81. Trial of Will
22 nd Day of the Blood Moon
Firnin Mountains – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Calen looked through Valerys’s eyes as the dragon carved a path of fire and fury through the Lorian ranks. The flames consumed everything they touched, the sheer force tearing chunks of earth from the ground, the power flooding Calen’s veins.
To his right, Tivar sat astride Avandeer, the dragon soaring with her wings wide, mimicking Valerys’s every movement, her fire blazing like the sun.
Arrows flitted past in waves, but none could touch Valerys’s scales. The dragon streaked across the sky with the speed of a shooting star, twisting and turning. Calen had never felt him move so freely. Having Avandeer and Varthear by his side had untethered something within Valerys, a fear, an uncertainty. Streaks of lightning ripped upwards from mages below, but Tivar and Calen cut through the threads of any that came close. And wherever lightning rose, Varthear fell.
The dragon had lost her fire when Ilmirín died, but her fury remained. She crashed down atop the Lorian mages, tearing flesh and bone with her obsidian talons and slicing bodies in half with sweeps of her tail. Before the Lorians had a fraction of a moment to understand how and why they were dying, the dragon had already lifted herself into the air, readying for her next strike.
Valerys banked right hard, and Calen shifted in position, pressing himself low. Avandeer and Varthear fell in beside them, moving in perfect unity. They dropped low and angled towards the long mountain path that stretched towards the gates. The path would not even have been visible were it not for the river of Lorian soldiers that flowed upwards from the base of the mountain, all black leather and polished steel.
“Aldryr ar orimyn,” Calen whispered, letting his mind drift into Valerys’s. Fire and fury.
The dragon answered with a deep rumble and a crack of his wings. Valerys surged forwards, then dove, sweeping upwards only as he came to the foot of the mountain. Pressure built in their joined soul, burning through them, and Calen pulled on threads of Fire and Spirit. Lungs swelled with air, and dragonfire raged. Valerys swept left and right, flames pouring from his jaws. The path was long and winding, and Valerys flew at such speeds that the turns were impossible to match, and still hundreds burned. Sparkwards burst to life, spreading like spheres of glass over the soldiers below, flames washing over them. Those within were granted sanctuary from the fury of dragons, but those left exposed were turned to ash and dust as Avandeer wound along Valerys’s path. They had not yet reached the gates when an enormous pulse of the Spark rippled outwards and an explosion shook the mountain. A blinding light burst from the cave mouth where the Lorian forces fought, chunks of rock soaring through the air and crashing down the mountainside.
Shouts and cries rose up from the Lorian forces as the cave collapsed and rocks crushed hundreds. Valerys swerved right to avoid a piece of debris as large as a horse. The dragon angled his wings and rose along the rock face, lifting towards the clouds.
He let out a roar, then swept back down the mountainside. He stayed close to the rock face, moving at such speed Calen had to bury his head in the dragon’s scales, the air dragging at him.
Valerys angled his wings and swept outwards, a weightless feeling settling in Calen’s stomach. The dragon soared across the plains towards the bulk of the Lorian forces and once more rained dragonfire down atop them before flying just low enough to slice three Varsundi Blackthorns in half with his tail and soaring up and away.
“What was that?” Calen roared at Tivar as Avandeer caught up to Valerys in the sky, his voice carried on threads of Air.
“A last stand,” Tivar called back. “The Lorians must have found a way inside the mountain.”
Through Valerys’s eyes, Calen followed the long path of soldiers from the base of the mountain winding upwards towards the source of the explosion, where the Lorian forces were regrouping, everything around them burning, threads of Earth and Air clearing the debris. “We’re too late.”
“Not while souls within still breathe,” Tivar called back. “There is only so much that can be done from dragonback. We need to get inside. I saw an oculus carved through the rock on the eastern?—”
A fury rose within Valerys at Tivar’s words, and he lurched and plummeted towards the ground. They would not be separated again. He would not allow it. Valerys spun as he unfurled his wings and raked dragonfire across the Lorian lines. Varthear followed, mimicking Valerys’s movements. She crashed down into a column of Lorian soldiers, rending steel and bone with her talons and jaws, charging forwards before lifting into the air once more.
