42. A City Once Lost
Chapter 42
A City Once Lost
17th Day of the Blood Moon
The Argonan Marshes – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Calen had heard tales of the Argonan Marshes, of how thousands of corpses lay beneath the water’s surface from after The Fall, how dragon bones jutted from its depths and ghosts and demons prowled the vast expanse of sodden earth.
Now that he stood there, staring out at the fog-blanketed wetland with his own eyes, he couldn’t say he saw anything of the sort. The place held that same sense of otherworldliness as ?lm Forest and had the same ability to make his skin crawl. But that likely had more to do with the old stories roaming in the back of his mind than with the place itself.
The marshes were unnaturally quiet, which meant that every tiny sound that broke the stillness was as sharp as a blade. The occasional bird call rang out, echoing endlessly, but it was the splashing that kept Calen from his sleep. Every time he got close to his dreams, a splash would sound somewhere around him and jolt him awake. Awake to the vast emptiness, the quiet, the dark.
Which was why he now stood with his hands behind his back and his breath misting into the air as he stared into the night.
Much like the dunes of the Burnt Lands, the marshes seemed to stretch into eternity. Sodden strips of earth, laden with dense, squelching vegetation, traced through the wetlands like lengths of dropped string. Tufts of grass that rose as high as Calen’s chin rustled gently in the wind. The light of the moon tinted thick layers of fog in a deep red as they drifted over the thousands of pools of murky marsh water pockmarked into the land.
He’d not particularly liked the idea of spending the night in the marshes. But they were to fly for Ilnaen the next morning, and the marshes were the safest place to rest with just the two of them. The only sign of life Valerys had spotted for miles were small rats, rabbits, snakes, and birds. The dragon had seen some deer with strange backwards antlers near a larger patch of earth a few miles back, but for the most part, the marsh’s occupants would leave Calen and Valerys alone as long as they did the same.
Calen drew a cold breath of air through his nostrils, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. He let the breath out slowly.
Alone.
The word had once terrified him. But at that moment it gave him peace.
This was the first time he and Valerys had been truly alone in months. The marshes stretched for hundreds of miles, and not a single soul within its bounds wanted anything from them. They were not being pulled in all directions, not being told how and when to act, not having people look at them like they were some saviours or heroes of old.
Calen dreamt of climbing onto Valerys’s back and flying away. Just leaving. They could rest in the Varsundi mountains, fly south to Narvona, where the cities were built from marble and gold, or to Ardan, where the land stretched endlessly to the horizon. He allowed himself a few moments of that dream before setting it on fire.
Calen opened his eyes without lowering his head. The stars shone bright above, that same pink hue tarnishing their light. He turned his gaze to the source of the poisoning glow.
The Blood Moon was at its fullest. It waxed and waned like any moon, or so he had been told. Though the Order had fallen on the twenty-eighth day of the last Blood Moon, which told Calen that the waxing and waning meant little.
Sheltered within the walls of Aravell, his only experience with the Blood Moon’s effects had been during battle for the city and in scouring the remnants of the Lorian forces afterwards. The Uraks that had set upon them in the woodland had been different creatures to the ones Calen knew. Stronger, more vicious – if that could even be possible. But still, from the reports he’d heard, the moon’s effects on the rest of the continent were far greater. Entire cities were gone, razed to the ground, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of souls snuffed out.
And all the while, he and Valerys had just sat in Aravell, licking their wounds, twisting words with the elves. The thought was infuriating. At least now they were doing something. At least now they could make a difference. First, they would see what awaited them in Ilnaen. Then, they would do as asked and win Aryana and Tukul Unger’s oaths. After that, they would go and protect their home.
As the word ‘home’ lingered in Calen’s mind, Valerys alighted behind him, the damp ground absorbing the shock of his landing.
The dragon dropped the body of a half-eaten deer into the grass, blood painting his scales and dripping from his maw.
“Home,” Calen whispered as he approached Valerys, who nudged the deer carcass before ripping a leg free with a snap of tendon and bone.
The dragon eyed Calen sideways and nuzzled into his outstretched palm, continuing to crunch on his meal. Images of The Glade passed from Calen to Valerys, images of the home Calen had grown up in, of The Gilded Dragon, of Vars’s forge, of the Moon Market.
