81. 2
The tunnel opened up to a ledge that overlooked an enormous cavern filled with rock-hewn buildings that rose two and three storeys. The fighting raged across the cavern, rebels loosing arrows from high ledges and rooves while others fought in the streets against Lorian soldiers. The rebels outnumbered the Lorians three to one at least, but the Battlemages were quickly evening out that discrepancy. In his periphery Calen caught the glimmer of red runes in silver steel, and he watched as one of the Chosen brought its crimson níthral down atop a man’s head and split him from skull to groin, the two halves slopping to the ground.
“I’m with you,” Tivar said, looking down at the pitched fighting below. She slid her sword into her scabbard and extended her arm. Calen felt her open to the Spark, threads of each elemental strand swirling around her. A moment passed, and then a sword of gleaming yellow light formed in her hand. Tivar let out a shivering sigh, staring down at the níthral in awe. “For almost four centuries, I was lost… and my níthral had ignored my call. Until you gave me purpose once more. I am yours.”
“Uthikar, vésani,” Calen said, turning back towards the fighting, his purple níthral igniting in his fist. Together, sister.
Pulling in threads of Air, Calen leapt from the ledge. He hit the ground hard, not softening his landing any more than he needed to.
The Lorian soldiers around him hesitated for just a moment. That was all he needed.
Calen swept forwards, dropping into Striking Dragon and allowing the svidarya to flow through him, the light of his níthral glowing across the rock. He cut down two men in red and black leather in quick succession. The third blocked his first swing in a burst of purple light, but the impact staggered him backwards and he tripped over a corpse. Calen was upon him in moments. He stared down into the Lorian’s fear-filled eyes, steeled himself, then watched the man’s light go out as he drove his níthral into his chest.
“To us!” Calen called out, moving through the forms of svidarya, carving the Lorians apart.
Tivar surged past, her níthral shimmering with yellow light as she sliced through a Lorian chest, then spun on her heels and extended a hand, threads of Air snapping outwards.
Calen turned to see a spear curve in the air and whip past his head, the blade grazing the side of his helmet with a rasping scrape. Within a heartbeat, Tivar had already wrapped the threads of Air around the soldier who had thrown the spear, his bones snapping in spurts of blood. As she moved to stand by Calen’s side, the rebels rallied to them, snatching up dropped Lorian shields.
Lorian soldiers flooded from the side streets, and Calen could feel the Spark pulsing within their numbers.
Murmurs spread through the rebels about Calen, followed by shouts and pointed fingers as a Chosen leapt from a rooftop above, silver armour glinting in the light that poured through the thin shafts in the rock. The ground shook beneath Calen’s feet as the Chosen crashed down, cracks spreading beneath its armoured boots.
The Chosen stood to its full height, towering over the Lorian soldiers, a burning red níthral forming in its hand. It charged, roaring in a voice that made Calen’s skin crawl, “For The Saviour!”
The soldiers roared in response, clattering swords against shields, and charged after the monstrosity in silver plate.
“Stay together,” Tivar called, the Spark crackling around her, níthral gleaming. “Today is not the day we die.”
Calen’s heart thumped against his ribs as the Chosen drew closer, its runes blazing.
“For those we’ve lost,” Calen said, steadying himself. He reached out to Valerys, their minds blending. In the skies above the mountain, Valerys roared, and the dragon’s strength flowed into Calen. Fire burned in his veins, and lightning crackled over his skin. This was his purpose. This was what it meant to be a Draleid, to be a guardian, to be a warrior. “With me!”
He broke into a charge, not needing to look to know that Tivar and the rebels charged alongside him.
The Chosen swung its crimson blade in a wide arc, trying to cleave Calen’s head from his body. Calen fell into Howling Wolf, sliding beneath the glowing blade. As he twisted and struck down at the creature’s knee, it threw its arm back and blocked the strike in a flash of purple and red.
Tivar lunged from the front, thrusting her níthral at the creature’s gut. It twisted to avoid the blade.
Calen released his níthral and pushed threads of Fire and Spirit into his hand, lightning crackling over his gauntlet. He rammed his fist into the creature’s side, sending cracks through the armour. It cried out in a twisted howl.