An arc of lightning streaked upwards, primed to tear into Varthear’s wing before Calen erected a ward and redirected the lightning to the ground, tearing a contingent of Lorian soldiers to pieces.
Valerys roared in answer to the Lorian lightning, the pressure surging through him as he once more opened his jaws and rained death from above.
“Valerys,” Calen whispered as they rose again, “it doesn’t matter how many we kill out here if they all die in there.”
A deep growl reverberated in Valerys’s chest, and he unleashed a mighty roar.
“We didn’t fly here to let them die, Valerys. If the Lorians have broken through, then Tivar and I need to get inside and do whatever we can.”
Memories flooded from Valerys to Calen. Memories of Drifaien, the loneliness, the agony, the helplessness. Memories from the dungeons in Berona and from Ilnaen, and from every moment they’d spent apart. Every time they were separated, Valerys’s soul bled. He could not keep Calen safe if they were apart, and every time they were apart, darkness swallowed them.
Calen leaned forwards and closed his eyes, resting his hands against Valerys’s scales. “It is our purpose, Valerys. To fight, to save whomever we can. It is the reason we found each other. Ella and Therin are inside. Will you let them die? Or will you give the Lorians fire and fury while I fight within the mountain?” Calen drew a breath and pressed his helmet against Valerys’s neck. It had often been the dragon who had given him warmth, Valerys who had filled the cracks in Calen. Now, it was Calen’s turn to do the same. “Lumisín viel, viel ayar. I denír vi?l ar altinua. La’uva umirís tiastri du.”
Wherever we are, we are one. In this life and always. I will never leave you.
Valerys unleashed another roar in answer, rage and fury surging through him. He swooped back across the battlefield, raking fire in his path as he went. The dragon angled his wings and swept upwards, tearing through the skies towards the mountain, Avandeer and Varthear in his wake.
Valerys soared around the eastern rock face of the Firnin Mountains, and Calen spotted the circular opening Tivar had spoken of, set into the top of a flat peak thousands of feet from the ground. It was barely five or six feet across.
The dragon swept forwards and alighted on the rock, Calen sliding from his back. Both Avandeer and Varthear landed to Valerys’s left, Tivar dismounting and walking towards Calen.
“Their mages are learning to shield in groups,” Tivar said as she approached. “But if the dragons can keep them occupied, wreak as much havoc as possible, then at the least we can find a way to get the others out. We need to move quickly. The longer we take, the more likely it is that Eltoar and the others will come. I saw beacons lit on one of the far hills. We get in. Save who we can. Get out. If the dragons can cause enough damage to the Lorian armies, they will be in no shape to pursue any rebels.”
Calen inclined his head to Tivar before looking back to Valerys. “Myia nithír til diar, Valerys. Anataier aldryr ar orimyn.”
My soul to yours, Valerys. Give them fire and fury.
The dragon let out a low rumble and pressed the side of his snout into Calen’s chest. A wave of emotions flowed from Valerys’s mind to Calen’s, a rush of images and memories, all telling Calen one thing: protect the bond.
“Altinua,” Calen whispered. Always .
The three dragons lifted towards the sky, wind swirling as they cracked their wings.
“Together,” Tivar said, walking towards the edge of the circular opening in the rock.
“Together.”
Calen drew a long breath, then dropped into the opening and wrapped himself in threads of Air. He exhaled slowly as he fell. Just before his feet touched the ground, he drove the threads downwards, cracks spreading out as his feet touched the rock. Tivar landed beside him less than a heartbeat later, light as a feather.
About them, rebels armed with swords and spears fought back a clutch of Lorians in red and black leather, the thrum of the Spark in the air.
Calen sprang forwards, reaching out with threads of Air as he did, wrapping them around the Lorian Battlemage who stood closest to him and pulling. As the man hurtled through the air towards him, Calen pulled on each elemental strand and summoned his níthral, a bright purple light bursting from his fist. With the blade forming in his fist, he swung and cleaved the man in half across the navel. The two pieces dropped to the ground, innards spilling into the dirt.
Valerys roared in Calen’s mind as Calen kept moving, bounding over a corpse and cutting a second Lorian down before the woman had a chance to turn. A third charged him, but he caught the blow high while focusing a sphere of Air into his left hand and slamming it into the Lorian’s chest. He could feel the soldier’s ribs shatter with the force as the body soared backwards almost twenty feet.
