31. Wars Are Not Won
Chapter 31
Wars Are Not Won
12 th Day of the Blood Moon
Aravell – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Calen sat by Ella’s bedside, his hand resting over hers. Faenir lay on the ground at his feet, the crest of the wolfpine’s back reaching past Calen’s knees.
“I have to go.” He pressed his forehead against the back of his sister’s hand. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. If you want to wake up in the meantime, I won’t argue.” He lifted his chin so it rested on her knuckles, then let out a sigh. “Lasch and Elia are staying, as are Tanner and Yana. They’ll watch over you.”
Calen sat there a while longer before he drew a breath and rose. Aeson would be waiting for him, and he still had one more thing to do. He moved past Faenir and leaned over Ella. He brushed her hair aside and placed a tender kiss on her forehead.
“Don’t give up,” he said, stroking her cheek with his thumb.
He hunkered beside Faenir, resting a hand on either side of the wolfpine’s head. Faenir pressed his head left, then right as Calen scratched, a low rumble in his throat. “Keep her safe.”
The wolfpine lifted his head and met Calen’s gaze, his golden eyes full of understanding. He pressed the flat of his snout against Calen’s forehead, giving a high-pitched whine.
Faenir climbed onto the bed, the frame creaking and groaning beneath his weight. He squeezed himself between Ella and the wall and rested his chin on her shoulder. There was no soul in the world that would protect Ella more fiercely.
Calen picked his gauntlets up from the ground and slid them into place, then grabbed his helmet from beside the chair and slung his satchel over his shoulder.
When he made his way downstairs, he found Elia Havel standing over a pot of boiling water, two mugs on the counter beside her. “Oh, Calen. You’re leaving already? The water’s only just boiled. I was about to bring you up a mug of Arlen Root tea.”
“Not today, Elia. I fly for Arkalen soon with Aeson. I need to be on my way.”
“Are you sure?” she said, offering him a mug. “Your mother would want you to.”
Calen shook his head. “When I get back.”
The front door creaked open, and Lasch stepped in. “I’ll have fresh mead ready for when you get back, my boy. The tea can wait.”
The man strode across the room, folding his arms as he shook his head and let out a long sigh. “I’ll never get over seeing you in that armour." He laughed to himself. “I suppose this is where I say something deep and meaningful? I’ve not got much left to say. Your father was always better with words than I was.” Lasch cupped his hand on the sides of Calen’s head. “We’ll watch over Ella. All we need you to do is come home, you hear?”
Calen nodded. “Are you certain you don’t want to go with Dann and the army? To go home?”
Lasch gave Calen a warm smile accompanied by a sigh. “Home is where you make it, my boy. Were you not listening? Our home is with you and Ella and Dann, and Rist… when he returns.”
Calen’s throat tightened at that.
“Go.” Lasch patted Calen on the cheek. “But before you do, could you tell me how to get Gaeleron to come inside and drink some mead? The damn elf just stands outside the door like a statue.”
“He does that.”
“No advice?”
“If you figure anything out, let me know.”
Calen shook his head as he stepped through the door, the crimson twilight washing over the basin of Alura. It was the twelfth day of the Blood Moon. Calen would not be sad to see the red wound gone from the sky.
From the reports that had started coming in again from Aeson’s contacts, all Epheria was on fire. Refugees flowed from city to city in both the North and the South. The Uraks laid siege to Camylin, Elmnest was gone, and Carvahon was in chaos. The worst of it was that this was only the beginning.
Vaeril stood to Calen’s left with his arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe, Gaeleron beside him.
“I’m assuming you heard Lasch then?” Calen asked Gaeleron.
“I did.”
“Will you drink with him?”
“That depends how much mead he offers.” Gaeleron attempted to keep a straight face, but a smile flashed across his lips. The elf had come a long way since they’d first met in the Darkwood.
Calen laughed, then grasped Gaeleron’s forearm. “Thank you for watching over them.”
Gaeleron inclined his head. “It is my honour, Draleid.”
Calen did the same, then gestured for Vaeril to follow him as he made his way across the plateau.
The pair made their way across Alura and into the Eyrie, talking of the war to come. In truth, from the moment they’d been attacked in Camylin, it had felt like a war to Calen. But now, talking of armies marching and cities burning, Calen understood what made war so different to everything else: the cost and the consequence.
It was no longer just his life but the lives of thousands, hundreds of thousands. The consequence of failure was no longer his alone to bear. And no matter the outcome, a cost would be paid in blood. From this day on, Epheria would never be the same. No matter what he did or what choices he made, thousands would die and cities would burn. Wars were not won, they were ended.
