Chapter 28 Faron
FARON
H orses were few in number in the Doremy army, but a pair had been loaned to Faron and Isabelle to ride ahead as they chased the rampaging red dragon.
“It’s tiring,” Faron said, watching the monstrous creature fly ahead of the marching army.
“How can you tell?” Isabelle asked beside him.
“See how it sags?” he said, pointing. “Its belly is nearly touching the trees. No doubt it understands we will not leave it be, and once it sees Murta’s army, it will descend with all its fury.”
The queen watched, nodding absently as the dragon bobbed over another cluster of trees.
Etne’s geography was mostly shallow hills covered with stubby grass, and what red oaks that grew were clustered together in small bunches, their crimson leaves fluttering at the dragon’s passage.
Across those hills marched the Doremy army, having chased the dragon eastward from Argylle for two days.
King Yarrick and Queen Sillia’s smaller forces approached together from the northwest, their banners high and just barely visible in the distance.
King Jehan occupied the southwest, visible to Faron only if he blessed his eyes with radiance.
Together, the three armies funneled the dragon westward, toward Vivarai’s border and the waiting King Murta.
Faron shuffled uneasily atop his horse as Isabelle watched the three armies march.
“Why am I here?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“Because I would not go chasing a dragon without an escort,” she said, not looking at him.
“You evade the question. Why am I the escort?”
At last her golden eyes turned. They pierced him in a way he found strangely exciting, even as it unnerved him.
“I have known you were special since the moment I saw you, Faron Godsight,” she said. “And everything you and your brother have done since then only confirms my suspicions.”
Faron grunted. He knew she was blessed with radiance, though he could not begin to guess how. Could she sense his and Sariel’s unique nature?
“Where is Sariel anyway?” he asked, the mention of his brother souring his mood. “I have not seen him since he accompanied you to the shrine for your meeting with Murta’s alliance.”
“Your brother disagreed with my plan. He believed we should communicate with the dragon before attacking it, and when I refused, he departed, saying he had more important business elsewhere.”
That certainly sounded like Sariel, except for the part where he’d left without telling Faron goodbye.
“I must admit, in a fight against a dragon, I wish he was with us,” he said.
Isabelle narrowed her eyes and watched the dragon fly. “So do I.”
They trotted onward, staying several hundred yards ahead of the marching Doremy army, the bulk of which was spread out for nearly half a mile in distance.
Multiple times, the dragon had turned about to belch fire, and even landed once to devour a trio of soldiers, but then flew off before the army could gather.
Such hit-and-run tactics must be endured, Faron had coached Isabelle.
Small losses in the lead-up to a true battle.
The pair reached the apex of the next gentle hill, and beyond spilled a valley beautiful in its sheer size.
It stretched for several miles, the grass lush from the gentle river flowing through it that marked Vivarai’s western border.
Four thousand soldiers formed ranks at the water’s edge, a collection of minor lords’ and ladies’ forces combined with Vivarai’s.
Behind them were Murta’s four hundred vaunted knights.
Upon seeing them, the furious dragon roared with such power, it seemed to shake the very air.
“You can hear its madness,” Faron said when the roar ended. “The rampage is at its fullest. Order your soldiers to sprint, or there will not be an army left to save.”
“As if that would be such a tragedy,” Isabelle said. “No, Faron. My soldiers shall preserve their energy. If you are right, the dragon will not leave until all its foes are broken. We need not hurry.”
Faron stared at the queen, his mouth dropping open.
“You gamble with the fate of the realm,” he said.
“It is no gamble,” she said, and she meant every word. “With Leliel at my side, the dragon shall die.” Another glance of her golden eyes. “Will you stay by your queen when she challenges the beast?”
Faron turned his attention to the dragon and its dive toward Vivarai’s soldiers.
“To the very end,” he said, wishing he did not sound so bitter as he watched the battle unfold.
Fire belched in gigantic plumes from the dragon’s mouth, washing over dozens of screaming soldiers and charring their skin within their armor.
Into that chaos it landed, making a mockery of the Vivarai battle lines as it clawed and thrashed at anyone within reach.
