Holt
People still fought. That amazed him the most. Despite the world-breaker of a monster that had risen, people still fought.
Talia too looked ready to fight to the death. Sword in hand she leapt onto Pyra’s back as though the certainty of their fate had released her last reserves of strength. No need to hold back for the morrow.
“I’m going to stop Silas,” she said.
“Allow me to bathe him in flames,” Pyra snarled.
“No, girl,” Talia said. “He’s a Lord. His skin is near as tough as dragon hide.” She raised her rider’s blade; crimson steel forged at Falcaer Fortress under the magic of the Order. “I need to do it.”
“I’ll help,” Holt said.
“No, you won’t. You just said Ash’s core was dry—”
Whatever else she said was lost within another howl from the queen. “You can’t fight him alone,” Holt protested. His heart wrenched in
agony as he watched the so-called Hero of Athra slice through panicked troops in the palace grounds.
“He’s lost his dragon. It’s a fight of swords not magic.”
Holt understood. He’d be cut to red ribbons fighting Silas. Yet with Ash’s core dry, and their bond shaking, he wasn’t sure what they could still do.
“We’ll cover you from above,” he said. “We can do that much before the end. For Brode.”
“For Brode,” she said.
The dragons roared together.
Holt got back onto Ash, and they readied for flight. Now they were this close again, the difference in the strain to the bond while sense-sharing was remarkable. Talia and Pyra took off first, Pyra gliding low so Talia could jump from Pyra’s back to land by Silas. Holt kept his gaze straight for Ash to see. Pyra rose again and Ash took off to fall in behind her as stingers swarmed into the palace grounds.
Magicless, with only a standard steel blade to hand, Holt could only stab or swipe at passing scourge. While Pyra still had some fire in her belly, Ash resorted to crashing talons-first into the creatures, raking and biting. A
rotting taste flitted over their flickering bond each time Ash sunk his teeth in. It was brutal – desperate.
Bolts sailed. Carriers landed in the palace gardens and beyond the crest of the walls the defenders on the central ring lost ground with each passing heartbeat. The living were surrounded. The living were done.
And then, the clouds began to part.
Clesh is dead, Holt thought. His magic has died with him.
Holt risked a glance up, hoping that he and Ash might see the stars one last time. At least they might die under a velvet sky rather than a dead one. Light from the raging fires of the city polluted the night, but a few bright spots twinkled.
“They’re beautiful,” Ash said.
Holt looked through the bond. Lunar motes drifted down, drawn towards the dragon’s core. A few more whooshed by like shooting stars. Then more. Even more. Above Clesh’s storm dissipated like smoke on the wind, revealing a full moon. An argent orb with a white halo, gleaming so bright it seemed pearl smooth. The moon had come to the battle flanked by countless stars.
As it shone down on Sidastra, the lunar motes pouring into the orbit of Ash’s core became a cascade.
Holt looked straight again to keep them on course and found the scourge staggering for a moment under the soft moonlight.
Ash gave a mighty roar as his scales began glowing.
“I can feel it,” Ash said. He weaved between two stingers with ease, then bathed a third in his silver breath.
Holt didn’t dare pull any of it into himself. The bond would surely break if he pulled magic, even raw magic, across it now. But they had dealt with this earlier when Ash had eaten his venison. This was just greater.
Ash had barely opened his mouth when a beam of lunar power shot out. It scattered carriers ahead of them, scorching one though it didn’t kill it outright. It made sense to Holt, as well as he understood these things.
Raw motes of magic were unrefined and lacked the density of those integrated into the dragon’s core. Now, Ash’s beam was powered only by the raw stuff. It was weak. But there was an endless supply of it.
“Breathe out every drop you can,” Holt said. “Let’s do some damage.”
They flew back out over the palace walls, to the battle for the central ring. On the bridges and islands of the inner ring, flayers, ghouls and
juggernauts surged onward in tightly packed ranks. That was a mistake.