Calen cast his gaze around the basin as he stepped onto the Eyrie’s main plateau. Sardakes lay by the stream that ran off the main plateau’s edge, his head resting on the grass, his chest rising and falling methodically. The other plateaus were empty, save for a number of Drac?rdare who tended the grass and the trees, ensuring all was properly kept.
The Prime Keeper – Undior in the Old Tongue – Yan?r, approached, bowing as he did. “Draleid.”
“Undior.” Calen returned the gesture. “Where is Varthear?”
“Flying, Draleid.” Yan?r inclined his head towards the open valley at the other side of the plateau. “Since before the morning woke.”
Calen thanked the elf, then set off towards the old quarters where the Rakina had once held residence but where the prisoners were now kept. After the judgement, Chora had allowed the prisoners to roam free within the old quarters and within the Eyrie itself. Calen was well aware that she allowed it simply to get under his skin, but none of the prisoners –Tivar included – had chosen to set foot in the Eyrie.
Sardakes lifted his head. A low rumble of acknowledgement left the great dragon’s throat, his deep blue eyes finding Calen’s. Though still prone to listlessness, it had become more and more clear that both Varthear and Sardakes had been changed since the battle at Aravell. Even the simple fact that Varthear had taken to the air, that she soared the valleys, meant something had shifted within her.
From what Calen had seen in his vision – if that was what he could call it – when he had touched Varthear, he understood what it was that had changed: purpose. A reason to live. A need to protect.
As they walked, wingbeats sounded from the open valley that connected to the Eyrie, and both Calen and Vaeril turned to see Varthear rise above the precipice of the plateau, her enormous vermillion wings spread wide, blue scales glistening. A gust of wind followed in the dragon’s wake, cold against Calen’s skin.
Varthear soared around the basin, a tremor running through the plateau as she alighted on the white stone.
Calen stared into her eyes, molten fire rolling about black slits, the dragon’s warm breath sweeping over him and abating the chill that had set into his skin.
Vaeril approached on Calen’s right, bowing deeply at the waist. “Alaith anar, Velikír Ayar.”
Well met, Great One.
Varthear gave an almost imperceptible inclination of her head, a low rumble in her throat. The simple act was enough to send a smile to Vaeril’s lips.
The dragon lowered her neck and pressed her snout into Calen’s body. Her lower jaw scraped the ground at Calen’s feet, her nostrils rising past Calen’s head. Varthear was so large Calen could have walked into her open jaws without a need to crouch. She was twice Valerys’s size and radiated power. But even while Calen stared at her in awe, a knot coiled within him at the thought of how large Helios must be. Legends were told of Eltoar and his soulkin Helios, The Black Sun, The Shadow of Death. It was said that no dragon in living memory had ever come close to matching Helios in size.
He placed his right hand over a scar of fused scales that ran just under Varthear’s right nostril, warmth spreading through his skin. The wound felt like rough stone beneath Calen’s fingertips.
Varthear held herself there a moment, the smell of ash and char wafting from her jaws, then lifted her head and made her way towards where Sardakes lay by the stream.
Calen and Vaeril continued on to the passage on the western edge of the Eyrie.
The two guards pressed closed fists to the white dragon emblazoned on their chests and bowed deeply. Calen had seen neither of them before. He inclined his head, pressing his hand to his heart. “Your names?”
The first, an elf, straightened, her fingers tightening around the pommel of the sword at her hip. “Aneir, Draleid.”
“Tordan.” The other guard’s voice was deep and rough. Through the gaps in his helm, Calen could see the marks of many summers on his skin, along with blue eyes that had seen their fair share of pain and loss.
“Well met, Aneir and Tordan. I am Calen and this is Vaeril.” He gestured toward Vaeril. Calen looked to Tordan. “Where have you come from?”
“Kingspass, my lord. I was part of the garrison the night the Uraks breached the walls. When word came in through the network that you were mustering forces, I made for the next ship to Falstide and marched from there. Better not to make it obvious.” Tordan stood straighter, raising his chin. “I saw what you did at Kingspass. It’s an honour to wear the white dragon.”
Tordan looked down at the sigil emblazoned across his breastplate. Valdrin and his veritable army of smiths had not sacrificed quality of work in their haste to produce so many pieces.
The man glanced to Aneir. The elf nodded and inclined his head towards Calen.
