The Blackfire Annals: Chasing Ghosts

Chapter Twenty-Four: Full Circle

Fortress

Outlands

The news that greeted the guards upon waking elicited a mixture of surprise and dread. Luthe and his Airknights had made rounds before dawn, and the intelligence they brought had deep ramifications.

“Oriem and his forces have arrived,” the dark elf announced as he dismounted his dragon amid calls for news. “But they are not the only ones here.”

“We saw the lights last night,” Olaf said. “Who are they?”

“The Free,” Luthe answered. “All of them. Dwarves, light elves, Huntresses, and men.”

“What do the numbers look like?” One of the wall captains asked.

“Almost twenty thousand.” A murmur of approval passed among the men.

“Think of that. Twenty thousand! We can defeat them for sure.” “Even so, people could be killed.”

“Enough!” Olaf shouted. “We have time to discuss this later. The numerical advantage we have will allow us to re-strategize.”

“Agreed,” Luthe said. “We managed to signal the king to send the Airknights up into the sky. With that many of our men in the sky, we can distract them long enough to get our forces into position.”

“Any news of the dragon?” Olaf asked.

“The darkness reported to follow him has been steadily moving south,” the dark elf replied grimly. “And he is closing fast.”

“How long do we have?” Qural queried. “And is there any way to counter it?”

“We have until this evening,” Luthe told him. “And no, we have no counter.”

Olaf’s eyes narrowed. “Then we need to destroy their army before evening. Are Oriem’s forces moving quickly enough to do that?”

“They are,” Luthe said. “When would you be most comfortable joining the battle?”

“Once they’ve been engaged,” the dwarf replied. “However, opening the main gate might be a poorly-conceived notion. Also, it would be unwise to leave the walls undefended.”

“There are postern gates we could use,” Qural noted. “But we should probably leave about a hundred men or so to defend the walls.”

“That sounds like a solid plan,” Luthe said. “Though you might wish to prepare if you intend to do so. The Free have never been patient.”

Outlands

Deyann gave the order to halt just beneath the hills, his eyes scanning the terrain. He could see no sign that anyone had camped or even journeyed here recently, which boded well for Carsten’s plan. If it fits the criteria for a plan, the dark elf thought. He looked at his diminutive companion, who had dismounted the ram he had been given to ride and strapped his sword to his waist.

“Stand you ready?” He asked.

“The last time you asked me that question, I ended up flat on my back,” Carsten pointed out. “I really don’t want to think of the ramifications of a negative answer in this situation.”

“Neither do I,” Deyann murmured. “Are you certain you want to do this?”

“If we can secure his help, we might have a chance against Murethal’s beast, so yes.”

“You need not do this,” Deyann said. “I could…”

“No.” Carsten’s mouth was set in a grim, scarred line. “I can do this. You have committed men to a fight not your own in defense of those you do not know. This is the least I can try to do to repay you.”

“But reasoning with a dragon? Invac listens to no one,” Deyann protested.

Carsten fingered his sword hilt with his right hand while he massaged his wrist with his right. “Oh, I think he might listen to me.”

Invac rested upon his pile of gems and treasure, coiled up like a comatose serpent. Puffs of smoke exited his nostrils like ethereal mushrooms; even while dragons rested, their inner fire still burned, and the scent seemed to almost calm them. Suddenly, he heard something; a footfall. Not a heavy one, but one that hit the ground with familiar force. They came one after the other, the sound of hard boots striking the cold stone. The dragon raised his head and narrowed his eyes.

“Invac hears you, morsel. Come now; there is no need to hide.” Carsten stepped out of the shadows, dressed in red and bronze armor. He raised his eyes to meet Invac’s yellow-glowing orbs. “You,” the beast hissed. “Why have you come to bother Invac again?”

“Have you not heard of the trouble on the surface?” The dwarf asked.

“Invac has,” he answered, rising on his forelegs. “But what does it matter to him? The surface world as you know it came into being long after Invac hatched, and it will vanish before he dies. What you morsels do in your free time matters neither to Invac nor to others like him. So why should it perturb me?”

“Because one like you is coming against us,” Carsten said. “A dragon of massive size and terrible power. He has laid low warriors and villages alike, and he means to destroy many of us. Even worse, he answers to Murethal alone.”

At this point, the beast rose on its haunches and began to pace like a panther. “A dragon, you say. What color is this beast?”

“None can say for certain,” Carsten replied. “Some think it has black scales.”

“How large is it?” The dwarf could not help but perceive the agitation in the animal’s voice. Is he…afraid? Carsten wondered.

“According to what we have heard, large enough to blot out the sun.” Invac hissed in rage.

“So one of them has been born,” he murmured. “Hm. Invac ordinarily would deny your plea for help, but in this case, he might accept. Now, where did you say this atrocious monster indeed to strike?”

“The fortress to the north of Vadhyl, the one in the mountains.”

“Ah, yes. Mourner’s Point.” Invac looked up the tunnel. “Climb onto Invac’s back, young one. He will take you there.”

“But my men…” He started to protest.