Ash swept over them, bathing them in lunar magic with each pass. Stingers shrieked and shied away from them as though afraid of Ash’s aura. Holt almost laughed. As fast as Ash could pull upon the raw motes, more poured in. Ghouls fell after a pass or two. The bigger bugs only howled as though stung but for the first time the tenacity of the scourge wavered. Their mindless meat grinding forward momentum slowed and on
the bridges it reversed.
Flayers turned, running at impressive speed away from the danger. Juggernauts knocked ghouls aside as they too attempted to flee Ash’s flight path. Only the abominations held. Those skeletons with magic of their own threw dark bolts up at them.
The queen bellowed in anger. Her cries snapped the retreating bugs back into line. That done, the queen of the swarm began advancing herself.
“I think we got its attention,” Holt said.
“Now that’s a big target,” Ash said.
“You can’t miss this one,” Holt said. “Better move fast. One hit from that thing and we’ll be dust.”
Ash turned and fired beam after beam at the queen’s great body as she rose. Each one struck her; each one fizzled like water in a hot pan. The cloak of armored carapace rippled and pulled back as two arms rose from beneath it; one ended in a giant pincer, the other in a crude hand of razor fine fingers.
The queen snapped her pincer and thrust at an alarming speed. She cast a flurry of chaotic bolts of magic at them from her long-fingered hand. The unnatural red pools that were her eyes tracked their every movement.
Ash swooped dexterously but they were like a fly to her. A team of Champions and Lords fought together to stand a chance against these terrors. All Holt and Ash could do was annoy her.
The queen kept moving forward between her attempts to kill them. She stood upon the bridge to the central ring now, ready to sweep aside all remaining resistance to her swarm. Ready to end this battle that had already dragged on for too long. She howled her longest, greatest shriek yet and a chorus of roars answered her.
Distant roars, all from the north and east.
Holt could hardly envision that any more could be brought against the people of Sidastra, but it sounded like a score or more of scourge risen
dragons. Perhaps Sovereign had sent them to ensure the job was done.
Whatever it was, Holt didn’t have the heart to look at what was coming.
He focused on the queen.
“One last push, Ash. Aim for its head.”
Talia
She landed in the mud. Stampeding feet had churned the once pristine ground of the palace gardens. Not far away lay Clesh’s body, lying sprawled like some monstrous boulder. The dragon had flattened a small tree, two hedges and shattered a fountain. Closer still, attacking pleading soldiers, was Silas.
“Lord Silverstrike,” she called. “Have you no shred of honor left?”
He gutted a huddled soldier, then turned to face her. Dirt and leaves had tangled in his long white hair, his sun kissed skin had turned ragged and leathery. But it was his eyes that made her pause. Madness. That was all she saw in him.
“Mindless killing won’t bring Clesh back.”
“I don’t want him back,” Silas said, his every word laced with guilt, fear and heartbreak. It chilled Talia.
“You could still atone,” she said. “There’s still—”
“There’s no atonement for what I’ve done.” As though to prove it, he cut down another wounded soldier begging at his feet.
Talia winced and felt her own anger rise. Fighting to cool herself, she said, “I know what it’s like to have the dragon take over.”
“No, you don’t,” he said, stepping closer. “Not yet. You will, one day. And you’ll learn that the love we have for them makes us do terrible things. He knows our greatest weakness all too well.”
Silas readied himself into an advanced guard position. Talia did the same, stepping forward with care.
“They made you do it—” she started.
“No, girl. No one made me. I did it because Clesh insisted upon joining Sovereign. I did it because I’d be killed otherwise, and I’d have gladly died but even now… even now I wouldn’t want Clesh to feel the pain of this… ripped in two. I did it because I loved him, even though I’m also glad he’s gone.” His voice cracked horribly. “I have nothing now.”
He struck. Talia judged his feint, blocked, countered, danced aside. It was just enough. Silas had lost his dragon; he had no access to magic, but his body was that of a Lord – not such a leap from a human to Ascendant but a leap nonetheless.
“Very good, very good,” Silas said, spittle flying. He wiped his mouth and came at her again.
Quick and fluid, that was her chance, using momentum in her favor. Be fast and skilled, and you need not be strong.