Again, Calen felt Tarast moving through him, the memories of a life once lived flashing across his mind.
The Chosen swung its blade where Calen’s head had been only a heartbeat before, but Calen had dropped low and stepped right, Valerys roaring, their shared soul burning with a bright fury. His níthral burst to life in his fist, and he thrust it deep into the Chosen’s chest as Tivar carved through its arm.
“Svidír i’il aldryrín un’il rastikar, Vitharnmír!” Calen roared as the níthral carved through steel and flesh, the runes in the Chosen’s armour blazing with a blinding light. He had not intended to speak the words. They had simply flowed through him as though spoken by another. Burn in the fires of the void, Vitharnmír!
The rebels and Lorians crashed in around them, the clash of steel on steel echoing.
Calen pulled his níthral free, the Chosen’s armour slithering back into the runes on its flesh as the body dropped to the floor.
“For Epheria,” he roared, a fervour in his heart. “For freedom!”
Valerys’s fury burned within him as he cut through the Lorians, his níthral shimmering, lightning crackling over his fist. He blocked a swing of Lorian steel overhead, ran his níthral up the blade, twisted his wrist at the top, then pushed the blade down before pivoting and carving open the Lorian’s chest before him.
As the body dropped, Calen extended his hand and unleashed a maelstrom of death, lightning tearing holes through Lorian bodies and crashing into the rock beneath. The drain sapped at him, but as it did, Valerys roared from the sky outside and pushed his strength through the bond.
A pulse of the Spark surged outwards from within the Lorian numbers, and whips of Fire and Air streaked towards him.
The flames flickered and died before touching Calen’s flesh as Tivar sliced through them with threads of Spirit.
“Mage,” Tivar shouted, pointing her níthral towards a man rushing at them, black cloak billowing behind him, flames wreathing both hands.
A burst of crimson light ignited to the left, and a hulking man bounded forwards, a dense black beard covering his face, a shimmering níthral in his hand, his other arm cleaved just below the shoulder. A second mage joined him, the Spark pulsing.
“Uthikar,” Calen shouted, moving to stand next to Tivar.
Together.
Rist brought his sword up across his body, blocking the swing of the rebel blade. He sent a sphere of air into the man’s chest, lifting him off his feet and slamming him into the brown stone wall at his back. He twisted at the waist, avoiding the stab of a spear while an arrow skittered off his helmet, then brought his blade back up the shaft, opening his attacker’s face from the cheek through to the back of the skull. Essence pulsed all around him, and the gemstone hanging from his neck urged him to tap into its power, to give himself strength, to protect those he cared for, those he loved.
Neera and Garramon fought beside him, threads of Air, Fire, and Spirit whipping about them. The rebels had outnumbered them easily, but they were no match for the more heavily armoured soldiers. And the superior might of the Battlemages and Chosen had forced the rebels back, their numbers dwindling. He did not need the Essence.
Two parts of himself warred: the part that grew bold at watching those who had attacked Berona crumble and break, and the part that was horrified by the blood that poured onto the rock. But as the blood spilled, a sense of resolution set into him, and the former burned brighter than the latter. These rebels had murdered so many in Berona. Memories of the attack flashed across Rist’s mind. Memories of the flames and the charred corpses, of that woman’s blistered and burnt face, of her screams. These monsters had waited for the Healers to come, drawn them in, then set them all on fire again.
They had set their fate that day. This war needed to end, and it would end here in this mountain.
Rist pushed forwards, flowing through the movements he had spent countless hours memorising, his blade an extension of himself. He whipped threads of Air around his body, deflecting strikes as they came.
Shouts rang out, echoing in the enormous cavern. “It’s the Warden of Varyn!”
Every hair on Rist’s body pricked up. The Draleid was here, in this cavern. The one who all the soldiers talked of, the one who had set the entire city of Kingspass ablaze.
Ripples of the Spark surged in the air, and a sudden realisation came to Rist. “Where’s Magnus?”
“What?” Garramon had been looking in the direction of the shouts.