“...can follow. You are less than three hours’ hard march away. But Invac can delay no longer; this creature must be stopped.”

“Can you defeat him?” Carsten asked, clambering up the dragon’s long tail and onto his back.

“Invac does not know, but he will try,” the beast responded.

Frostspire Castle

Enlin’s Chambers

Issavea opened the door to her niece’s room. The chambers were stark, per Enlin’s request. Even asking her permission to install a mirror had been a fight. Though, from her face lately, she had been using it. Her bed, too, was rather Spartan. Issavea could not do much with a stone castle that resided on frozen land year round, but it surprised her that even simple comforts should be refused. Though perhaps it is not her tastes that she is indulging, the sorceress mused.

“Enlin?” She called. “Are you here?”

“I am.” The young woman stepped from behind one of the stone pillars, wearing a simple blue dress. Enlin had no necklace, something that Issavea noted with some surprise. Even for it, she looked beautiful. She had braided her hair, her aunt noticed. When was the last time she braided her hair? Issavea wondered. And she was wearing shoes; shoes in the castle.

“Was your time alone productive?” She asked.

“It was,” her niece replied. “I learned several new spells in your absence, and…” she colored slightly. “…Olaf came to see me.”

Issavea smiled. “My dearest child, there is no need for shame. You two are joined in sacred union; you have the right to love him.”

She nodded. “I suppose so.”

Her aunt nodded. “I am happy to see that you are doing all right.” She turned to leave when she caught a golden glimmer from beneath a pile of rags in a corner. Swift as a frosthawk, she went over to it and, before Enlin could stop her, unwrapped a gleaming elliptical object. She drew it close, caressing it with her fingers. The surface felt cold and scaly to the touch, but smooth. The object weighed a substantial amount as well, and Issavea marveled at how warm it felt.

“An egg,” she announced. “A dragon’s egg, no less.” Her milky eyes narrowed. “Enlin, what is the meaning of this? No lies, now.”

“I went to see Turson,” the girl admitted hesitantly.

“Why?” Suddenly, understanding dawned on Issavea. Carefully, she set the egg down. It would not do to break or even harm a dragon’s egg; their mothers were said to know each of their children intimately, and the beasts had long memories. Not all of them had intelligence like men, but such an animal’s vengeance was a terrible sight to behold for anyone. “You cannot be serious. You collected on the favor he owed you? Three dragons?” Her niece nodded. “Why? Why now, of all times?”

“Because I am leaving,” Enlin announced.

“Absolutely not,” Issavea countered. “I will not allow it.”

“You have no control of me anymore,” her niece exploded, with a fierceness that belied her normally demure poise. “You have no control of us anymore.”

“‘Us’?” Issavea mocked. “You and the dwarf? What makes you think that leaving is as simple as saying you want to? Have you given thought to where you will go and what you will do? Have you given thought to the fact that he might not survive?”

“He will survive,” Enlin said, her lips curving upward in a triumphant smile. “And when he returns for me, we are leaving the mainland.”

“Where will you go?” Her aunt challenged.

“The island chain of the shore of the western continent,” she answered.

Issavea sat in silence, stunned at what she had just heard. “Enlin…how do you know about that?”

“I read your journal,” she answered. “Olaf found it in the library, and we learned everything. I know all that you’ve done, and what you planned to do with us. We will not be used in this way; we refuse.”

“You ‘refuse’?” Her aunt was incredulous. “You saw why we are doing this. We cannot allow…”

“You cannot allow freedom of choice,” Enlin snapped, cutting her off. “You cannot let events play out as they will. You have to have your strings attached to everyone, directing them like a child’s marionette. We are not puppets, Aunt. We are people, with hopes and dreams and lives that do not belong to you and that we control. Not you, not your benefactor, and not anyone else. Lies and deceptions will not protect us, Issavea. The truth will.”

“I cannot permit you to leave,” Issavea declared. She waved her hand, and a prison of pale light appeared out of thin air. “You will remain here, as will your husband, should he survive.” Suddenly, she saw motion out of the corner of her eye, but that was not enough time for her to dodge the bolt of blue energy that struck her from the left. The impact sent Issavea sprawling and, more importantly, caused her magical cage to evaporate.

“No,” Enlin replied, her hands glowing with blue energy. “We are leaving. What I have to sweep out of our way to be free is your choice.” She sent a wave of blue fire at her aunt, which Issavea countered with a gust of snow and ice. The two magical forces collided, sending a cloud of steam up into the air. When it cleared, Enlin cracked her neck and flexed her fingers. “Your choice, Issavea: Do we go without a fight, or are you going to make this difficult?”

“Difficult?” Issavea narrowed her eyes. “I will make it impossible.”