Their swords met hard in the bind; both fought for control. The odds tilted to Silas. Talia’s sword point was not aligned with her body, meaning Silas could cut down at her. She had a split second. Her dragon bond trembled like a crippled leg with too much weight upon it. Pyra’s core was a guttering wick in a cold cavern. She pulled as much fire into her as she could. Her bond frayed but her muscles blazed with a final effort and she cut around. Even still, Silas’s reactions were like the lightning he once produced. The tip of her blade cut into his shoulder as he dragged himself backwards.
She had drawn blood. He didn’t wear armor because a Lord’s skin turned hard as scales, but she wielded steel forged at Falcaer Fortress.
They were a good distance apart now, circling each other. All noise of the battle, the stench of the scourge and tang of blood forgotten. Her whole world was the fight: crossing blades with a Storm Lord in the mud and the blood while her home fell to ruin.
The fight seemed to mean little to Silas though. He broke off, glanced away, looked to the bellowing queen then back to Talia.
“You’ve lost.”
“I know.”
“You’re all going to die.” “I know.”
“So why fight?”
Pyra roared in pain from above. Talia’s heart skipped a beat.
“I’ve lost a lot too,” she said. “But I haven’t forgotten why I became a rider.”
He grunted and twitched. A spasm ran down his arm from his injured shoulder.
“Brode never forgot,” she said. “No matter the pain he felt, he never forgot!”
Silas’s face contorted – shame, fury, loathing all pulled at him. When he opened his eyes, tears fell.
“Kill me,” he said. “Then don’t fight me.”
He laughed a wicked laugh. “No, Ascendant. You must earn your kill of a Lord.” He drew himself straight, for a moment a proud member of the Order once again. Then the madness engulfed him.
His strikes were wild, his stance too wide. Perhaps it was the rage he was in; perhaps he had grown so used to commanding Clesh’s power he’d forgotten what a real fight felt like. But Talia found her opening as he overreached.
“Kill me!”
She parried, sidestepped, and thrust forward into his torso. Her rider’s blade pierced him with ease. His weight carried him down the metal, all the way to the cross guard. Dark blood flowed over red steel.
Silas grunted, then let out a long, tired sigh. His mouth sagged; his eyes drooped.
“That’s for Brode,” she said. “Thank you,” he rasped.
She stepped back. Silas Silverstrike, Storm Lord, Hero of Athra, a living legend, fell dead at her feet.
Talia collapsed to her knees, fighting for breath. Her chest burned and not just from her soul. She’d avenged Master Brode, Master Denna – everyone who had been murdered at the Crag. It wasn’t revenge for her father, for her brother, or even for her uncle trapped under the Sovereign’s will, but it was a blow to his cause. Yet nothing about it felt sweet. Not even bitter. Such a waste, such a waste to fall so far. And he’d done it for love?
She wouldn’t be capable of that, would she? No matter the price?
“It is done,” Pyra said.
Talia started as though rudely woken.
“The song of fire triumphs,” Pyra continued, although her rapture faltered in pain. Now their bond had frayed, Talia couldn’t see her core anymore but the hurt in her voice suggested it was all but spent. “Ash and Holt are taking on the queen. We must join them.”
Talia almost laughed. That was nonsense. Holt couldn’t be standing up to the queen alone. Only then did it dawn on her that there was moonlight now.
More luck than they know what to do with, she thought.
The earth shook as the queen stamped closer to the palace isle. It looked like it stood upon the last bridge. Sure enough, a streak of gleaming white
raced through the night, blasting beams of light at the queen. Holt and Ash were fighting.
Somehow, Talia found the strength to stand just as Pyra landed. Her beautiful purple drake bled from cuts on her chest and neck.
“Come on,” Pyra urged.
Talia sheathed her sword, then half-staggered, half-limped to Pyra’s side, paused for breath then hauled herself up. She righted herself with a groan.
The queen shrieked again, as deafening as when she’d first arrived. Almost in answer, a fury of roars rang from the east. From the north. From the south.
More scourge risen dragons? The last ember of fight in Talia burned out. She slumped on Pyra’s back, wishing to cry if she had the strength left. Let it be quick, she thought. Let it just end.
