35. Legacy
Chapter 35
Legacy
14 th Day of the Blood Moon
Land’s End – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Calen leaned tight against Valerys’s scales, the wind whipping past on either side of him. The dragon’s warmth seeped into his bones as he closed his eyes and pulled their minds together. Rolling thunder roared through the skies, bolts of lightning tearing across the night, rain sheeting down as though the Godsrealm had opened.
It had taken two days of almost non-stop flying to reach the southern tip of Arkalen, hundreds of miles a day, stopping only to eat and sleep. Had Valerys been at his fullest, the journey may not have been so arduous, but as it stood, he still was not fully recovered from the battle at Aravell.
Through the dragon’s eyes, Calen watched as the deluge obscured the night, an ocean of dark forest sweeping past below. He could see the warmth radiating from the birds that braved the raging storm and the creatures sheltering in the trees, smell the char of burning where lightning had struck wood, hear the rain drumming like a thousand hammers.
The dragon cracked his mighty wings and rolled to the right, sweeping into a dive, then catching a current of air that carried them forwards. With each twist and turn, Aeson pulled tighter on Calen’s belt, pressing against his back. Had it been anyone else flying with him, they would have fallen to their death hundreds of miles back. Even with Valerys’s scales moulded to him, even with the bond, Calen often struggled to stay in place when his soulkin manoeuvred at such speeds. The simple fact that Aeson still clung on was a testament to the man – his kin.
Ahead, the forest opened to a plain of hills and craggy, moss-covered rocks. Hundreds of feet below the enormous, jagged cliffs, dark waves raged against the rock face, harsh and brutal. Flashes of lightning illuminated the night, pink moonlight diffusing through heavy charcoal clouds that made the sky seem starless.
A few miles from the edge of the plain, a formation of serrated rock nestled within an enormous basin fed by seven streams jutted from the unforgiving landscape. Flickering lights decorated the rock as the stars might decorate the sky, hundreds of golden specks – windows.
“That’s it,” Calen whispered to himself, the wind swallowing his words. Aeson had told him what to look for, but he hadn’t quite expected something so monstrous. The fortress was not built from or on the rock, but into it. As Calen looked closer through Valerys’s eyes, he saw towers, their peaks twisting with the rock. Staircases and walkways wound around the formation, blending seamlessly.
A single gargantuan bridge carved from stone as black as night traversed the dark waters of the basin, connecting the fortress to the mainland. If Calen listened with Valerys’s ears, he could hear the flags flapping angrily in the wind.
The fortress itself may as well have been an island at sea. The place seemed nigh-on impregnable.
“There’s a plateau on the southern face of the fort!” Aeson’s voice sounded in Calen’s ears, amplified by threads of Air and Spirit.
Valerys swooped lower as they approached, the rain battering off his scales. He skirted the rim of the basin, angling his right wing towards the water. For a moment, Calen pulled his mind apart from Valerys’s, seeing through his own eyes as the dragon’s reflection stared back at him, the white stark against the dark waters.
Calen could feel the roar building before it erupted from the dragon’s jaws, so loud it may as well have been a slap of Hafaesir’s hammer. The roar resonated through the basin, resounding off the stone and crashing against the waves. If the fortress’s garrison hadn’t known they were there, they did now.
Valerys dropped lower, the spearhead tip of his tail slicing through the water’s surface. Waves crashed against the rocks, the spray tickling Calen’s exposed skin. Valerys surged upwards as he reached the southern face of the fortress, the shift in momentum pulling Calen backwards, Aeson’s arm wrapping around his waist.
The plateau was rimmed by a high wall carved straight from the rock, large enough to hold Valerys twice over. A group of armoured guards stood at the far side, arranged in a semi-circle before a set of iron-banded gates, torches flickering in their hands.
Valerys dove, spreading his wings wide and cracking them against the air as he alighted on the stone.
Verma Tallisair lowered her hood, the raging storm saturating her hair in seconds. A thunderclap erupted in the distance, the wind howling. She stared through the deluge, her gaze fixed on the white-scaled dragon that tore across the sky, its wings veined with black.
The creature was enormous for one so young. Some of the horns around its jaw and face were easily as long as her arm, its wingspan well over a hundred feet. The sight of the creature brought back memories of old.