“I’ldryr viel asatar.” It was clear by the way he stumbled over the words that Tordan was not familiar with the Old Tongue. But his attempt was certainly better than Calen’s first. In fire we are forged. Calen thought he had heard the phrase before, but he couldn’t quite remember where.
“I sanv?r viel baralun,” Vaeril replied, a broad smile stretching his mouth. In blood we are tempered. “You speak the Old Tongue well, Tordan…”
“Tordan Falmor, Narvír .”
If it were possible, Vaeril’s smile grew even wider. “You speak the Old Tongue well, Tordan Falmor. Du gryr haydria til ourín elwynar.”
The man’s eyes widened and he glanced at Aneir, who stifled a laugh.
“You bring honour to our hearts,” Calen translated, allowing the slightest of smiles to touch his lips as he looked to Vaeril. “Forgive Vaeril. He often gets carried away when it comes to the Old Tongue. He is honoured by your effort.”
A look of pride brightened Tordan’s face and he gave a sharp nod.
“As you were,” Calen said, stepping past the two guards and into the long passageway carved into the rock. He would never stop being astounded at the sheer scale of everything the elves built. The ceiling must have been a hundred feet high, higher even, and the passage itself maybe a hundred and fifty across. It seemed everything was built with dragons in mind.
“What was that back at the entrance?” Calen asked Vaeril. “In fire we are forged? In blood we are tempered?”
“It’s an old saying of the first elves bound to dragons, long before The Order. At least, that’s what I was told as a child. It’s become somewhat of a motto amongst Dracur?n.”
“The what?”
“The Dracur?n. The White Dragons. Tarmon and I thought it would be wise to give them a name, something to bond them. We asked the elves to teach the humans some of the Old Tongue and the humans to teach their songs and stories in return. If they are to fight together, they need to learn to see each other as worth dying for.”
Calen shook his head. “I’ve been absent.”
“You’ve been with Ella,” Vaeril corrected. “And dealing with politics, as a Draleid must. You can’t do everything, as hard as you try.”
Calen nodded, giving Vaeril a half-smile.
It wasn’t long before they reached an arch at the end of the corridor that led out into a central courtyard.
Avandeer lay curled in the yard’s centre, soft light spilling in through the opening above. The dragon lifted her head and peered at Calen and Vaeril, her deep yellow eyes striking against the white and purple scales that decorated her face. A series of clicks resonated in her throat, accompanied by a low rumble.
She pressed her snout into Calen’s chest, blowing warm air over him. Calen ran a hand across her scales. He could feel the tension within her, feel the rage simmering. She and Tivar might not be chained, but they were still prisoners and Tivar was kept under constant guard. Avandeer did not agree with the current state of affairs. The dragon was not locked in this courtyard and yet she had not left, not flown since the judgement. Calen was unsure if it was a form of silent protest or simply an unwillingness to leave her soulkin.
As Calen stood there, Valerys pulled their minds together from where he waited with Aeson and the others. The world around him shift as the dragon’s senses blended with his own.
A deep protective instinct echoed in Valerys’s mind – their shared mind – as images of Tivar and Avandeer flowed between them. Tivar and Avandeer were their own, their kin. And Valerys would not allow harm to come to them.
In the stories of old, the dragons were legendary creatures capable of levelling entire cities and turning wars on their heads. They were beasts of unequalled power. Every tale told of their fury and their rage, told of their power and their capacity for endless destruction.
But few ever spoke of the great creatures’ compassion and loyalty, of their pain and suffering, of their undying will to protect what they loved. Those were stories Calen wished he had heard, stories he hoped he’d one day have the chance to tell himself.
“It won’t be much longer,” Calen whispered, running his hand along Avandeer’s scales.
The noise that came from the dragon’s throat was akin to a purr accompanied by a series of clicks before she settled her head back on the white tiles.
Calen released a frustrated sigh, then gestured for Vaeril to walk with him towards the cells. They stepped from the open courtyard into a long candlelit corridor that Calen had grown familiar with over the past days.
“Aeson says Coren and Farwen should be here by the time I return from the Burnt Lands.” Calen had never met the two Rakina, but the other Rakina spoke of them in the same breath as Aeson. From the stories Therin had told him, they were two of the fiercest warriors in all Epheria.
“Indeed,” Vaeril said. “But their journey will not be an easy one.”
“How kind of you to grace us with your presence.” The voice was not one Calen recognised, but he knew to whom it belonged.
