growl in his chest.
Sardakes, with his flight taken from him when his soulkin died, hadn’t fought in the Battle of Aravell. But he had not moved from Varthear’s side from the moment she had returned. His scales were black as polished obsidian, his eyes a vibrant blue.
“Sardakes moves only to eat and drink,” Calen remembered Chora saying when Calen had first come to Alura. Those words had proven true over the months that had followed. Along with the others, Sardakes’s listless despondency had broken Valerys’s heart. The dragon may not have fought in the battle above Aravell, but something had changed in him nonetheless.
Beside the black-scaled dragon, the only survivor of the Rakina dragons who had come to Calen and Valerys’s aid, Varthear, was a canvas of scars and fused scales. The Healers had mended the tears in her brilliant vermillion wings, but the deep wounds of body and flesh would take longer to recover.
As Calen drew closer, Sardakes pushed past Varthear and stood over Calen, lips pulling back to reveal rows of spear-like teeth, the sapphire-tinged frills on his back pricking. The dragon’s warm breath blew over Calen’s face, the familiar smell of ash and char filling the air. With jaws wider than Calen was tall and his dense, scale-covered chest puffed out, Sardakes looked every bit the terrifying creature of legend that Calen had always known dragons to be.
Valerys loomed over Calen, the purple light of his eyes shining against Sardakes’s scales. Both dragons leaned their necks forwards, snouts only feet apart, chests rumbling. Sardakes may have dwarfed Valerys, but Valerys cared little; he would protect his soulkin even if Efialtír himself stood over them.
Calen swallowed hard, staring up at the two dragons. Doubt crept into his mind, but he took another step forward, and as he did, Varthear growled and pushed her head into Sardakes’s neck, knocking the black dragon off balance.
Sardakes snapped tamely at Varthear, but then backed away, bowing his head.
Calen could hear every beat of his heart thumping against his ribs, every breath his lungs drew.
Varthear craned her neck forwards so her snout hovered just off the ground only a foot from Calen. The dragon could have swallowed him whole with ease. Some of the horns that stretched back from her jaw were longer than Calen’s legs.
She stared at him with eyes red as liquid fire, warmth radiating from her scales.
Calen drew a calming breath and extended his right hand. He allowed his fingers to float inches from Varthear’s cobalt scales. Exhaling slowly, he rested his hand along a fused scar that stretched upwards from the dragon’s lip. A moment of warmth spread through Calen’s hand before the familiar ringing sounded in his ears and his vision blurred, fading to black before bursting with white light.
Just as they had when Queen Uthrían had grasped his forearm, memories flooded Calen’s mind. Memories that were not his own. Images of a time long past, fleeting and broken.
A light filled his eyes, then faded, feelings of comfort, warmth, and safety overcoming him as he stared up into the eyes of a young elf.
“Draleid n’aldryr, unw? ayar,” the elf whispered, cradling him in his arms. “Din navn v?ra Varthear.”
Dragonbound by fire, little one. Your name will be Varthear.
More memories flitted through Calen, emotions crashing into him: anger, joy, fear, hope. His pulse raced, his breath trembled, his heart sank. Of it all, one thing rose above all else: Varthear’s love of her soulkin, Ilmirín. The Draleid had been fierce and strong, yet gentle. Wise and learned, but always willing to listen. It was his heart that had taught Varthear how to love, his soul that had shown her what kindness was. She would have given anything and everything to have kept him safe. She would have given her life a hundred times over, endured any pain the world could conjure… but instead, she had been cursed to watch him die.
The world flickered, flashes of fire and lightning igniting the darkness around Calen. He was swerving through thick clouds, a storm raging on all sides. Panic and fear permeated every piece of his shared soul.
A bright flash illuminated the sky before him, and he watched as a dragon covered in brilliant yellow scales ripped another from the sky, blood dancing with the rain.
He swerved to avoid a column of dragonfire, its light burning through the dark. All around him, Draleid and dragons tore each other to pieces. Brothers and sisters, lovers and friends. Everything he had ever known was crumbling before his eyes.
The world blurred and shifted once more, and now he was on his side, solid ground beneath him. A blinding pain burned where talons had carved through his scales. But his pain was nothing, not compared to the terror that wracked his bones.