“Al’il n?ra un Varyn,” Pylvír whispered as he, too, lowered his hood and stared up at the sky. By the light of Varyn. The look in the elf’s eyes was both awe and wonder. “He has grown like a seed planted by Heraya’s own hand.”
Pylvír’s daughter, Andira, stood at his side, over a head taller than her father. In the near two years they had been at Fort Saldar, not a day had passed where the elf hadn’t spent every waking hour training and preparing for Aeson’s call. And now that he was here and the time had come, she stood silently, staring into the storm.
“It’s nice to see one of those things and not worry it’s going to set me on fire – or eat me.” Ildur folded his arms. The old Stormguard watched the dragon with grey eyes as it swept upwards across the basin’s rock face.
Aurelian Animar, High Mantle of the Arkalen Stormguard and leader of the newly formed Free Nation of Olmiron, folded his arms to Ildur’s left. The man was rock personified. Verma hadn’t seen much of him, but from what she had seen, he was harsh, cold, honest, and honourable. A man with those traits and the wrong ideals was more often called a tyrant, but Aurelian seemed a decent man and one who wished for his nation to be free of Lorian control. He had arrived from Seaside three days prior to ensure he would be there for Aeson and the Draleid’s arrival, leaving his generals to carry on the war with Syrene Linas.
A chorus of gasps sounded as the dragon plummeted towards them, its massive wings spreading so wide the shadow consumed the entire plateau.
“Keep your heads,” Ildur called to the dozen Stormguard spread out around them. Verma could feel the tension in the air. None of these guardsmen had ever laid eyes on a dragon that wasn’t intent on slaughtering everything they knew. Over half of them rested their hands on their swords’ pommels. The sight caused Verma to laugh to herself. What good was a sword against a dragon? If this creature wanted them dead, their places would be laid in Achyron’s halls. Better to jump from Saldar’s walls than to charge that beast with a sword.
A vicious crack of the dragon’s wings set a gust in the air and a spiral in the sheeting rain. The plateau trembled as the dragon alighted, its legs touching the stone first, followed by its winged forelimbs. The creature shook its head like a hound trying to loose the rain from its fur. Black and white frills stood on end, a deep rumble coming from the dragon’s throat.
The clink of metal on stone sounded to Verma’s left as one of the Stormguard staggered backwards, steel rasping as he reflexively pulled at his sword.
The dragon’s head snapped to focus at the sound, its cold lavender eyes fixing on the guardsman. It shifted in place, lips pulling back to bare alabaster teeth the size of daggers. It threw its head forwards and unleashed a roar so visceral that Verma could see the rain shake.
“I said keep your head!” Ildur roared. He grabbed the guard by the pauldron and used his free hand to shove the sword back into its scabbard.
The dragon glared at the man, its breath heavy, its lips curling back. It had only been two years, but Verma had almost forgotten just how terrifyingly monstrous dragons were. They were creatures totally outside the natural order of things, capable of destruction beyond all measure. The size of the largest ships, capable of melting steel with a breath, and covered from head to tail in scale armour.
By all measures, the creature was magnificent. But the sheer power it radiated set the hairs on her neck on end.
After a few moments, the dragon bowed, extending out its right forelimb. The sensation of the Spark tickled the back of Verma’s neck, and two figures dropped from the dragon’s back, their landings cushioned by threads of Air.
“Move,” Ildur called to the waiting guards as he strode towards the two figures.
“To attention.” Aurelian followed Ildur, the guards spreading out on either side of them, framing a path, the flames of their torches whipping wildly in the wind.
“Ildur,” Aeson called out, his cloak flapping behind him, water dripping from his hair and nose. He opened his arms wide, pulling Ildur into a bearhug. “It’s good to see that hair isn’t all grey just yet.”
“Aeson Virandr.” Ildur returned the embrace. “You’ve still not aged a day, you bastard.”
Aeson clapped Ildur on the cheek. “My day will come, old friend. My day will come.”
He greeted Pylvír with just as much enthusiasm, then turned to the elf’s daughter.
“Andira, you look even stronger than before.” He clasped her shoulders, a broad grin on his face, then her temples, touching their foreheads together. “What have they been feeding you here?”
“Nadíl,” she replied affectionately. Uncle. “Det er aldin na v?na dir. é dir m?re?”
It is good to see you. Are you well?