Fortress Outskirts

The group of Airknights wheeled over the raiders’ forces, pouring yet another volley of arrows down on them. Their leader signaled a command with his hand, and they all swung back for another pass. Arcaena Blackfire, disguised as an Airknight, set another arrow to the string of her bow and sighted a large marauder below. Beside her, Miera, who had joined her in subverting their father’s will, chose the fellow beside him, and both sisters loosed their shots as one. They aimed true, as did each one of the Airknights; the volley put two dozen raiders down, and their airborne steeds wheeled off. As they did, Arcaena noticed with some satisfaction that her father had moved the Outlander troops up on the shattered eastern mountain spurs, and they looked ready to join the fray. Similarly, the Freemen had moved up to the west, and they seemed prepared as well. Suddenly, a horn call went up from Oriem’s forces, and their troops started moving. She heard a shout from the raiders’ forces, and she saw the workers and the rest of their forces turn to give battle. Arcaena remained so focused on the forces below that she did not see the archers that appeared from beneath a snowdrift and raised their bows to the sky. However, she did hear the collective twang of all their bows, and she pulled out of the formation to try to avoid the volley. Though her maneuver was successful, she watched in horror as her sister’s mount was shot out from under her. The gryphon gave two more halfhearted wingbeats, but then fell. Although the mountains were not far below, and the fall could not be fatal, she landed right next to the troop of archers. Against her better judgment, Arcaena wheeled her dragon around and set it to a steep dive, oblivious to the arrows whistling past her ears. She sighted and released ten shots in as many seconds, striking all ten targets. Then, the dark elf urged her beast back into the sky, and then she took a second pass. This time, though, her enemies had time to regroup and sight their bows. The raiders unleashed a volley at the lone Airknight foolish enough to throw herself into the fray again.

Field below

Oriem drove his heels into Alder’s flanks, urging the horse onward. Behind him, the swiftest of the dark elven cavalry rode, their lances lowered and their mouths forming a battle-cry that the wintry wind swept away. The raiders had turned and attempted some kind of formation, but they had precious few spearmen to answer a scissoring cavalry charge. As they had rehearsed, the dark elves attacked from the east while the light elves came from the east, forcing the raiders’ forces into a tight circle, from which the Nagai, elven archers, and Huntresses could pick them off at will. They had archers, however, and these Vanahym proceeded to avail themselves of their bows. While they had not been able to hit the Airknights because of their altitude, they merely had to wait for the cavalry to come into range to fire. The first volley sent dozens of elves from the horses. They could not rise, however, as there were men and horses coming on behind them with unstoppable force. Some were fortunate enough to avoid the charge, but others were trampled in the blur of hooves and spears. Then, after another, albeit less lethal, volley, Oriem’s men closed the gap between themselves and the raiders. Urging Alder to greater speed, the dark elf king and his mount cleared the Vanahym line and proceeded to lay down with a will behind it. The first unfortunate to face Oriem took a spear to the neck, but a second steeped in and raised his sword to thrust at the dark elf king. However, a lance from another dark elf swiftly cut him down, and Oriem dropped his spear to draw his twin cavalry sabers. The curved blades sliced through necks, arms, and torsos without any resistance, and before long, a pile of the Vanahym lay at the feet of the dark elven mounts.

At this moment, the Vanahym revealed one of their secret weapons: Berserkers. These far larger Vanahym swept the others aside, charging at the dark elf cavalry and screaming manically as they came on. Their appearance was made all the more terrifying by the blood-red tattoos they bore across their bodies and their distinct lack of armor. Worryingly, these warriors seemed not to need it. Some of the horsemen had shortbows, and they proceeded to use them to winnow the attacking force. The barrage, however, seemed to only infuriate the towering warriors, who proceeded to pull the offending projectiles from their pale flesh and run faster. Oriem refused to wait for their charge, but met them head on. His horse crushed one of the madmen beneath his hooves, and the sabers set about their grim work again. The dark elf king knew that he Berserkers’ strength came from their tolerance for punishment, so he cut at exposed necks and arms, trying to disarm or behead all of them within reach. Some of the dark elves were less fortunate; one drove his lance through the side of one of the Berserkers, only to have his enemy weather the blow and cut down man and horse with a single stroke of his massive battle-axe. Another sidestepped a lance and put down the rider with a thrust of his broadsword. All around him, Oriem could hear the screams of the dying and wounded, but he could not pay heed now. He had to either avail himself of the momentum or lose it forever. However, Oriem did notice, in his peripheral vision, that a volley of arrows from the walls of the fortress sliced through the front part of the Vanahym forces who, incredibly enough, were trying to clamber up the walls from the mostly-finished earthworks. The dwarf leader’s archers cut them down with grim efficiency, and the elven charge forced the western flank of the attacking force inward. Then the infantry started moving in.

Frostspire Castle

Issavea sidestepped another of Enlin’s fire blasts. The unnatural blue flames blazed past her head and left a blackened scorch mark on the stone wall behind Issavea. Well, that one was a bit close than the last one. She retaliated with a hail of razor-sharp ice shards, only for her niece to reduce the attack to yet another cloud of steam.

“What do you hope to accomplish?” Issavea asked, throwing up a frosty shield to block an incoming barrage of fireballs. Enlin suddenly redirected her attack, causing the incendiary spheres to circumvent the shield and target her aunt directly. Issavea, however, countered with equal quickness, raising two more shields on her flanks to stop the attack.