He turned to his left to see the woman with white hair and the dark-skinned elf standing in the connecting corridor. Hala and Ilyain. Four guards bearing the white dragon on their chests walked alongside the pair, threads of Spirit encasing them in a ward.
Hala raised a curious eyebrow and moved closer, the fingers of her left hand clenched into a fist. “What brings you here?”
“Take another step and it will be your last.” Calen turned so he was square on with Hala, anger flaring within him, Valerys growling in the back of his mind.
Hala grinned, revealing teeth as white as her hair. She tilted her head to the side, her gaze moving from Calen’s head to his feet, then back again. “So confident, so arrogant. You even stand like him.”
Hala took another step closer and before her foot had even touched the stone, the tip of Vaeril’s blade pressed into her chest.
“La’v?rakanra mahavír, Varíen Nahar.” Vaeril tilted his wrist upwards and pressed so the sword point created a crease in Hala’s tunic. I will not hesitate, Kin Killer.
Hala’s grin faltered at the title.
Ilyain stepped past Hala, keeping his hands firmly behind his back, two of the guards moving with him. Threads of Fire joined the threads of Spirit as they watched his every move. The elf’s face was raked with thin scars, his eyes a milky white.
“You are him, then.” Ilyain stared at Calen as though he could see him. A tense silence held where Ilyain drew a long, rasping breath through his nostrils, then pressed an open palm across his breast. “I am so deeply sorry for the world we have left you. And for the burden we place on your shoulders as we ask you to fix it.”
Those words were not the ones Calen had expected to leave the elf’s lips. Even Valerys’s rage ebbed in the back of his mind.
Hala dropped her gaze to the ground, her shoulders slumping, the tip of Vaeril’s blade still pressed into her chest. Calen knew the look on her face: shame.
Calen made to speak, but then he saw him.
Farda stood some forty feet down the corridor behind Ilyain and Hala, three guards with him, the blended light of the moon and sun drifting over him through an arched window. The man stood still as a statue, his gaze fixed on Calen. The scars on his face were healed somewhat, though the flesh was pale and pink.
The fingers on Calen’s right hand tensed reflexively as he stared into the eyes of the man who had killed his mam. The man who had burned her alive. All Calen had to do was reach out and snap his neck. A life for a life. Surely the gods would find that fair.
Valerys’s fury bled into his own. Calen’s thumping heart rose over all other sounds, his vision seeming to dim and narrow until all he saw was Farda.
“My lord?” The guard closest to Calen stepped forwards tentatively. “My lord, are you all right?”
A hand rested on Calen’s shoulder – Vaeril’s. The elf shook his head, and Calen noticed the purple glow of his eyes reflecting in the guards’ armour.
Calen pulled a long breath into his lungs, exhaling sharply. “Carry on.”
He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and turned to leave, but Ilyain grabbed his arm with a grip that seemed made of iron.
The guards ripped their swords from their scabbards, steel rasping through the corridor. Vaeril’s blade slid across Ilyain’s throat, drawing a thin trickle of blood. Only Calen’s raised hand kept Ilyain’s heart beating.
“Move a hair and I will open your throat.” Vaeril glared at the Rakina, his sword holding true and steady.
Ilyain leaned into the blade, quickening the flow of blood. His pale, milky eyes stared at Calen. “Vengeance does not bring peace. Trust me, I know. The things we do in anger are a rot within us.” He drew a slow breath. “A dragon’s fury is a Draleid’s greatest strength and deepest weakness both. You must temper it before you can wield it, lest it will consume you.”
“If I wanted your advice,” Calen said, leaning in, “I would have asked for it.”
“We cannot ask for the things we do not know we need. Pasp? varno, akar. Du é orin talos du vidim.”
Stay safe, brother. You are more than you know.
Calen stared back into Ilyain’s vacant eyes, searching. He cast one last glance down the corridor at Farda – who still stared back, unmoving – then turned and strode away, his heart still hammering, his veins on fire, Valerys roaring in the back of his mind.
“Still your fire,” Calen whispered as he walked, the clang of his boots echoing.
After a moment, Vaeril appeared at his side. They walked in silence until they stopped before an iron-banded door marked with Jotnar runes. An elf garbed in long dark robes over a breastplate bearing the white dragon stood to the left of the door. Amaril, along with four others, had been assigned to maintain the ward of Spirit around Tivar so as to keep her from the Spark. It was a small price to ensure those runemarked shackles stayed off her wrists.
Amaril inclined her head in greeting to Calen and Vaeril.
Calen gestured at the door. “She is inside?”
“She is, Draleid.”