“I am, thank you. Your mother?”
“She’s in the stores with Fearn, sorting shipments.”
“Is she still mad?”
“Does the grass ever stop being green?”
Aeson laughed at that, finally turning his attention to Verma. “Vésani.”
Sister.
“Akar.” Brother.
Verma grasped Aeson’s forearm, staring into his eyes. They were even more blue than she remembered.
Aeson turned to Aurelian and inclined his head. “It’s good to see you well. I’m sorry for what happened at Yarrin.”
The High Mantle nodded absently. “There was nothing anyone could have done. The Uraks washed over the city like a tidal wave. We were lucky to escape with our lives. It’s an honour to have you here.”
Aeson rested one hand on Aurelian’s shoulder. “It is an honour to be welcome here. And with that, may I introduce you to Calen Bryer, soulkin to Valerys and the first free Draleid in four centuries. Calen, this is Aurelian Animar, High Mantle of the Arkalen Stormguard and leader of the rebellion in Arkalen.”
Aeson gestured for his companion to draw closer. The man was young, twenty or so summers perhaps. Tall and lean-muscled, hair dark, eyes the same piercing shade of purple as the dragon’s. She’d never seen purple eyes. But even all the way down in Land’s End she’d heard the stories of the battles further north. Of how the young man had earned the name ‘Warden of Varyn’. He carried himself like a veteran of a hundred battles, his gaze measuring and assessing each of the plateau’s occupants. His shoulders were squared, his hand never straying too far from the coin pommel of the sword at his hip – an elven blade, old by the working of the guard and the detailing on the steel. The power of the Spark pulsed from him. Draleid always had a far deeper well to draw from than most mages, but this young man was unique, he was… more than most.
“Fort Saldar is yours, Draleid.” Aurelian pressed a closed fist to his chest and bowed his head.
“And we are yours.” The Draleid mimicked Aurelian’s gesture, the show of mutual respect clearly pleasing the High Mantle.
“Calen.” Aeson gestured towards Verma. “This is Verma Talissair, one of the last Arcarians and one of my oldest friends.”
Verma grasped the young man’s forearm in greeting, but as she did, his eyes flashed a milky white and the world around her plunged into darkness before exploding with all manner of colours and light. Memories flitted across her vision, battles long fought and lost, friends dead for an age, tender moments of vulnerability kept hidden.
And then she was back on the plateau, the rain cold against her skin, the storm raging overhead, her hand trembling.
Somehow it felt like both hours and only fractions of a second had passed at the same time.
Calen Bryer stared back at her, his eyes returning to their lavender hue. His fingers squeezed her forearm, and she noticed an almost imperceptible shift in his stance, as though he had only just about stopped himself from collapsing to the ground. Behind him, the dragon moved forwards, its head tilted sideways, the rain splattering against its scales.
None of the others seemed to have noticed anything at all.
Calen gave the slightest nod, his gaze staying fixed on Verma. Had he seen the memories she’d seen? How could that even be possible?
Her heart pounded against her ribs, her mouth going dry.
“Alaith anar.” Well met. Calen’s stare never left hers as he spoke.
“Ar du, Draleid.” And you, Draleid. Verma gripped the man’s forearm tighter and pulled him close. Those memories had been her darkest, the ones she’d locked away and buried the key. She whispered, “Those moments were not yours to see.”
Before the Draleid could respond, Aeson pulled him away and introduced him to the others one by one.
“Come,” Ildur shouted over the storm. “Let’s get you inside before the rain seeps into your bones. The fire is roaring, and there’s some warm food to fill your bellies.”
He ordered a handful of the guards to fetch the bags and sacks strapped to the dragon’s chest. The looks on the faces of the men and women saddled with that task were ones of utter shock, which in truth was the exact response Verma herself would have given if she had been asked to fetch a bag from a dragon.
The Draleid lifted an open palm, signalling the guards to stay where they were, then walked to the dragon and pulled off two sacks and a satchel, swinging them over his shoulder. He handed them to Aeson, then turned to address Aurelian. “I’ll stay for food, Lord Animar, but not the night. Valerys and I must be back in the air.”
“The storm is too fierce, Calen.” Aeson rested a hand on Calen’s shoulder. “And Valerys is tired. We’ll have food brought to him. Let him rest, and leave at dawn.”