“All I want to do is leave,” Enlin snapped, causing a column of fire to erupt under her aunt’s feet. Issavea slid backward, narrowly avoiding getting scorched, and returned the favor with a massive spike of ice. The lateral thrust took Enlin in the shoulder, and the girl yelped in pain. However, the look of determination returned to her eyes, and Enlin placed her hand on the icicle. A quick shattering spell split the frigid outgrowth into a million silver-white pieces, and she attacked with new spell; a wave of fire in the shape of a dragon. “Why is it so hard for you to let go?”

“Because you will imperil yourself, your husband, and your children, Enlin.” Her niece’s eyes narrowed.

“What did you say?” She asked.

“Your children,” Issavea repeated. “Yes, I know about that. Interesting that you conceived so quickly. After all, you have only been married for six weeks. I wonder how your husband would take this, knowing that you willingly endangered your children.” Enlin raised her hands, and a circle of blued runes appeared in the air. Then, a torrent of fire completely filled the hallway. She threw all her energy into this attack, screaming as she did so.

“How dare you speak to me of care!” She yelled, the runes glowing with fervid light. “You know nothing of care or compassion, Issavea. Am I to blame? Who put me in this position? Who forced my husband and I to choose between continuing our old lives and starting anew? Who tried to force Olaf’s cousin to marry someone? Who put him in that position? You did it, Issavea, and all for naught. As long as you do evil to expect good, what can you do but chase ghosts? That you are willing to do all these things simply says how little you actually care.” And, with that, the flames flickered and died, leaving a blackened corridor of stone in their wake. Her aunt stood unharmed, save for the fringes of her grey dress, which smoldered slightly. Still, they showed no sign of fire; Enlin had hoped for more.

“I do care for you,” the sorceress said. Her voice now lacked any emotion whatsoever, being cold as the driving snow outside. “But you fail to understand me, niece. We live in a cruel world, a world in which no one who wishes to remain free can afford to be soft. If you want to be free, unbridled, you have to be willing to bend those around you to your will.” She raised her hand, and suddenly bars of ice materialized around Enlin. The girl put her hands against them, trying to manage a shattering spell, but she could not. Even worse, she felt her hands adhere to the bars. In vain, she tried to pull away, her horror mounting as she realized she was trapped. “Now stay here. You will be safer.”

Enlin closed her eyes for the longest time. Momentarily, Issavea wondered if her niece had fallen asleep, but then Enlin opened her eyes again. Involuntarily, her aunt took a step backward. The blue light emanating from them bordered on the fire that had been emanating from her hands during the fight. The prison began to glow, too, and to tremble as though it meant to shake itself apart.

“I…WILL…NOT…BE…CAGED!” Enlin screamed. The icy prison shattered in a burst of light, and, when Issavea opened her eyes again, her niece had vanished.

“ENLIN!” She called. “Enlin, come back!” You cannot leave, she pled mentally, knowing that her niece would be able to hear her that way. Please, the world is too dangerous for you.

Outlands

Eastern Mountainside

Arcaena and Miera took cover behind a low rock formation, arrows shrieking off the stone.

“You would get shot down,” Arcaena muttered, nocking an arrow and firing from around the stone at their attackers. The shot took one of the enemy archers in the knee, and he fell. Miera nocked another arrow and shot a second through the eye-socket. He stopped moving abruptly and fell, twitching several times before he lay still.

“Complain all you want to,” she snapped. “I happened to be unable to see them.” A hail of arrows from the Airknights above cut down a dozen of their attackers, leaving about ten for them to handle. Even with that reduction of the odds, they remained at a significant disadvantage. Plus, without their saddle-cases of arrows, they would quickly run out of ammunition. Arcaena landed a successful Boltarrow spell on a pair of them, blowing them backward into the snow. Looking down the mountain, Miera exhaled heavily.

“Dearest sister, we have a problem.”

“You might have to be more specific,” her sister answered, ducking behind the stone to avoid getting shot in the shoulder. “We seem to be encountering a lot of those at the moment.”

“We have a problem coming up the mountain at us,” Miera said, landing a shot on another raider. “A problem thirty men strong.” Arcaena looked past her sister; now, she could hear the inarticulate roars of the Vanahym.

“Berserkers. Honestly now.” Miera nodded, returning to cover.

“Yes, honestly.”

Her older sister shook her head. “And me running short on magic, too.”

Fortress Gate

Olaf surveyed his men one last time, taking in their state. Their expressions ranged from nervous to assured, and now would be the ideal time. Qural, who stood beside him, fingered the head of his massive war hammer.

“Ready?” He asked, looking at the barred window of the postern gate.

“As we will ever be,” the dwarf answered. “Are you sure you can command the wall on your own?”

“I have done it before,” the minotaur reminded him. “Now get going.”

Olaf nodded. “Through the gate, men,” he said, swinging it wide. “Then, once we have everyone outside, we strike from the flank.”