“Thank you for watching over her.”
“Of course, Draleid. Det er myia haydria.”
It is my honour.
“I’ll just be a moment,” Calen said to Vaeril. He drew a quick breath, then pushed the door open and stepped into the cell.
An oil lantern hung on the leftmost wall, bathing the stone in soft orange light.
Tivar sat with her legs folded beneath her at the back of the room. She lifted her head as he entered, her dark eyes fixing on him.
“Alaith anar, akar.” She smiled weakly, inclining her head. Well met, brother.
“Alaith anar.”
She gave a downturn of her lip. “The armour looks well.” She leaned forwards. “Antherin steel… of a sort. The smith who forged it is skilled. Antherin steel is not easy to work with, and Jotnar rune work is even more difficult still. I assume you did not come so I could compliment your armour?”
“No.”
“Have Farwen and Coren arrived to put this waiting to an end?”
Calen shook his head. “I am to leave.”
“When?”
“Now. I’m taking Aeson to Arkalen, and then I fly with Valerys to Ilnaen.”
The sound that left Tivar’s lips was akin to a hiss. “That place… that place holds nothing but poison.”
Calen let out a soft sigh, sitting on the bench that rested against the wall beside the door, his armour clinking as he did. “Farwen and Coren are due here soon. I promise, no matter what happens, I will not let you be executed.”
Tivar sighed and met Calen’s gaze. “You will do no such thing. You will allow Coren and Farwen to pass their judgement, and you will accept what is chosen.”
“I will not.” Calen sat forwards, his jaw clenching. “Where do we draw the line, Tivar? If we execute you and Avandeer, take another Draleid and dragon from the world, then what? I’m left alone to fight Eltoar and Helios and the other Dragonguard? That’s a death sentence in itself. And what of the elves from Lynalion? What if they turn their sights on us? How many dragons do they have?”
Tivar drew a long, slow breath. She stared at the ceiling with an almost sympathetic smile on her lips. “You are not wrong, Calen. But you speak with a simplicity born of youth. I know you don’t want to see it, but I am guilty of everything they say. I turned my back on my brothers and sisters. I burned, and I killed, and…” She stopped, clenching the muscles in her jaw. “I see the faces in my nightmares, hear the last screams of the Draleid whose bonds I shattered. I can give you excuses, I can tell you the reasons why I followed Eltoar, why I believed what we were doing was right. I can tell you how Efialtír twisted my mind… But when all is said and done, it was my hands that held the blade, my heart that yielded to the rage, my soul that let weakness in.”
“Tivar—”
“You don’t know me, Calen.”
“I know that when I needed you, you came. I know that you taught me what I am, what I needed to be.”
She shook her head, her eyes sunken. “I deserve death for what I did. I do not blame Chora and the others, the same way I do not blame a house for burning when it is set on fire.”
“No.” Calen rose and walked to where Tivar sat, dropping to a knee before her. He stared into her eyes, taking in her pale skin and the cleft in her lip. “That’s not enough.”
Tivar stared back at him curiously.
“You’re right. I don’t know your past and I don’t know you. But I know that you knelt before me and pledged to give your dying breath to this cause. Dying is not enough. When Fane Mortem is dead and the empire is nothing but dust, then, and only then, may you die. Until that day, I need you to fight. I need you to be the guardian you were meant to be. Do you understand? I will not accept anything less.”
Tivar held Calen’s gaze for what felt like an eternity. “You are like her second coming. I just hope you are stronger.” She looked as though she were going to say more, but she simply nodded. “I understand.”
“I hope you do, because you will help end this or I will swing the blade myself.”
Calen stood and made for the door.
“Anataier aldryr ar orimyn,” Tivar said as Calen pulled the door open.
Give them fire and fury.
“I will see you free from this place. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”
She shook her head. “You were angry.”
“I was scared. Scared of who I am, of what I might do.”
“Fear exists for the sole purpose of being overcome.”
Calen stared at Tivar a moment longer, nodded softly, then stepped back through the door and closed it behind him. He drew a sharp breath, felt it tremble in his chest, and did his best to stop his hands from shaking at his sides. He hated this. Tivar had saved his life, saved Valerys’s life, and likely all lives within Aravell’s walls. But so too had she been a part of the slaughter of The Order. Chora and the others had as much right to want her dead as he did Farda.
Ilyain’s words repeated themselves in his head. “I am so deeply sorry for the world we have left you. And for the burden we place on your shoulders as we ask you to fix it.”