The Draleid looked back at Aeson for a few moments before nodding and heading back for the rest of the bags.
After supper had been served, Verma and the others stood about the fireplace in one of Fort Saldar’s many drawing rooms. Cups of wine had been poured and poured again, and the fire’s warmth sank into Verma’s bones.
Aeson sat on a long couch, conversing with Pylvír, Andira, and Pylvír’s Ayar Elwyn, Elara. Fearn had joined them, along with Ithaca, and they both sat in armchairs on the far side of the room, fresh cups of wine in their hands. It had taken the better part of a year for Verma to trust the Ardanian sellsword after what had happened on the journey back from Valacia. But Ithaca had worked hard and helped recruit more than a few souls to the rebellion.
Ildur, Heraya bless his ageing heart, was passed out in a leather chair by the fire, his wine cup still gripped firmly in his fingers. The man was nearing his sixtieth summer. He could still cut his way through a battle like he had barely seen thirty, but time was slowly creeping up on him. He deserved a rest.
Across the way, near a long table with clay vases of wine and empty bowls of beef stew, the Draleid pulled himself away from a conversation with a handful of the Stormguard captains, letting out a puff of air as he walked towards the fireplace.
“Enjoying yourself?” Verma asked, sarcasm dripping from her voice as the man stopped in front of the fire and stared into the flames. The Stormguard captains had all but chained him to the table, launching question after question at him. She didn’t blame them. He was a Draleid. To them, he was a thing of legend, a symbol, a hero. To her, he looked like a young man who had been forced to become something he’d never asked to be and had lost a great deal because of it. She could see it in the way his eyes always glanced towards the floor after he spoke, in the way his smiles faded and cracked, and in the rigid and practiced nature of his posture. It was a strange irony that the greatest of hopes always landed on the youngest of shoulders.
“Hmm.” He glanced her way, that smile forming then breaking. “It’s a nice respite from only having Aeson for conversation.”
Verma snorted, sipping at her wine. “I feel that pain.”
“I apologise for earlier.” Calen’s tone grew sombre in a heartbeat. “It’s not something I can control. And it’s not happened in a while… I don’t…” He trailed off, staring back into the fire. “I’m sorry.”
Verma had lived long enough to know a truth from a lie. The young man’s words were genuine. Over the course of the supper, she had trawled through her memories, trying to remember where she’d seen that kind of power before. At last, she’d landed on the works of old Duran Linold. Druids, a Magic Lost. It had been five centuries since she’d read that book.
“What did you see?”
Calen bit down on his lip, folding his arms. “Death…” His voice cracked a little. “So much death. And other things… things I had no right to see.”
“No, you didn’t. But what is done is done.” She tapped the rim of her cup against her lips. “Do you know what you are?”
The Draleid turned his gaze from the fire, his peculiar eyes locking with hers.
“You do then. I’ve never met a druid before, not in the flesh.” The Draleid flinched at the word. “Does Aeson know? I suspect he does. There’s not much gets past him.”
Before Calen could answer, Aurelian stepped between the two, his hands clasped behind his back, the fireplace’s flames casting a warm glow on his skin. The man wore a grey tunic with the emblem of the Stormguard – a shield with twin bolts of lightning – on its breast. He greeted both Calen and Verma with a nod.
Aurelian picked a piece of meat from between his teeth with his tongue, staring into the flames with the same intensity the Draleid had. “Your chambers have been prepared, Draleid,” he said without lifting his gaze. “Aeson Virandr informs me you are to make for the Darkwood come daybreak. I will not be offended if you retire early.”
Another broken, placating smile. “Thank you, Lord Animar.”
“No lord, Draleid. Just a man.”
“Thank you, nonetheless. Aeson told me this was an old Stormguard fort,” he said, looking around the room. “But this place is far more than that. An army of thousands couldn’t take it. How, may I ask, did it end up in the hands of rebels?”