“Magnus…” Rist scanned the street. The last of the rebels were falling, bodies littering the rock. He spotted Lakrin nearby. The mage was limping but alive. “Kalder and Magnus. They’re not here.”
More shouts echoed, sharper.
Both Rist and Garramon broke into a run, Neera following. Rist’s heart had never beat so quickly, its thumps drowning out all other sounds in his ears. He rounded the corner of the nearest structure to see the fighting was far from over.
Soldiers and rebels tore pieces from each other, screams and clattering steel drumming in the back of Rist’s mind.
His heart stopped in his chest when his gaze fell to the centre of it all. A purple níthral jutted from a man’s back, the black cloak of a Battlemage knotted at their shoulders. The glowing light vanished as the blade was pulled back through, and the body dropped. Both relief and shame touched Rist’s soul when he saw Kalder’s face staring back at him with dead eyes. It wasn’t Magnus.
The man who stood over Kalder’s body was garbed entirely in blood-stained white steel plate marked with glowing purple runes. Golden leaves and vines were worked delicately into the breast in a pattern that struck Rist’s mind… He knew it from somewhere. He could see it in his mind.
Rist understood why the Draleid had earned the name ‘Warden of Varyn’. Even his eyes shimmered with a purple light, a luminescent mist drifting upwards. The man looked like the champion of a god.
Another warrior fought alongside him, but this one wore the same armour as Eltoar Daethana and the Dragonguard, except the sigil of the black flame had been carved from the breast.
Had one of them defected? Rist had watched what those elven Draleid had done at the Three Sisters, he’d seen Eltoar and the other Dragonguard’s strength. There was no way they could stand against two of them.
In a blur of motion, the Draleid spun, his purple níthral crashing against another formed from a deep crimson light, sparks bursting.
Magnus .
Even with one arm, the man was a raging storm. He weaved between the two Draleid like a warrior half his size, turning away probing swords and spears from the surrounding rebels, the Spark pulsing from him.
Before Rist could think, his feet were moving, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword, his mind unconsciously reaching for the Spark. He would not let Magnus stand alone, no matter what. Both Garramon and Neera charged with him, the air thrumming with power.
Calen shifted from svidarya to valathír, then into fellensír and back again. The Burning Winds, the Frozen Soul, the Lonely Mountain, it mattered little. This Lorian Battlemage moved like a man possessed. Even with Tivar by his side, the beast of a man held his ground, the gemstone around his neck glittering with crimson light. Each swing of his blade fell like a hammer, and he moved with a speed no man should have. But Calen could see the lethargy creeping into his motions, the drain sapping at him, the light in the stone fading.
With each arc of lightning and whip of fire Calen smashed against the man’s Sparkwards, with each thread he sliced, the mage grew weaker. No matter how strong this man was, he was no Draleid, and the well from which he drew was emptying.
Valerys’s roar thundered in Calen’s mind as the dragon once more swept over the battlefield below, raking fire across the Lorian remnants that had not fled into the mountain for cover or routed in all directions.
Calen drew a breath and pulled Valerys’s strength into his. With the dragon’s fury burning in his veins, he unleashed an unrelenting stream of lightning. The arcs of blue light smashed against an unseen shield, breaking like waves against a cliff. Calen roared as Valerys did, the dragon’s power flowing through him.
The mage pushed out his left hand and sent a concussive wave slamming into Tivar. She careened backwards, crashing into a tangle of rebels and soldiers. Even still, Calen could feel the ward failing.
Something slammed into him hard, knocking the wind from his lungs and causing him to release his níthral. He barely had a chance to collect his thoughts when another mage charged at him, sword drawn.
Calen took a step back, his foot slamming into a mound of earth he’d sworn had not been there before. He twisted as he fell, forcing a thread of Air between himself and the ground. In that brief moment before he pushed himself back upright, he looked down at a spike jutting up from the rock barely a foot from his face. That had most definitely not been there.
Calen sent a pulse through the thread of Air and forced himself back to his feet, summoning his níthral in the same motion and blocking the swing of the mage’s blade before it carved into his neck.