Most of the Lorians had turned to face him and Tivar now. A pulse of the Spark sent a tingle down his spine, and Calen wove threads of Spirit, Fire, and Air together just in time to form a Sparkward. The lightning crashed against Calen’s ward, breaking over its surface. Just as Calen had done when training with the others in Aravell, he pulsed Spirit through the ward and sent the Lorian hurtling back into the wall behind him.
Calen took the opportunity to close the distance between them. He drew his sword as the Battlemage recovered and surged forwards, steel in his fist. The first swing came at Calen’s left thigh. He fell into the svidarya, his muscles acting on reflex. The second swing was a downstroke at Calen’s skull. Calen blocked the strike and swept it left. As he twisted to make the killing blow, a fine thread of Air slammed into the Lorian’s neck and snapped it clean, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he collapsed.
Tivar pulled her sword from a Lorian chest, one hand outstretched towards Calen. The blood dripped from the steel as she approached, eyes scanning their surroundings.
They stood in a massive circular chamber, sparring pits set about the central area, chairs and benches lining the outer rim.
Men and woman of all ages stood staring, spears, swords, and axes clutched in their hands. It took one glance for Calen to see that these were hard people but not soldiers. They were garbed in mismatched patches of leather over tunics, covered in crusted-in dirt, blood and sweat marring their faces.
Two men and a woman approached, a tension in the way they moved, their eyes flitting from Calen to Tivar.
After a moment, the woman stepped forwards, pressed a fist to her chest, and bowed. “Warden of Varyn, thank the gods.”
Across the chamber, others whispered the same thing. That damned name.
The woman was barely older than he was, her hair matted with blood.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded, swallowing hard. “They killed Tomas and Ferol, Mattea is injured. But the rest can keep fighting.”
“What is your name?”
“Yandira, Warden.”
“I am Calen Bryer, and this is Tivar Savinír,” he said, gesturing towards Tivar, who stared at the ground, her sword returned to its scabbard. “Where are the others, Yandira? Farwen and Coren? What is the situation?”
“At the gates, I think. The Lorians broke through the scout tunnels. We were stationed here to watch over the children and the injured.” Yandira motioned towards a low wall built from upturned boxes at the far side of the chamber.
Men and women lay on shoddy cots, wounds wrapped in bandages, limbs missing. Calen couldn’t see any children, but he could hear their whimpers.
“If the soldiers get in behind the others… they won’t stand a chance.”
Calen nodded. “Is there a safe way out of the mountain?”
“There’s a sally port near the armoury,” one of the men said, stepping forwards. “That is where we’re to go if Tarhelm is breached.”
“Go. And gather anyone you see along the way. Tarhelm is lost but the people are not. We will cover your escape and ensure the Lorians have no desire to pursue. We will need one of you to guide us to the gates.”
“I will go.” Yandira stood tall and proud, her back straight, but Calen could see the fear in her eyes. “It would be my honour, Warden.”
“The honour is mine.” Calen gave the woman the slightest of bows, resting a hand on the pommel of his sword as he did. “Please, lead the way.”
When they reached the tunnel mouth that led from the chamber, Calen stopped and turned back, searching for the man who had spoken of the sally port. He found him leading one of the injured rebels. “Keep them safe,” Calen said, looking around at the others. “That is your task now. Get these people to the sally port. Don’t look back.”
“What do we do when we get there?”
“Get free of the mountain and find the nearest safe place. If nobody follows you through by the break of the next day, find shelter.” Calen rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. “We will not abandon you, I swear it.”
Several men and women stepped forwards, hefting shields and spears, cold iron in their eyes.
“We will not fail you, Warden,” a tall man said, shoulders broad, his left ear a bloody stump. He looked to be as old as Vars had been when he’d died.
“Nor I you.”
Calen pressed a gauntleted hand to his breastplate, inclined his head, then turned and followed Yandira through the tunnel.
“You speak well,” Tivar said as they entered the tunnel.
“I said what I needed to,” Calen answered. His memories shifted to Kollna and Tarast, to their last moments, to the fire in their hearts, to their sense of purpose – his purpose. “We must be the light they look to. Nothing less.” He turned to Yandira. “Lead the way.”