They filed out the gate, not an easy feat for more than a hundred men, but they managed it. They could see the battle’s tide had shifted with the introduction of the infantry; the Vanahym had been forced into a tight circle, with outlying forces being destroyed by the Airknights and elven cavalry. Still, they hung on with grim determination, their makeshift shield wall holding despite the press of men around them. But Olaf’s gaze left the battlefield for the dark cloud on the northern horizon. He pointed into the sky.

“Does that look like a natural storm to anyone?”

“No,” one of his captains answered. “It looks quite unnatural to me.” A murmur of assent swept his men. “What do we do, Master Dwarf? Retreat?” Olaf slid both his axes from their places in his belt.

“No. Take your men and seek out Oriem Blackfire or, failing him, Sigurd the Grim. They will be on the eastern flank. Tell him I sent you to follow his command. He will have tasks for you.”

“Where are you going?” The captain asked.

“Murethal has yet to join the battle,” Olaf murmured, his eyes glowing red. “So I intend to bring it to him and his pet natural disaster.”

The captain nodded. “Men!” He called. “To the eastern flank, double time.” And the Vadhyl men set about the task, marching with grim cadence down the mountainside. Olaf looked toward a point on the western mountainside, his eyes narrowing as he ran through the plan one more time. Then, he sighed and began his trek. The darkness seemed to grow closer with every moment, and he knew that it would be upon them in less than an hour. Already, he could see flashes of purple light within the murk and caught, or thought he caught, a glimpse of two points of venomous orange light. The dragon’s eyes, he thought with apprehension. Suddenly, Olaf heard a yell to his left, and he ducked to avoid a decapitating swing with a large broadsword. The attacking Vanahym stumbled, having expected the stroke to cleave straight through the dwarf’s neck. Olaf retaliated with a swift axe stroke to the raider’s stomach, followed by a beheading slash of his own. The headless body collapsed to the snow, and another raider stepped up to take his fallen comrade’s place. Olaf never even bothered with an attack, simply shattering the ground beneath the Vanahym’s feet with an Earthsplitter spell. The attack threw the raider an easy hundred feet down the mountainside to the east, which was more properly a cliff, after which point he was lost to Olaf’s sight. The dwarf continued on, but he stopped when something broke from the wall of shadow approaching the fortress.

Oriem wheeled his horse for another pass through the broken lines of Vanahym; for all their vaunted strength, they proved no match for the discipline and cohesion of the combined Free and Outlander forces. He urged Alder on through the fray, laying about him with a will. Around him, his men acted similarly, slicing through the Vanahym like a scythe through ripe wheat. Below them, he could hear the chilling battle-cries of the Nagai Zealots as they joined the battle against the Vanahym Berserker Guard. He smiled; the battle had gone far better than he expected. Nothing could…that was when the shadow passed over the wintry sun. He looked up in surprise, and his shock quickly turned to horror. The beast above them was far larger than his intelligence had indicated; its wings easily spread a mile in each direction, and from head to tail it measured at least three. It banked lazily over the armies clashing in the valley below. Then, it opened its cavernous mouth and exhaled a blast of liquid darkness. The attack enveloped a column of infantry, which vanished into a haze. Even from that distance, Oriem could hear their agonized screams and, when the cloud dissipated, he saw that it had wiped the column out to a man. None of them had been burned or mangled, just…killed. His cavalrymen stopped as one, taking in the grim spectacle before them.

“What do we do, Your Majesty?” One of them asked. “We can do nothing against the beast from the ground.”

“Our siege machines can, even if we are unable. Take a half dozen men behind the landslide wall,” he ordered. “Find the Nagai general and tell him to bring the war machines to bear on it. The ballistae should be able to strike it.” The young captain nodded, spurring his horse and detaching six more dark elves from the formation. Oriem turned back to attack the Vanahym again, but saw that they had formed up and started moving up the mountainside. He saw the reason a moment later; two figures crouched behind a rock, raining arrows down on an advancing force of Berserkers. He saw an emerald flash, and recognized it as a Boltarrow spell. Arcaena, he realized.

“Men,” he called. “Cut those raiders down!” And he urged his horse forward at a frenetic gallop.

Eastern slopes

Sarya and Edessa stood atop a low-lying rock formation, raining arrows on the small force of Vanahym that dared to break the shield wall and try to drive a wedge through the Outlanders’ forces. Telara had ordered her archers to ring their forces and kill the marauders from a distance, and Sarya had cheerfully obeyed. Suddenly, she heard a shout on the slopes, and she looked up to see a wedge of dark elven cavalry thundering up the mountainside. They rode as though the darkness itself were at their heels, heedless of the hostile terrain and the raiders in front of them. A moment later, Sarya saw why; two small figures, heroically standing even as she and Edessa were, firing on a superior force of Vanahym Berserkers. She narrowed her eyes, and then she gasped.

“Concentrate,” Edessa told her, firing three arrows in the space of five seconds. “We need to stop this charge if we can.”

“I have another charge to worry about,” Sarya told her. “My daughter is up there.” Edessa took one look and understood.