Collecting himself, Calen thanked Amaril and set off back through the corridor with Vaeril.
His hands shaking, Calen stopped in the middle of the corridor, candlelight flickering shadows on the ground.
Vaeril raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here, Vaeril. Gods, I don’t know what I’m doing at all. I’m the son of a blacksmith and a healer,” he said, shaking his head. “Two years ago, I didn’t know anything but The Glade. And now there are thousands of men and elves readying to march across the continent in my name, bearing a sigil of Valerys’s likeness on their breasts. They’re marching to war , Vaeril – in my name . The man who murdered my mother walks these corridors freely, and all I want to do is tear his heart from his chest, and I can’t. I can’t touch him, but I can send a thousand men to die. Explain that to me. None of it makes sense. This should have been Erik or Dahlen, or you or Tarmon, or anyone but me.”
Calen’s chest heaved, his pulse racing. All the while, Vaeril stared back at him, watching.
The elf looked towards the ceiling as though searching for an answer in the white stone. “There are some who have picked up your banner because of what you are – more than some,” the elf said with a shrug. “They wish to be part of a saga tale, part of the legend of the first free Draleid in four hundred years. They don’t care who you are, just what you are. I was one of them. But I’m not anymore. At Belduar, you risked your life to buy the Kingsguard time, men and women you didn’t know, people to whom you owed little loyalty. In Vindakur, you were the last one through the Portal Heart. You saved every life you could. No exceptions. In Kingspass, you were willing to die to protect the people of a nation that had taken everything from you. You were so unwilling to give up on Rist that you crossed the Burnt Lands, a thing that had never been done. Above this very city, you and Valerys risked your lives to buy precious moments for my people. There are many who might feel they deserve what you have, who feel they have a right to it, who feel they are your better. But none of them would be half of what you are if they stood in your place. There is a difference between you and Aeson Virandr. He would watch the world burn if it meant the empire lay in the ashes. He cares about tearing down what stands, but you care about what will be left when it’s all done.”
Vaeril grasped Calen’s forearm and stared into his eyes. “I am with you. Heart and soul. We are Vandasera. I will follow you into the void if that’s where you lead. And so would every soul wearing that sigil. Not just because of what you are, but because of who you are. That army isn’t marching to die in your name, Calen. It’s marching because someone finally showed them they can stand and fight, because someone finally showed them that there is something greater to fight for.”
Aeson pulled a long breath in through his nostrils, the cold flowing through him, his lungs swelling. Calls and shouts echoed across the yard as the army went about its final checks. Queen Tessara had come good on the promise of her five thousand, as had Uthrían and Galdra, and along with those who bore the white dragon, just short of fourteen thousand strong filled the courtyard to capacity.
Wagon axles squeaked and groaned, armoured boots drummed against stone, and the constant hum of chatter floated on the air.
All this lay at Aeson’s back, filling his ears with a calming buzz. This was what he had waited for, what he had fought for: the rebellion was well and truly under way, and the empire was burning. Thousands marched in the name of something new, something better. In truth, it was a sight he wasn’t sure he’d ever see. Everything he had done, every sacrifice he had made, had come to this. And yet, all he could focus on was the dragon that stood before him.
Valerys, scales gleaming as though freshly polished, had to be seventy feet long. His neck was thick and muscular, his chest deep. Just like the other dragons in Valacia, he radiated a sense of power and grace.
Aeson had seen many dragons in his lifetime, and he had watched Valerys grow from a hatchling that could fit in Calen’s lap to the great beast he was now.
But this was different.
For the first time since Lyara had been taken from him – ripped from him – he would once again sit at the nape of a dragon’s neck, feel the power beneath him, the air crashing against his skin.
To ride a dragon, to feel that shared trust, that freedom, was among the most intimate of things. It should have filled him with joy, but instead the thought carried with it fear, sorrow, anxiety, and a numbness in his chest. It made him all the more conscious of the shattered pieces of his soul.
Lyara had been his, and he had been hers. Until the oceans dried and time broke. But she was gone, and he was alone.
As though sensing the pain in Aeson’s heart, Valerys twisted his neck and lowered himself, his forelimbs bending, his jaw scraping the stone. As the dragon’s eyes fixed on Aeson, a chill swept over him, his heart suddenly racing.
Valerys craned his neck forward, a low thrum in his throat.
Aeson reached out, the din of the preparing army rising to a crescendo in his ears. He could feel Valerys’s soul. It wrapped around him like a shroud, flowing over him and through him, just as Cukulkan’s had in Valacia.