Rist followed Garramon through the never-ending web of tunnels and chambers, Neera and Magnus at his side, Kalder and Lakrin trailing at the rear, the three hundred or so surviving soldiers in between them.
The four Chosen moved with them, never so much as uttering a word, the runes in their silver armour illuminating any shadow that dared stretch across the rock.
Garramon had found a sealed tunnel almost a mile further up the mountain, and they’d smashed through with the Spark. They lost quite a few of their number to the rebels on the other side.
They had not been long through the tunnel when a massive explosion shook the mountain, waves of the Spark rippling through the rock. Murmurs spread through the soldiers.
“What in the ever-loving fuck was that?” Magnus asked, looking about as dust and small chips of rocks fell from the ceiling.
“Nothing good,” Garramon said. “But we need to keep moving.”
As they went, the Chosen cut down any rebels that dared cross their path. The creatures had no hesitation within them, nor any mercy. Not that Rist expected mercy at a time like this, but their brutality unsettled him.
A few moments after they’d stepped into another chamber, cries rang out and arrows sliced through the air. One burst through Lakrin’s hand, and Rist skidded to a stop, turning just in time to see another arrow punch into a soldier’s neck, blood spraying in a plume.
“Rist!” Neera’s voice was like a clap of distant thunder, echoing in Rist’s mind as one of the Chosen threw itself in front of him, a pillar of fire spraying over its back. Those crimson eyes stared down at Rist, the flames causing the silver armour to burn with an incandescent glow.
The moment the flames faltered, the creature spun on its heels, the runes in its armour glowing, a pulse of Essence thrumming from it.
A man soared through the air, eyes wild, threads of Spirit and Fire whirling about him. The Chosen snatched him from the air, steel-clad fingers wrapping around his throat, and in that same instant snapped his neck with one flick of its wrist.
Rist stared at the body as it dropped, snapped bone protruding from the man’s neck, his eyes vacant.
Dirt crunched to his left, followed by a shout. Rist’s instincts took hold. He turned to meet a charging man clad in a tunic and breeches, sword raised above his head. Rist lunged forwards and wrapped the fingers of his left hand around the man’s sword wrist, smashing his right elbow into the man’s jaw. He slid his hand down and grabbed the hilt of the sword as the rebel’s fingers slackened.
In a practiced motion from form five, movement nine, Rist ripped the sword free, shifted it into reverse grip, then drove it backwards past his left hip. He felt the blade bite on the leather, then felt the release as it slid through and into the flesh.
He pulled the sword free and let go of the hilt, the steel clanging. In less than a breath, he felt the man die, the gemstone beneath his breastplate pulsing. As it had before, a voice whispered in Rist’s mind, not begging, but demanding he harness the Essence before it evaporated and was lost.
The voice was a tangible thing. “You need it to keep them safe,” it whispered. “Take it.”
His throat tightened, his lungs seeming starved for air as he resisted the urge. It was like a hunger within him, and that terrified every part of Rist.
“No,” he whispered back, setting his will in iron. The Essence faded, and the sounds of the world around him flooded his ears once more. He’d not even realised they’d gone. When Rist turned back to the others, the remaining rebels were dead, nothing but corpses in the dirt.
To him it had seemed the world had stopped, but nobody else looked to have even noticed. Nobody except Neera. She looked at him in only the way that she could, her eyes asking questions without words.
He nodded and looked back down at the dead man before turning to follow Garramon and the others into the next tunnel. A hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him.
One of the Chosen stood over Rist – the one who had saved him, he thought.
“Thank you,” Rist said, looking up at the armoured giant.
“Does your faith falter?” There would never be a time when the eerie layered voices of the Chosen didn’t set Rist’s hair on end.
Rist didn’t answer. The truth was pointless here. This was a creature of Efialtír, and he didn’t think there would be much room for nuance.
The Chosen let out a long breath beneath its steel helmet, stared at him for a moment longer, then turned and walked towards the tunnel mouth.
Shouts erupted from the tunnel. “Forward!”