“Go,” she said. Sarya looked around, searching for some faster way… then she saw it. A horse cantering about the field, its dead rider hanging awkwardly from the saddle. She slowly crossed the snowy field toward it, so as not to frighten it. It eyed her nervously, but did no worse. Taking her hunting knife, Sarya slashed through the leather thong that held the rider in the saddle and pulled him from the horse’s back. That done, she climbed onto it and dug her heels into its side. The animal whinnied and broke into a gallop. Sarya ducked her head low, minimizing the silhouette that archers could target as she rode. Hopefully, she would reach them before it was too late.

Skies above the Outlands

The dark elven Airknights spurred their mounts toward the massive dragon, their bows trained on the beast’s large eyes. If they engaged it, they might be able to divert its attention from their ground forces for a little while. Bony spikes protected most of the creature’s head, but they targeted what parts of its skin they could. The beast countered with sweeping motions of its forelegs and tail, knocking their much smaller mounts out of the sky in the same way a cow might swat irritating insects. Luthe raised his weapon, firing a volley of arrows into the beast’s right eye. The dragon howled in pain and swung its head round to face him, snapping angrily. Luthe pulled up on his reins, narrowly stopping his mount from getting bitten in half. The dragon beat its massive wings, adjusting its position in the sky to face its diminutive attacker. It opened its mouth, and wisps of darkness gathered in the back of its throat. Before the beast could exhale, however, a sapphire blur struck it between the wings, dragging it down significantly. To Luthe’s shock, he saw another dragon, a bit smaller, with its claws dug into its back and tearing through its scales. The beast tried to turn, but the other dragon remained on his enemy’s back, hanging on with feral tenacity. As their fight neared the western mountain peak below, Luthe saw, or thought he saw, a microscopic figure leap from the blue creature’s back.

Mountains

Olaf looked up at the dragon and took a deep breath. He knew what he had to do, but doing it would prove a challenge. He raised his axes, preparing to cast the spell, but lowered them almost immediately. He felt a presence behind him, one both dark and familiar.

“Did you fellows not learn your lesson the last time, or are you all just that hungry for pain?” He asked, turning. There they were, a half dozen of the Vanahym assassins, who had called themselves Whisperers. They had a figure in maroon armor with them, a towering but more human-looking Vanahym who Olaf assumed to be Murethal.

“What are you planning to do with my dragon?” The Exile asked. Olaf smiled at him and looked up at the sky, waiting for the dragon to turn over again. The black monster did so, and then Olaf looked up.

“Why don’t I let you watch?” He asked. Then, he muttered the incantation and raised the weapons skyward. What happened next can best be described with the word apocalyptic; a three-hundred-foot torus of crimson light shot up into the sky, striking the beast in the middle of its chest. It gave a shriek of agony and tumbled to the earth, crashing straight down behind the Outlanders siege machines. The ground around the dwarf within a fifteen-foot radius smoked and cracked, and the Whisperers were burnt to ashes, save for Murethal. As the light faded and Olaf lowered his hands, he faced the Exile. The Vanahym was obviously warded, but had apparently not had the forethought to do the same to his dragon. A pity, Olaf thought.

“There,” he said. “Not fatal, but I think the other one should be able to finish the job. What about you?” The Vanahym sputtered, speechless with rage and fury. When he final did speak, he exhaled a series of curses and drew the massive broadsword he wore at his waist.

“How dare you, boy? You think that you have power because you managed to strike my beast? Even if you stop us here, we will rise again. And the second time, you will not have the strength to stop us.”

“Strength?” Olaf echoed, spinning his axes like wooden toys. “Very well, Exile. Prove your strength.”

Murethal whipped his sword at Olaf’s face, coming from the left side to take advantage of Olaf’s lost eye. The dwarf bent back, avoiding the sword’s tip by a hair’s breadth, and swung with his left-hand axe. The Exile brought his sword up, taking the axe-stroke close to the hilt. He pushed backward, sending Olaf tumbling to the snow. With the dwarf prone, he swung the blade down in a savage stroke, aiming to slice his small enemy in half. Olaf rolled away, avoiding the cut, and kicked Murethal’s right knee. The Vanahym stumbled, allowing Olaf to regain his feet. The dwarf came again with his axes, unleashing a flurry of blows, which Murethal endured. After the last one, the Exile punched Olaf hard in the jaw, sending him several steps backward. Olaf prepared to attack again, but suddenly, he felt a searing pain in his ribcage, and he lowered his eyes to see that a knife blade had suddenly materialized in the right side of his chest. The dwarf dropped to his knees, suddenly feeling weak.

“I win. Even now, my Whisperers attack from the west as well,” Murethal said, smiling. Olaf surged to his feet, grabbed his attacker, another Whisperer, and snapped his neck with almost contemptuous ease.

“No,” he replied, smiling as blood started trickling out of his mouth. Slowly, he stood, setting his teeth against the pain. “You lose. After all, what is an army without its general?” And he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around the Exile and toppling him off the eastern flank of the mountain; a sheer cliff, at least a hundred feet down. The Exile screamed as he fell, but Olaf felt too weak to do more than shed a few tears.