It was small for a dragon, though Faron doubted that gave any comfort to the panicked soldiers.
It was thrice the height of a man, and from head to tail, perhaps two hundred feet in length.
Its scales were a brilliant crimson, and they easily withstood the first sword strikes it suffered as it waded through the line toward the river.
Trumpets sounded from the south. King Jehan had spotted the attack and was urging his soldiers to sprint to close the distance. Isabelle watched them from her perch atop the hill, judging their pace, and then unhooked her own trumpet from her belt.
“I thought we were waiting?” Faron asked.
“I would have us arrive exactly as Etne does,” she said. “My ire is for Vivarai alone.”
She lifted the trumpet and blew two quick notes. Marshal Oscar heard and echoed it with his own, giving the order for haste. To the northwest, Yarrick’s trumpets answered, closing in the trap.
Isabelle put away her trumpet, drew her sword, and readied her shield from off her back.
“I shall lead the charge,” she said. “Will you be my shadow, as Sariel is yours?”
Faron grinned, unable to deny the excitement he felt. Even among all his lives, a battle against a dragon was a rare thing.
“Shine bright, my queen,” he said. “And you need never fear losing your shadow.”
The two dismounted from their horses, for they could not trust the beasts’ reactions when faced with such a terrifying foe.
On foot, they rushed the battle as it began in earnest. King Murta’s knights thundered across the valley, meeting the dragon in charge as promised.
They held their curved swords high and their shields before them, and against any other foe, they might have been a fearsome prospect.
The dragon, however, cared little for their horses and their speed.
It spun on them, fire blasting from its mouth in a great torrent.
The flame struck the center of the knights’ formation, annihilating a third before they could cross the space.
More horses reared about and panicked, ignoring the riders’ tugging of their reins to flee the dragon.
Their formation broken, and numbering half of their initial charge, the knights reached the dragon, riding alongside its flank as they swiped with their swords.
The curved blades slid along the scales, drawing not a single drop of blood.
Damn fools should have brought spears , Faron thought as the dragon spun in place, its tail lashing out to knock a dozen men and their horses to the ground.
Vivarai soldiers pressed on, encouraged by their commanders, who continually blew the signal to charge on their trumpets.
They fought well, but their numbers were not enough.
Faron watched the carnage unfold, and he hardened his heart against it.
Whether they die by our hand or a dragon’s, they are dead all the same , he told himself, wishing he could believe it.
By the time the armies of Doremy, Forez, and Etne arrived, Murta’s forces were in tatters, his knights in retreat, and his footmen reduced in number by half.
Many threw down their arms and fled, wading through the river into Vivarai.
A shameful display, not that Faron blamed them.
None there had been alive since the last time a dragon had rampaged through Kaus.
They never could have anticipated the savagery they would face.
Faron and Isabelle slowed their run so the rest of her army could catch up with them, and then together they pressed as a swell against the dragon, colliding at the same time as the other two armies.
The dragon twisted and snapped in all directions, losing focus with each passing moment.
Each bite and claw claimed lives, but the four armies pressed with unmatched tenacity.
Spears slid upward into flesh. Swords chipped away at the red scales, scratching their surfaces and stripping them of their shine.
The casualties would be terrible once counted, but there was no other path to victory.
Faron sprinted to the side of the dragon’s neck, weaving through the bodies and relying on the distraction of the melee.
He sheathed his sword to free up a hand and then leaped, kicking off the dragon’s shoulder to vault higher.
He caught the top of its neck and then quickly pulled himself up.
Once precariously balanced, he drew his sword and turned his attention to the dragon’s head.
Punching through the scales along its neck and forehead would harm it, but he had more significant damage in mind.
He took three steps to gain momentum and then lunged off the neck and into the air, his sword raised high above him for a thrust.
“Dragon!” he shouted, forcing every bit of his power into the cry.
Commanding a dragon was impossible, even for those blessed with radiance like him and his siblings, but influence could be very temporarily exerted.
The dragon turned, a yellow serpentine eye focusing on him as he flew, and into the center of its black pupil Faron plunged his blade.