The smile that graced Calen’s lips vanished as quickly as it had appeared. That home was gone. Burned to ash and dust by the same Uraks that now laid waste to the continent.
Up until learning the truth from Haem, he had at least been able to believe that no matter what, no matter where he travelled or what things he’d seen, he could always go home. His parents might not be there to greet him, but his home would always be his home. That fact had been immutable, except it was not.
The Glade was gone. His parents were dead, Rist likely with them. And now Ella lay unconscious on a bed in Aravell, and Calen had absolutely no idea if she’d ever wake. It felt as though the threads that tethered him to the world were slowly coming loose. Dann, Haem, Elia, Lasch, and Faenir – and he supposed Therin, in a way – were all that remained from the life he’d left behind.
Valerys stopped chewing and let out a warm breath of air that smelled of ash and fresh blood. He nudged his cheek into Calen’s shoulder, a low rumble in his throat.
Warmth flooded across the bond, allowing Calen a soft sigh as the cold fled his fingers and toes. But with the warmth came faces that drifted through Calen’s mind: Jorvill Ehrnin, Ferrin Kolm, Aela and Erdhardt, Tharn and Ylinda… Anya Gritten.
Even without words, it was clear to him what Valerys was trying to say: the home may be gone – the wood, and the stone, and the glass – but the people remained.
He remembered his mother’s words when he’d asked her why she’d never wanted to go home. Home in her case had been a village somewhere in southern Illyanara. Karikloan, she’d once told him it was called. Calen had never been there; he’d barely left The Glade before meeting Erik and the others.
“Home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling,” she’d said. “Home is knowing you’re safe and loved. Home is knowing that you are where you need to be. My home is here with you,” she’d said, brushing his cheek with her thumb. “With you and Haem and Ella and your dad. Home is where your heart goes when you let it wander.”
Calen sighed softly, resting his forehead against Valerys’s scales, the warmth bringing relief from the frigid air. A pressure built behind his eyes, and his throat grew tight. He would never hear his mother’s voice again, never get the chance to tell her how much comfort all those words of wisdom had given him.
The sorrow turned to anger at the thought of Farda walking free in the Eyrie. At the thought of the man who’d murdered his mother still drawing breath while she lay in Heraya’s embrace.
He butted his head against Valerys’s side, running his hands over the small horns that jutted from the dragon’s forelimb. Those thoughts led to dark places.
After Valerys had consumed every shred of muscle, bone, and cartilage, Calen laid out his blanketroll at the dragon’s side and stared up as Valerys closed his wings around him.
That night he dreamt vivid dreams. The dreams that felt real. If Ella did wake up – no, when Ella woke up, he would ask her if she dreamt those same dreams. He would sit down and talk to his sister until the sun set and rose again and set once more. He would never again take the sound of her voice for granted.
The next day, Calen and Valerys flew for hundreds of miles without a break, clearing the marshlands and leaving the thick fog and eerie silence behind.
They stayed high, soaring between the clouds and blending with the sky so that nothing below could mark their flight. But through the dragon’s eyes, they could see the comings and goings of the land from above. Caravans of people journeyed eastward, towards the marshes and the coastal cities. No doubt they were coming from Argona. Calen had never laid eyes on Illyanara’s capital, and now he never would. He’d heard it had been enormous, that The Glade itself would have fit inside its walls a hundred times over – a thousand, even, if the bards and travelling merchants were to be believed. Though, now that Calen had seen more of the world, he understood that all stories were both exaggerated and diminished.
Apart from the weary travellers trudging along the roads, large groups moved about bearing all sorts of colours, sigils, and banners. Some numbered no more than fifty, while others were in their hundreds. It was precisely as Therin had said. As the empire’s hold on Illyanara faltered, others were beginning to grab at any shred of power they could find.
In the death of an animal, nature went to war over the rotting carcass. Wolves, foxes, kats, wolfpines, bears, even the birds and insects, all called by blood. This felt much the same to Calen. The lion was wounded and bleeding, and so the factions circled, too scared to face it while it limped and died, but ready to tear it to pieces once it hit the ground. What would happen if they finally brought the empire to its knees? What came after? Would this war simply lead to more war?