Valerys pressed his snout into Aeson’s outstretched hand. Aeson gasped, warmth spreading from his fingertips, through his hand, and into his bones. Myriad emotions flooded him, each tied to a moment in time as memories rushed through his mind. Images of Erik and Dahlen, then Valerys’s egg, images of Cukulkan, of Aeson, of Calen.
Each breath trembled as Aeson drew it, his stare lost in the lavender of Valerys’s eyes.
In all the lifetimes he had lived, Aeson had felt nothing akin to this.
All fear, all anguish and darkness fled him. Valerys did not need words for Aeson to understand him.
Aeson’s jaw tensed as more of his own memories came to the fore: Lyara hatching. She had been so tiny. On that first night, she had slept with her belly on his forearm, those thin blue wings wrapping around his wrist.
Again and again, memories flashed through his mind; some his own, some Valerys’s. In each the story held through: Aeson and Calen watching over Lyara and Valerys. And in the last, the roar of two dragons filled him and he knew what Valerys was trying to tell him. Valerys was not Lyara, but he would protect Aeson as though he was. Just as Aeson had protected Valerys’s egg, just as he protected Calen.
In that moment, the memories stopped and everything shifted. A portentous, swirling rage flowed from the dragon into Aeson as a deep, boneshaking rumble sounded in his ears.
The black slits in Valerys’s eyes sharpened, his lips peeling back, enormous, jagged teeth bared.
“If I hurt him,” Aeson whispered, brushing his fingers across Valerys’s warm scales, “you’ll burn me alive.”
The aroma of burning wood accompanied the warm breath that left Valerys’s open jaws, that deep growl unceasing.
A hush rose at Aeson’s back, and he suddenly became aware that the clamour of the preparing army had stopped. One last time, he stared into Valerys’s eyes, brushed the dragon’s scales with his thumb. “I will protect him always.”
Aeson turned. Thousands of warriors filled the yard, organised into blocks of fifty, burnished plate glinting in the combination of the sun and the Blood Moon. Enormous purple banners flapped in the wind, the white dragon adorning the centres. No doubt those were a ‘gift’ from the Triarchy. Others rippled also, some in the black and silver of Vaelen with a seven-pointed star at their centre, and others in the deep green of the Triarchy with three white trees painted across their fronts.
Across the eastern and western edges of the yard, hundreds of Dvalin Angan stood by a horde of wagons, waiting to act as beasts of burden.
Aeson’s gaze settled on the yard’s northern edge, where the stillness was heaviest. Blocks of warriors had pushed back, leaving a wide path to the plateau where Aeson stood with Valerys.
Calen walked the centre of that path, every eye upon him.
Tarmon stood at the base of the plateau near the courtyard’s rear. His left hand rested on the pommel of the sword at his hip, his right thumb tucked into a loop on his belt. On the outside he was sure he looked the picture of calm, his armour polished to a mirror finish, his hair combed and tidy, his face clean-shaven.
The inside, however, was another story. Tarmon had never had children – he’d never had the joy. But he imagined the pride he felt at watching Calen march through the blocks of warriors, the runes in his armour glowing with a deep purple light, was the pride of a father. The only stain on that feeling was the guilt that he was the one there to feel it and Vars Bryer was not.
Even Dann, with his white wood bow strapped to his back, looked the part. And if Tarmon was being honest, after the way the young man had acquitted himself in the battle for Aravell, he could certainly play the part too.
On Tarmon’s right, Erik pulled in a long breath and let it out slowly, clasping his hands behind his back. “This is it then. We march today.”
“Nervous?”
“A little.”
Tarmon looked out over the blocks of warriors, all lined up in perfect formation, all standing to attention as Calen made his way to Valerys.
Thousands of purple cloaks stood stark against polished steel, the banners rippling above their heads. The colours reminded him of Belduar, and he couldn’t help but think that, in some way, his home lived on. It was a strange comfort.
It wasn’t long before Calen reached the plateau, Vaeril marching at his side.
Calen held his helmet in the crook of his arm and grasped Tarmon’s forearm. He stopped and looked back over the courtyard. “They look…”
“Like an army.” Tarmon folded his arms. “Soon we’ll see if they fight like one.”
Calen’s expression shifted to one of visible discomfort at Tarmon’s words.
“Long before you were born, this day was coming.”
“I know.” He looked to Dann, his expression softening a little. “Are you ready, Commander Pimm?”
Dann puffed out his bottom lip, giving a slight shrug. “Has a ring to it, doesn’t it?”