I’m sorry, Enlin. I…failed. Suddenly, his body struck a rocky outcropping with jarring force, he heard a crack as though his neck had broken, and all life and feeling left him.

Mountains

Western Side

Arcaena watched in muted amazement as her father’s cavalry cut through the Berserkers. They did their work with grim determination, but they sustained heavy losses. Of the dozen men, only seven survived the first charge, and the remaining fifteen Berserkers turned to give battle. Arcaena and Miera both unleashed hails of arrows, but the Vanahym warriors shrugged them off as though they were no more than stinging flies. She saw another horse approaching from the east, and arrows arced through the air and among the Berserkers, but had little effect aside from further enraging them. She watched in horror as the Berserkers laid low the entire dark elven cavalry force. Her father survived, and another knight, but they found themselves surrounded by the Berserkers. The rider closed now, her horse crashing into two of the warriors and crushing them beneath its hooves. She leapt from the saddle and joined the fray, her long hunting knives joining the battle against the Berserkers. Arcaena drew her weapons, as did her sister, and they were about to join the fray when the Whisperers appeared. Where they came from Arcaena neither knew nor cared, but she proceeded to give battle as best she could. The first Whisperer fell to a Nature’s Wrath spell, while the second took Miera’s knives to his chest. The third and fourth tasted vengeance at the mercy of Arcaena’s whipping blades, but the others pressed around them.

Suddenly, Miera heard her father grunt, and she looked over in horror to see one of the Berserkers pull his sword from Oriem’s side. As he collapsed, the warrior raised the weapon above the dark elf king to kill him, but at that moment, a small, red form came crashing down from the sky, knocking the warrior down. As he tried to rise, his diminutive attacker drove a wide-bladed black sword through his chest. The Vanahym went limp, and the warrior turned and decapitated another in a swift stroke. The other dark elf suddenly took a sword blade to the shoulder, causing him to stumble. The Huntress moved to cover him, slitting the throats of two of the Berserkers as she did so. A third tried to attack her, only for the Huntress to scissor her knife blades to his neck. As his knees buckled, the Huntress turned to face another Berserker…only for her last target, in a final act of malevolence, to drive his short spear through her body. Laying the last of the Whisperers out with a quick knife slash, Arcaena raised her bow and fired a Boltarrow at the warrior behind her, preventing him from beheading her with a sword stroke. The red-armored fighter sliced another of the warriors in half, and laid the last one low with a thrust straight through the heart. As the last Berserker fell, the warrior pushed back his hood and knelt beside the fallen king. Arcaena could not believe her eyes.

“Carsten?” She asked, incredulous. “How…”

“Invac,” He answered. “He agreed to take the fight to Murethal’s beast.” Miera came over and knelt beside her father.

“Is he…”

“Not yet,” Arcaena said. “But he soon will be.” She heard a groan from the Huntress. “Miera, check her wounds. If she can be healed, let me know.”

Her sister nodded, kneeling beside the fallen woman. The dark elf rolled her over and gave a yelp of surprise.

“What in…” Her eyes were wide with shock. “Mother?”

Arcaena felt the blood drain from her face. “No,” she whispered. “Not both of them. Please, Maker, not both of them.”

“What’s the matter?” Carsten asked.

“Those last few spells drained me,” Arcaena blurted, tears welling in her eyes. “I have enough magic for one healing of this magnitude.”

“And Mother is unconscious from blood loss,” Miera spat. “I cannot wake her. That is, if she would even decide to act out of character and help.”

“Then you…” Carsten felt like someone had dropped a rock inside his stomach.

“I have to choose between my mother and my father,” Arcaena murmured, crying full on now. “I have to decide which of my parents lives.”

“Her…” Oriem spoke with great effort, blood dribbling out from between her lips. “If…your mother lives…heal her…”

Carsten nodded, getting to his feet. “I’ll leave you to discuss this. It isn’t my place, after all.” And he stepped away, sitting down on a nearby snowdrift.

“I say Father,” Miera said, looking over at her mother’s fallen body.

“Why?” Arcaena asked.

“Because he was there for us when we needed him, Arcaena,” she snapped. “and Mother left us. Let her know how it feels.”

“How can you be so callous about this?”

“I defended Mother, sister. I believed in her, and I come to find out that my faith was misplaced. Let her die; she abandoned us.”

“She is our mother!” Arcaena said. “We…” she closed her eyes. “We have to decide, I know. All right, I will heal Father if it is what you truly want. But on your own head be it.”

“I can live with that,” Miera growled. “Now, get to it.” Arcaena turned around, walked over to where the bodies had fallen, and knelt beside her father. She put her hands on his injured side and whispered the words to her healing spell. Suddenly, he began to glow with emerald light and…to shimmer. She took a step back, not understanding, until she saw the hunting knives beside him.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no!” But it had already been done; someone had cast an illusion spell, making each of her parents appear as the other. Her father would die, and her mother would live.