This man was different than the other, less fluid. Calen pushed onto the front foot, allowing the forms of the svidarya to flow through him. He struck high, meeting steel, then again, and again, pressing the man back.
He opened himself, waiting for the mage to strike, and when he did, Calen pounced, driving the tip of his níthral towards the man’s gut.
Before the blade sliced into the mage’s flesh, invisible coils wrapped around Calen, squeezing his body in a crunch.
Valerys’s fury poured into him, liquid fire filling his veins, and he unleashed a pulse of Air that swept outwards in a wave of concussive force. The Blood Magic holding him in place evaporated, and he staggered forwards.
In a heartbeat, Tivar was at his side, and four mages pressed in around them. He could feel them probing with threads of Air and Spirit, see the gemstones around their necks glowing. Calen settled himself into fellensír, and just as he did, Valerys’s mind crashed into his, urgent, panicking, the dragon’s vision supplanting his own.
Through Valerys’s eyes, a section of clouds whirled inwards, strands of red light piercing the dense canopy like the first light of dawn. And through the whirl of clouds came an enormous head covered in black and crimson scales, jaws large enough to swallow a wagon whole, eyes of smouldering red. Neck and shoulders followed, dense and broad, then deep crimson wings.
The enormous black dragon burst from the clouds like a god breaking through the veil, unleashing a roar that forced the world itself to tremble. Two more dragons broke through the clouds after him, scales deep blue and muted red.
“Helios,” Tivar whispered beside him. “They have come.”
The four mages surged forwards, and Calen pulled his mind back to his own body, the sword forms flowing through him as effortlessly as his lungs drew in breath. Tivar moved with him, her níthral ignited.
This ended now.
The first mage lunged, and Calen stepped into the space between them. He feigned a swing of his níthral, then released it as the man made to block. Tivar swept past him and sliced her blade along the man’s side, causing him to cry out and stumble. Calen dropped his hand down onto the mage’s shoulder and grabbed tight. With Valerys roaring in his mind, Calen unleashed a wreath of fire from his palm over the man’s helmet-clad face.
The mage screamed and let out an eruption of Spirit and Air, knocking Calen back. Calen anchored threads of Air into the rock and stopped himself from careening through the air.
Again he moved forwards, turning aside each blade as it came, slicing through threads with his own, Tivar always beside him. An arc of lightning ignited to his left, and she threw herself in front of it. The lightning crashed into Tivar’s pauldron and sent her to the ground, a crack in her plate, but she was on her feet in heartbeats.
The one-armed Battlemage rushed him with that crimson níthral in his fist, but the man was exhausted now. The drain had pulled the energy from his bones. And while the mage struggled to carry on, Valerys’s fire still burned with a fury.
Calen sidestepped the man’s half-hearted lunge, then swept his níthral across his back. The light-wrought blade sliced through the steel and bit into flesh, and the mage collapsed, howling. Calen spun, turning away the swing of another blade and knocking it free from its wielder’s hands. Valerys’s rage burning in him, he pushed threads of earth into the mage’s breastplate, and she unleashed a horrendous shriek.
In that moment, Calen felt a surge of the Spark like nothing he’d ever felt. It swept outwards, rippling through the air and crackling over his skin. The entire cavern shook, and chunks of rock broke free from the ceiling, followed by clouds of dust and a deep, aching groan that reverberated through the mountain.
His threads of Earth were severed, and threads of each elemental strand bored into him, searing through his very core, Valerys roaring. Calen pushed back, the runes on his armour blazing. He charged the mage who was trying to burn him out, his níthral igniting as he did.
Their blades collided in a burst of purple light. Calen moved from form to form, feinting high, then striking low, slicing his níthral along the mage’s side. The man staggered, but the energy that pulsed in waves did not falter. Calen could still feel it burning within him. Still, the man was no match for him with a blade.
Calen turned away a strike to his left, twisted his wrist, then dragged his níthral across the mage’s breastplate, slicing through the steel and coming a hair’s breadth from opening the man’s chest.