Rist looked to Neera, and the pair broke into a sprint, the straggling soldiers doing the same. They charged through the tunnel and emerged onto a platform that dropped down into an enormous cavern that stretched for hundreds of feet in all directions, buildings of brown stone rising all about. Rebels and Lorian soldiers alike were hacking each other to pieces in the narrow streets and atop the rooves, threads of each elemental strand whirling in the air.
Garramon and Magnus fought at the bottom of the stairs that led from the platform, rebels swarming around them, archers atop rooves loosing volley after volley. As the soldiers rushed past, Rist stopped for a moment, catching sight of something on a ledge above.
A man stood with his hands behind his back, watching over the fighting with the calm of a statue. Two women stood with him. The man tilted his head and stared directly at Rist, and Rist could have sworn a smile crept across his face.
The sound of clashing steel pulled Rist’s attention back to the fighting. He opened himself to the Spark, pulled his sword from its scabbard, and charged down the stairs.
The purple light of the runes in Calen’s armour shone against the smooth rock of the tunnels as Yandira guided him and Tivar through the maze within the mountain. There must have been hundreds of tunnels twisting in every direction, some climbing, others sloping down, shafts of light carved into their walls.
“How can you possibly find your way in here?” Calen said as they passed through a small chamber that branched off in six directions.
“I’ve been here for eleven years.” Yandira didn’t even break stride as she turned left and entered the third tunnel. She’d not looked much older than he. Had she truly been living in this place at only thirteen or fourteen summers? “Farwen and Coren built it this way on purpose. It meant that even if the imperials did get inside, we would still have an advantage.”
The mountain shook, and Yandira stumbled, catching herself against the smooth wall. Tivar looked to him. He could feel the Spark pulsing through the rock. There was no doubt that Lorian mages were now within the mountain in large numbers.
Even with Kaygan and Fenryr at their side, there was little chance they could actually win this battle now. Gods they might be, but Calen had seen nothing of what they could do in battle. Either way, Aeson had taught him that sometimes winning meant surviving. He needed to find Ella and the others, needed to get as many people to safety as he could. That was victory.
He let his mind drift into Valerys’s, let their hearts beat together. The dragon swept around the face of the mountain, twirled in the air as lightning streaked past, then dropped and poured fire over a force of Lorian cavalry that were moving around the foot of the mountain.
The horses split and scattered, only for Avandeer to drop low across them and set the ground alight, Varthear plunging through the flames to rip four of the mounted warriors to pieces with her talons. The three dragons soared back over the plains below, fires raging amidst the Lorian ranks. In the distance, through Valerys’s eyes, he saw the army’s tents and wagons. Valerys let out a roar and cracked his wings, surging forwards. No matter what happened within the mountain, these Lorians would pay for coming here. And without their supplies, they would not be hunting down any survivors.
Another quake shook the rock, and this time the pulse of the Spark was closer. Calen could feel it thrumming in the air. He pulled on threads of Air and Spirit, following the drift as Falmin had taught him. Sounds vibrated through the threads: clattering steel, screams, crackling fire.
“What’s that way?” Calen asked, pointing to a tunnel on the opposite side of the chamber they’d just entered. He noticed a small green circle marked onto the rock.
“Many things,” Yandira said, stopping. She licked her lips in thought. “The mushroom cellars, the grain stores, a section of living quarters…” She pointed towards a tunnel mouth on the right side of the cavern with a small orange square marked onto the rock beside it. “The gates are that way.”
More screams vibrated along Calen’s threads of Air, more pulses of the Spark thrumming. Something else called to him, something he could not explain… something familiar. It echoed in the Spark, like a shadow of a memory. He moved towards that echo, drawing his sword. “We go this way.”
Neither Yandira nor Tivar argued, the latter sliding her sword from its scabbard.
Calen followed the shouts and screams, his feet pounding against the rock, his heart thumping, that familiar echo pulling at him. He stepped through into a new chamber, where rebels were gathering and readying themselves to enter the fray. Fifty or so, no more. “Fall back to the sally port!”
For a moment, they looked at him dumbstruck, then eyes widened and whispers spread.
He ignored them and looked to Yandira. “Get them to the sally port. Gather any you find along the way.”
Calen didn’t wait for her reply. He charged through the tunnel on the opposite side, releasing the threads of Air and Spirit, the clash of steel and shouts of battle carrying on their own now.
Tivar matched him stride for stride, her gaze forward.