The thought had plagued Calen’s mind on more than a few nights. He’d not admit it to Aeson or Chora, but that was why he understood the need to bring the factions in Illyanara behind him. The more structure they had in place before, the less chaos would follow after.
He pondered those thoughts as the Darkwood passed below. The fires had stopped now, no more black smoke billowing into the air. The path the Dragonguard had burned through the woodland was like a scorched wound in the forest’s flesh, carving through the wood from its very edge to the southern gates of Aravell. More blackened patches were scattered about the main path as a result of the fighting and the dragonfire.
It was strange to see the city of Aravell from so far above and without the glamour to keep it hidden. The basin within which the city sat was enormous, the valleys around it sharp and deep, the rock rising high to meet the walls. It didn’t look like a creation made of mortal hands, more like something akin to the brushstrokes of a god. If he squinted, every bridge, tower, and sweeping platform blended seamlessly with the nature around it.
Calen dared not fly too close, lest he be tempted to stop. He hated leaving Ella there alone, particularly as vulnerable as she was. Though ‘alone’ was unfair to those who watched over her. She wasn’t alone. He just hated not being there.
After a while, dark storm clouds rolled in, and the rain fell in sheets, followed by rolling thunder. Valerys brought them higher, angling upwards with such force that Calen grabbed the ridge of a scale at the base of the dragon’s neck, leaning forwards and pressing himself down. He pulled their minds together and lost himself in the bond.
The higher they rose, the more vicious the cold became, biting and slashing, but the warmth of their blood held it at bay. A blinding light filled their vision as they broke through the head of clouds, the sky above clear and blue. This place, this open sky, the wind washing over them, this was where happiness was found, and both Calen and Valerys could have soared for hours without a thought or a care.
But eventually the dark clouds faded, and the trees of the Darkwood yielded to cracked earth and rocky hills.
They dove, folding their wings tight against their side. The wind crashed over them, rolling across scales and skin. An untethered wildness flared in their blood at the sensation of freefall. It was the purest feeling in the world. To completely let go, to have absolutely no control of the world around you and yet to hold no fear in your heart.
They opened their wings to their fullest a few hundred feet from the ground, curving forward with such speed the force of the world dragged against them.
Calen pulled his mind back as they approached the edge of the Burnt Lands. The knights had told him the barrier around the waste was dead and gone, but still trepidation crept into his heart with each beat of Valerys’s wings. He would know as soon as they crossed the threshold.
Below, the brittle earth and dried rivers faded into sand, the dunes stretching on, and on, and on. With the sun dipping low, capitulating to the crimson moon, and the wind whipping the sand into the air, a warm orange-red light sparkled across the dunes. Despite himself, the scene took Calen’s breath from his lungs.
Staring out at the landscape, he couldn’t help but think of the words Falmin had spoken in the tunnels below Lodhar. “There is nothing more important in the darkness than a ray of light.”
In that moment, those words struck a chord within Calen. The Burnt Lands had seen more death and horror and abject darkness than any place on the continent. The Blood Moon was the harbinger of Efialtír himself, a portent of unspeakable slaughter and bloodshed. And yet, amidst the blending of these two dark things, a moment of unparalleled beauty could be found.
Falmin would have appreciated the view.
Reluctantly, Calen closed his eyes. Ilnaen lay northwest, and in the endless desert, to become lost was an easy thing. But he knew that would not be his fate. He waited patiently, seeing through Valerys’s eyes as the dragon soared, the night slowly encroaching, shadows creeping over the mountains in the distance.
And then, in the quiet moment, he heard it.
Thump.
That same pulse he’d felt when he’d first entered the wastes called to him once more. It thrummed in his bones and rang in his mind.
Thump .
Just as he had then, he knew what it was that called to him now.
The beating heart of Ilnaen.
He’d spent many a dream wandering the burning streets, watching as dragons fell from the sky and crashed through buildings of white stone. He’d stood and watched as rivers of blood flowed through the grooves of paved streets and listened in horror at the screams of the thousands who burned alive. That same heartbeat, that same feeling of familiarity had permeated those dreams.
Thump.
Ilnaen called to him. The last time he had crossed the waste, he’d ignored it, but now he would answer the call. He would go to Ilnaen. Where The Order had fallen. Where the world had changed. Where the ghosts of the dead had been left to linger.