Calen laughed, the hardness in his eyes cracking. “With any luck, I’ll catch up with you long before you reach Salme. If I don’t…”
“Then we’ll push through,” Erik said.
Calen drew a long breath through his nostrils, nodding slowly. As he made to speak, footsteps sounded to the right.
Queen Tessara of Vaelen approached with a column of Highguard flanking her, long glaives in their fists.
The queen wore a full suit of smooth, black elven steel, the star of Vaelen worked delicately into the breastplate, a curved sword strapped to her hip.
“Queen Tessara.” Calen pressed a hand to his heart, inclining his head towards the queen, the others following suit. “Din n?rvarvin gryr haydria til myia elwyn.”
Tarmon spoke as little of the Old Tongue as he did Narvonan – none – and so he stayed quiet, keeping his head slightly bowed. The elves were a strange folk, and he’d already had a few brushes with their ‘honour’ system. It was best to let Calen and Vaeril do the talking.
“Ar diar, myialí, Draleid.” The new queen of Vaelen allowed a smile to grace her lips. She was the image of beauty, her voice soft, her eyes bright. But Tarmon was under no illusions that this elf’s blade was as sharp as her tongue.
“Your command of the Old Tongue is impressive, Calen Bryer. I can hear the Vaelen in your pronunciation.” She gestured towards Vaeril, who stood by Calen’s side. Vaeril seemed even more rigid than usual, his back stiff, his chin raised. “You are a pride to your people, Vaeril Ilyin.”
“Myia’nari…” Vaeril’s eyes widened, his jaw slackening. It was as though he had been given the praise of a god. “Du haryn myia vrai, myia’nari. La?l haydrir.”
“And my thanks are yours.” She flicked her wrist, and a Highguard brought forward an ornate wooden box, stained black with silver decorating its edges.
The Highguard clicked two silver latches open and lifted the lid. A gently curved sword sat within. It gleamed in the light, delicate engravings swirling from the guard up through the blade. The grip was black leather, the pommel the likeness of a silver star. In its design the weapon was similar to Calen’s, if more intricate in its embellishments.
“Myia’nari?” For the first time since meeting the elf, Tarmon heard an uncertainty in Vaeril’s tone. Whatever this weapon was, it was more than a simple gift.
“This blade is ünviril – Dawnbringer. It is a sword of the First Age. The Age of War. It comes from a time when our people were at their most divided. It once belonged to Elyin Shadvír, the first champion to the High House of Vaelen. It was Elyin who first fought beside humans and not against them. He was a warrior who found legend in the wielding of this blade but found eternity in the sheathing of it.
“I offer this weapon to show you that your accomplishments have not gone unnoticed by your people. You have brought great honour upon the kingdom of Vaelen. Not only have you protected the Draleid, protected our hope, but you have shown him the ways of our people and named him a friend of the Evalien. You fought at the Battle of Aravell, led our people forwards, and never turned back. In a time where elven heroes are few and far between, your star guides us.”
Tessara lifted the blade from the box, resting the flat steel against her palm and holding the hilt with her other hand. She proffered the weapon to Vaeril.
“Vaeril Ilyin, I offer you ünviril. Will you accept my offering and in turn take on the mantle of Champion of Vaelen? Will you lead our forces, and those of the Draleid, in this, the Last War?”
Vaeril stared openly at the blade, his mouth ajar. The elf had always been a quiet one, but he had never been as short of words as he was now.
“I…” Vaeril stuttered. “It would be my endless honour. An honour I do not deserve.”
“You are blind, child of Vaelen, for there are none more deserving beneath our banner. You are the first elf of Vaelen in hundreds of years to fight beside a Draleid, the first to slay a Bloodmarked. You crossed the Burnt Lands. The only true shame is that King Silmiryn did not bestow this honour upon you sooner.”
Tentatively, Vaeril reached forwards and wrapped a hand around the hilt of the sword, gauging its weight and balance. As he did, another Highguard stepped forwards with a black leather scabbard.
Calen put out a hand to stop the Highguard. He rested a hand on Vaeril’s shoulder, then unbuckled the elf’s scabbard and sword, leaving the new scabbard in their place.
For as long as Tarmon could remember, Calen had walked with a weight over his head. Even in moments of joy, the young man’s eyes had betrayed him. But now there was nothing but pride on his face.
Vaeril thanked him, then drew a long breath and sheathed Dawnbringer, dropping to one knee as he did. “I accept, Myia’nari.”