Pyra growled. Her ears pricked.
“I know,” Talia said. “Daughters of fire do not die on the earth. Let’s fly then. Fly to our doom.”
Pyra didn’t move. The roaring grew closer. “Come on then, girl.”
“Talia, those aren’t scourge calls.”
“What?” she said, unable to process anything other than that Pyra was just standing there.
“Those roars are not of the scourge, not even their blighted dragons.” “But—” Talia was spared the difficulty of thinking, by fresh roaring
overhead. She craned her neck back and could not believe what she saw.
Dragons. More dragons than she had seen outside of Falcaer Fortress. All were green, but not the sickly, rotting green of the scourge. They were every shade of spring grass, of summer leaf, apple, and lime, lit by the soft silver glow of the moon. Emerald dragons.
Talia struggled to speak. “How many are there?”
“A flight’s worth!”
Talia could not have said how many that was at a glance. Over a hundred at least. Maybe hundreds. The emeralds descended upon the scourge, filling the sky with green gales of power. Earth in the palace grounds rose to clamp abominations in place. Trees from the gardens uprooted themselves and swiped at ghouls with long branches. Vortexes of
wind caught stingers mid-air. Members of the flight landed to fight side by side with the defenders of the city.
Pyra bellowed a greeting to them, and Talia felt the dragon’s body grow hot. The will to fight sparked back to life with a vengeance as a voice she recognized called out to her.
“Riders!” the West Warden cried. “Fall in by the Life Elder. The queen must fall.”
Holt
Tears of joy streamed down his face. At the Warden’s summons they turned away from the queen to find a massive emerald approaching from the north. The aura of the Elder was as bright as the sun in Holt’s sixth sense.
Nor could he believe it when he saw the purple dragon flying up to meet them.
“They made it?”
“Silas is dead,” Ash said, as they flew in close beside Pyra.
“Little ones,” Pyra said wryly, as if she’d known all along that one of the Wild flights would save them.
“Talia,” Holt called, unsure if his voice would carry over the roars, and howls and wind.
She seemed to sense he was reaching out to her and waved back.
By then, the great dragon Holt revered as the Life Elder was below them. It dwarfed the other dragons and would not have fit comfortably inside the hatchery at the Crag.
“The honored Elder requests that you take shelter behind him,” the West Warden instructed. “He has the privilege of the first strike.”
Holt chose not to mention that he and Ash had been attacking the queen repeatedly with no effect. Somehow, he didn’t think the Elder would face the same difficulty. They positioned themselves at the Elder’s flank, next to the West Warden.
The Life Elder addressed them. “That four hatchlings should fight my battles brings my shame to new depths.” His voice was as pleasant as honey, yet as ancient and solid as a mountain. He spoke louder next, as if addressing his entire flight. “Tonight we fight for the living, as we should have long ago. Tonight, life prevails!”
The queen roared her defiance. She plucked an emerald from the air with her pincers and squeezed it slowly, almost as if to challenge them. All stingers were directed at the Elder, and she launched volleys of magic.
A clover of green light burst before the Elder, effortlessly deflecting the black magic. His roar drowned out the others as he gathered his power. Even from behind, Holt shielded his eyes from the brilliance of it—a breath attack fueled by the full force of nature.
The queen raised her own magical defenses, but the clash was so intense that she was obscured by it. There was an enormous splash and a torrent of water. As the light faded, Holt saw that the queen had been driven off the bridge and into the lake.
It thrashed in the shallow waters, as helpless as a beetle on its back.
How did that not kill her? Holt thought. Yet it was over. Even the scourge knew it.
Stingers began to flee. Emeralds gave chase.
The honor guard of the Life Elder arrived over the fallen queen and encircled it.
No further orders were needed. The Life Elder and his guard, including the West Warden, Pyra, Ash and Holt attacked the queen together. Holt felt his bond tear as he sent his weak Lunar Shock down into the bombardment. He didn’t care. It was worth it.
The queen ceased thrashing. Smoke rose from its body to join the plume from the west quarter. The battle was not yet over, but the living had won.