His soulkin lay bleeding on the rocks not fifty feet from him. Ilmirín had been ripped from Calen’s back and thrown through the air. He could hear Ilmirín’s heartbeat faltering, feel his consciousness fading.
Calen pushed himself upright with his forelimbs, urging every drop of strength he had into Ilmirín. If he could get his soulkin to a Healer, he could save him. No matter how many traitors filled the sky. He would carry Ilmirín through the void if he had to.
A heartbeat passed, the world flickering once more. An enormous weight crashed into his side, talons slicing through his shoulder, jaws wrapping around his neck.
He knew the dragon who attacked him. Hrothmundar, soulkin to Jormun Stonefist. Large as a mountain, with a heart that smelled of burning blood.
Calen thrashed and roared, swiping at Hrothmundar with his forelimbs, but he was wounded, his strength ebbing. Jaws closed around his throat. And while Hrothmundar held him against the rock, Calen felt Ilmirín die.
The world broke. Calen’s heart shattered. His soul sundered. There was not a word spoken in the tongues of living things that came close to the grief, agony, and emptiness that became him. He was hollow, and numb, and nothing.
As Hrothmundar tore into his side, all Calen could do was stare at Ilmirín’s lifeless body, blood seeping onto the stone.
A roar thundered overhead, and then Hrothmundar was lifted off Calen and sent crashing into a boulder. Two dragons plummeted from the sky, rivers of dragonfire pouring down over Hrothmundar and Jormun.
Listlessly, Calen pulled himself upright. He was empty, the world around him dull and faded. He hobbled to Ilmirín’s body and nudged his soulkin with his snout. Ilmirín simply lay there. His warmth was gone. His smile stolen.
Calen lowered himself, draping his wing over his soulkin’s body and resting his head on the ground. There was no joy without Ilmirín, no warmth or purpose.
The world spun around Calen once more, shifting and changing, flashing forwards. Something nudged him but he didn’t move. There was no point in moving, no point in breathing.
A pair of ice-blue eyes appeared before him, scales dark as the deep ocean: Lyara. Her heart smelled of lightning and fresh rain, her warmth was that of the morning sun. Lyara whined, pressing her snout into Calen’s jaw, begging him to rise, pleading with him.
After a moment, a hand rested on the scales of his cheek. “Din saleere er ourín saleere, Varthear. Din nithír er ourín nithír. Vir v?ra kanet tiastri du.”
Your pain is our pain, Varthear. Your soul is our soul. We will not leave you.
Calen stared into Aeson Virandr’s eyes before the world shifted again.
Time passed. Aeson kept Calen safe, brought him to the elves. Years turned to decades, turned to centuries. Every moment of life was devoid of purpose, or joy, or meaning. It was apathy unending.
Until one day something changed. A soul reached out to his. That soul offered purpose. It asked him to be a protector, asked him to save the ones it loved. The soul’s words stirred something within him, lit a fire long extinguished. He was still Rakina, still Broken, but now he was more. He was a guardian of one who was loved – all that Ilmirín had ever wanted to be.
Once again, the world faded to black and burst forth in a flash of incandescent light.
He was in the sky, rain pummelling against his scales, death all around him.
Ahead, a smaller dragon with scales of pure white tumbled through the air with a much larger beast – Hrothmundar. A rage unlike anything Calen had felt in centuries ignited within him. As he tore through the sky towards the two dragons, a pillar of fire poured from the white dragon’s jaws, consuming Hrothmundar’s soulkin. A pang of sympathy flared within him, but he quickly snuffed it out. They deserved to feel the same pain they had caused.
In that moment, Calen watched the smaller dragon clamp their teeth around Hrothmundar’s neck and rip out his throat.
One final time, the world shifted, and Calen was standing in the Eyrie, sweat cooling on his skin, lungs heaving, heart pounding. With his hand still resting on Varthear’s scales, he stared back at the dragon and dropped to his knees, his breath misting in the air before him.
Above Calen, Valerys leaned forwards, the side of his snout brushing against Varthear’s, tender and warm.
There, in Alura’s eyrie, the light of the Blood Moon tainting the sky, all three dragons roared so loud as to rival thunder itself.