Keeping his momentum, he set his back foot and lunged forwards for the killing blow, only for something to crash into him like a battering ram. He careened backwards, the sound of breaking rocks filling his ears as his head spun and every bone in his body felt as though it were melting from the inside. He pressed a fist into the ground, the purple light of his eyes glowing against the rock, and pushed himself upright.
One of the Chosen stood over him, its helm gone, deep black eyes staring at him. But before the creature could move, a mage strode past it, eyes gleaming beneath his helmet with the same red light that shone from the gemstone around his neck.
Tendrils of Blood Magic slithered around Calen’s body, holding him in place while threads of the Spark pushed into him, ripping at his soul. Behind the Chosen, Tivar did everything she could to reach him, but two more Chosen fell upon her, crimson blades sweeping.
The mage wrapped his hand around Calen’s throat and lifted him to his feet with the aid of the dark magic.
Valerys roared and thrashed in Calen’s mind, sweeping around the western ridge of the mountain as Helios and the other dragons descended towards the battlefield. Fear. Fury. Sorrow. Panic. Calen could not leave him alone. He could not. Valerys wouldn’t allow it. They were the same soul. They were together always.
The mage pushed harder and harder, the Spark burning in Calen. With Valerys’s strength, Calen pushed back, the Spark rippling outwards. More rocks fell from the ceiling, the mountain crying out. And somewhere in the back of Calen’s mind he heard men and women shouting.
“It’s coming down!” someone called. Rebels and soldiers alike began to break and flee while Tivar fought ceaselessly against the two Chosen, rebels rallying around her.
As a white light began to burn in Calen’s eyes, he pushed each strand into his fist, summoning his níthral. No matter how powerful this mage was, a níthral to the heart would surely see him dead.
And then, as the purple light formed in his fist and illuminated the man’s face through his helmet, Calen saw it. The man roared and the bonds of dark magic crushed Calen’s bones, but Calen looked past the red light that glowed in the mage’s eyes. He knew that face. He knew those eyes. Calen released his níthral. Gasping for air, he choked out one word. “Rist?”
The bonds loosened, the Spark pulled back, and the crimson light vanished from Rist’s eyes. A moment passed, a moment of strange silence as though Calen stood in a dream, one that could never be real.
“Calen?”
Even as the fighting raged about them, the utterance of Calen’s name had blocked his ears to all other sounds except Rist’s voice. He staggered forwards a step, searching the eyes he had known his entire life. Calen’s hands trembled, his lip quivering, his mind racing. “You’re alive? You… Is it really you?”
Rist reached up and pulled the helmet from his head, his jaw slack. He looked different than what Calen remembered – his cheeks fuller, neck thicker – but it was still Rist.
“Your eyes,” Rist whispered. For a moment, he seemed to disappear into his own thoughts, just as he had always done.
“Rist, what are you doing here?” Calen shook his head as he spoke. He’d not wanted to believe what Ella had said. That Rist had joined the Lorian Empire… It couldn’t be true. “How could you? How could you join them? What are you?”
“What am I? What are you? You are the one who burned Kingspass to the ground? You are the one who has spread this rebellion? Do you know how many lives you have destroyed, Calen?” Rist pressed a hand to his ribs where Calen had sliced into him. “This can’t be real… it can’t be.”
“They killed my parents, Rist. They destroyed everything… How could you?”
“I didn’t have a choice!” Rist snapped back.
“You always have a choice, Rist. Always.”
Something in Rist’s expression shifted, and he straightened. “It can’t be…” he whispered. “This can’t be real…”
“Rist, your mam and dad are alive. They’re safe. They tortured them, Rist, but I broke them free. I—” Threads of Air pulled the breath from Calen’s lungs and wrapped around his throat, lifting him from the ground.
Through watering eyes, he saw another mage step up beside Rist, a hand pressed to the burnt flesh on his face. The power of the Spark that rippled from the man was immense.
“Garramon, let him go!” Rist roared. “Let him go!”
“We need to end this now!” the other man shouted. “If he dies here, so does the rebellion.”
“Let him go!” Rist roared again, and a surge of the Spark erupted outwards, knocking the man from his feet. Calen dropped like a sack of stones, his knees slamming against the ground. More shards broke free from the ceiling above, and a thunderous crack ripped through the rock.