Animar gave a short laugh. “Fort Saldar was built some fourteen hundred years ago, back when the five kingdoms warred for Arkalen. It was the heart of the Sakarnan Kingdom, an impregnable fortress that could see for miles in all directions, garrisoned by the legendary Sakarnan Stormguard. It was a wonder of the age. But when the Sakarnans refused to submit after The Fall, the Lorians torched the land in all directions and the mages poisoned the soil. The fortress was all but abandoned some two hundred years ago. There’s nothing out here save for storms and rocks. An impregnable fortress is little use to anyone if it’s in the arse end of nowhere. A skeleton garrison was left to keep it operational should it be needed. High Lord Syrene Linas and myself don’t quite see eye to eye, to put it delicately. She couldn’t remove me as the High Mantle of the Stormguard, not while I had the loyalty of my brothers and sisters. But she could exile me here to waste away on this ‘worthless rock’, as she put it.” Aurelian let out a long sigh, staring into the flames. “I’m afraid I didn’t get to converse with you over supper. May I be candid?”
“I’d prefer it.”
“I don’t know you.”
“Nor I, you.”
Aurelian Animar gave the man a half-smile. “I do not fight this war for Aeson Virandr. I do it because I want my people to be free of imperial bonds, to be free of a tyrant like Syrene Linas, who holds no loyalty but to those that fill her coffers. She treats the Stormguard like her personal handmaids, and she would take food from a child’s mouth even if her belly were full. I fight not because I have no food at my table but because there are others who go without.”
“Very noble of you.” The Draleid winced after he spoke. “Apologies. It was a long journey.”
Aurelian waved him away, laughing. “You truly do prefer to do away with the pleasantries.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time with elves,” Calen said, shaking his head absently. “Have you ever met an elf?”
“My experience has been somewhat limited. Why do you ask?”
“I owe my life to more elves than I could begin to count. But amongst their rulers, the politicking and the games and the wordplay… it’s endless.”
Aurelian gave a gruff laugh and warmed his hands by the fire. “You are still young then.”
The Draleid raised a curious eyebrow.
“That is not elves, Draleid. That is all who seek power. Very well, I will be straight as a razor. I consider myself a man of honour. A man of principles and logic. A man of duty. Duty to my people, duty to my brothers and sisters of the Stormguard, duty to Arkalen. I align myself with Aeson Virandr and Verma here because their cause aids my duty, which is to Arkalen, not to Epheria. I couldn’t care less if Valtara burns or if Drifaien is drowned in snow. Their plight is their own. Ildur and his followers sail for Valtara in the morning, some four thousand and a handful of former Stormguard. Ildur is a good man, keeps his word. There are another three thousand Stormguard in Fort Saldar who have come from across the province to fight for Arkalen. I cannot spare many, but I would send some with Ildur and Aeson if I had a reason. Do I have one? Why would I send my warriors to fight in your name for some foreign land?”
The Draleid’s lip curled, forming a flicker of a smile. “Don’t.”
“What?” Aurelian was genuinely surprised at that.
“Don’t send your warriors to fight in my name.” Calen drew a long breath, clasping his hands behind his back. He let it out slowly. “I may be young, High Mantle, but I’ve watched a lot of people die. I’ve heard the names they call as the blood pours from their veins, seen the light fade from their eyes as they die hundreds of miles from everywhere they know and everything they love. I don’t want people dying in my name. If you’re going to fight or die, do it for something you believe in. On that, I must wish you goodnight. It’s a long way back. I appreciate the chambers, but I will sleep on the plateau with Valerys.”
The Draleid inclined his head and made to leave.
“You can’t be serious?” Aurelian looked at the Draleid as though the man had ten heads. “There’s a storm out there.”
“There is.” The Draleid met Aurelian’s gaze, and for the first time since Verma had met the young man, his smile was no longer cracked or brittle. He turned again to leave, then stopped. “Fight the battles you think worth fighting, Lord Animar. Just remember that if we call and you don’t answer, there might not be anyone there to hear your screams when the Lorians bring the dragonfire.”
Without waiting to hear a response, the Draleid ambled across the room, stopping to talk with Aeson for a moment before the two of them left through the main doors.
Aurelian stared after Calen Bryer, one hand hovering, his index finger extended as though he were about to make a counterpoint. If looks could kill, the scowl on Aurelian’s face would have decapitated a horse. To Verma’s surprise, the man clenched his hand into a fist and snorted. “I like him.”
“I do too…” Verma answered in a whisper, staring at the doorway Calen Bryer and Aeson had just walked through. Only two years past she had left Aeson Virandr at Milltown’s port with a dragon egg that had been paid for in blood. It seemed that it had been blood well spent. “I do too.”