Calen lifted his gaze to see Rist standing over him. He grunted and hauled himself to his feet, looking up at the ceiling as the cracks spread. Before he could say a word, a flash of motion blurred past and Rist was gone.
Calen looked down to see Ella standing over Rist, Faenir at her side. One of the Chosen broke away from Tivar, only for a black and gold wolf as large as a wagon to leap from a rooftop, wrap its jaws around the Chosen’s helmet, and slam it to the ground. The runes in the Chosen’s armour blazed as the monstrous wolf tore its head from its shoulders. Calen could feel the call of the wolf howling in his mind, could feel Fenryr’s pull.
The giant wolf surged towards the second Chosen, shifting as it did, bones twisting and snapping, forming into the broad man in black plate Calen knew. A gleaming golden axe took shape in Fenryr’s hand, and he buried its wicked blade into the Chosen’s chest, tearing it free as the creature collapsed.
The other Lorian mages stood together, the Spark rippling around them, the gemstones gleaming at their necks. The man with one arm lay in a heap on the ground, his chest rising and falling slowly. But within a heartbeat, Aneera and Diango were there as well, and so too were Kaygan, his two druids, Asius, Therin, a Narvonan woman with her sword drawn, and a number of rebels.
More rocks broke free from the ceiling and crashed down, one smashing through a nearby building, the other crushing two Lorian soldiers beneath it.
“This place is crumbling,” Kaygan said, gesturing towards Una.
Una’s eyes turned a milky white, and a portal opened beside her. Through it, Calen saw blue skies tinged with the red light of the moon.
“ Now ,” Kaygan said firmly as rocks continued to rain down, one impacting the ground beside Fenryr.
Boud was the first one through, followed by the rebels. Ella stared down at Rist for a moment, snarling, then whispered something in his ear and rose. She grabbed Calen’s arm and pulled him towards the portal. He shrugged her off, and she growled like a wolf and stormed through the open portal, Faenir with her.
Calen looked down at Rist and extended a hand. “Come with me.”
Rist stared back at him, then at the two mages who stood over the man on the ground.
“Rist, please.”
Another voice called out – the man whose face Calen had burned. He’d lifted the one-armed mage up and slid a hand behind his back. “Rist, it’s coming down. We need to go!”
Rist looked from the mage to Calen and back to the woman with dark hair, her breastplate partially crumpled. A rock smashed down between Calen and Rist, and a hand rested on Calen’s pauldron.
“He’s made his choice,” Fenryr said, a growl in his voice.
“No.” Calen stepped forwards, another rock crashing to the ground beside him. “Rist!”
Rist just stood there, his head shaking slightly from right to left, his jaw slack, eyes wide.
A monstrous crack sounded overhead, and threads of Air burst outwards from Rist to seize a large chunk of rock before it landed atop the other mages. He whipped the threads sideways and sent the rock crashing into a wall.
“I can’t leave them…” Rist said, looking back towards the other mages.
“Rist, you have to come with me… you have to…”
“I’m sorry.” Rist stared into Calen’s eyes. “I can’t leave them, Calen. They need me… I will find you, I swear it.”
Rist turned and ran to the Lorian mages, threads of Air whipping at falling rocks.
“No! Rist!”
Fenryr grabbed Calen’s shoulder and pulled him backwards, but Calen pushed his hand away. “Rist!”
Rist slipped his arm around the unconscious mage, looking back over his shoulder as the group fled for the nearest tunnel mouth.
“Rist…”
Valerys roared in Calen’s mind. Where Calen’s heart was sorrow and loss, Valerys’s was fury and wrath. Everything Ella had said was true. “I didn’t leave him, Calen. He stayed.”
Valerys’s fury burned Calen’s agony away, devouring it, their minds pulling together. Helios and the other two dragons had alighted on an open plain on the western side of the mountain, and there they remained while Valerys, Avandeer, and Varthear perched on a mountain cliff.
As Rist vanished in the rockfall, Fenryr grabbed Calen once more and pushed him through the portal.