“I…am sorry…” Oriem murmured from beside her. “But it…is for you…good…”

“Why, Father?” Miera asked, angry tears sliding down her cheeks. “Why save her? The Outlands need you. We need you.”

“No…” he disagreed, propping himself up. “I am…the parent…you want…but she…is the one you…need…” And he sank back down. “Arcaena…” he whispered. She came over to him.

“Yes, Father?”

“The dwarf…” he whispered. “I know…everything…Marry him…daughter…promise me…”

“Why?” She asked. “How?”

“As…your father…it was my duty…to protect you…” he slid his signet ring from his finger and handed it to her. “But as…the monarchy…has passed to you…so the role of protector…has passed to him…”

She blinked back tears. “Yes, Father.”

He nodded. “Goodbye…daughter…rule…well…” And he sighed once. Only once. Arcaena sat by the body, feeling numb. Miera remained standing, alternately staring at her father’s corpse in disbelief and at her mother’s prone form with contempt.

“Arcaena…” It was Carsten. He knelt beside her, putting his arm around her shoulder. “I’m sorry.” And, with that, she burst into tears, burying her head in his chest. After what seemed like a lifetime, she finally stopped crying and pulled away.

“Come on,” she said, sniffing. “We need a burial shroud.”

“More than one,” Miera added

The aftermath seemed surreal to everyone, not just Arcaena and Carsten. Aside from Oriem, Caleb, the Free Dwarf King, several high elven nobles, and one of the Ravenwing princes had fallen. In addition, four thousand Free and Outlanders had died in the battle, while the Vanahym force had been wiped out to a man. Invac had survived, and soon winged his way home, battered but unbowed. The dark beast, too, had survived, and limped its way on shattered wings to parts unknown. Ruined siege machines, broken weapons, and mangled bodies littered the snow, turning it crimson in several places. Carsten managed to find his father, who embraced his son.

“I wondered what became of you,” Sigurd whispered. “I’m glad I can see you again, and alive, too.”

Carsten nodded. “I just wish we had met under better circumstances,” he said, watching Arcaena slowly walking behind him. The vacant look in her eyes told him enough; while she might have survived this battle, it would eternally leave her scarred.

“I know.” Sigurd looked around, watching as the Free Peoples’ forces regrouped. Deyann and the people of Haven had arrived and were helping with tending to the wounded who yet lived, but the repairing process would be slow and laborious.

“Where is Olaf?” Carsten asked. “I need to speak with him.” Sigurd shook his head.

“You won’t be able to,” he said. “He’s gone.”

“No. What happened?”

“The Exile,” Sigurd answered. “Or so it appears. But he died well.”

“Appears?” Carsten asked.

“There were no witnesses. However, one of our warriors found his axes next to several corpses,” his father replied. “But enough talk of the dead. We have time to devote to them later. Now we must care for the living.”

Epilogue: Lost and Found

Karkopolis

City of the Dead

Arcaena stood on the stone dais, her hands clasped in front of her. All around her were gathered the leaders of both the Free and the Outlanders, each of them dressed in the customary funeral attire of their race. Before them lay a row of stone sarcophagi, each fitted to house one of the fallen lords and princes. That the Free should have agreed to the interment of their dead with Outlanders was a move unheard of in history, but they had cooperated with the burial.

“Each one here acquitted himself as a lord,” the new queen intoned, her voice hollowly ringing in her own ears. “More than that, a hero and a legend. Our peoples have never agreed completely in any matter, but we have forgotten those differences to work for a common goal. We Outlanders faced a grievous threat, one that perhaps might have destroyed us. But the Free intervened on our behalf, and for that we will be eternally grateful. Debts in blood are the hardest to repay, but each people here has paid for whatever role they might have paid in our sundering so many years ago. We salute the fallen and commit them to the earth in the custom of our people.” She bowed her head and stepped off the platform. One by one, the lords filed up onto it, passing by each sarcophagus. After the last of them had completed their filing past, a small figure stepped out of line and turned to face the assembled group. Significantly, Carsten was standing in front of Oriem’s coffin. He slowly drew his hands from behind his back, revealing a thin circlet of silver and sapphires in his hands.

“The king is dead,” he announced. “But he has left us a legacy more important than all the decrees and deeds in the world. He has left us with one worthy to take his place.” Arcaena turned and knelt before the dwarf, who gently set the crown on her head. As she got to her feet, she took his hand. The couple turned to face the gathered lords.

“Long live the queen!” Carsten called.

“Long live the queen!” They called back. One by one, they filed out the door and out of the tomb. The dark elves’ burial compound, called the City of the Dead, housed every fallen king and noble in their history. Great heroes of low birth, too, found rest in the City, and being buried there was considered the penultimate honor. As they passed through the arched gateway, Arcaena heard an earsplitting crack, followed by a loud crash. She whirled and rushed back toward the hall. As she stepped through the door, she saw that the stone dais had fissured right down the middle, splitting one of the sarcophagi in half. Worse, something had blown the stones to tiny pieces, hurling them all over the room. A strange, unearthly red light emanated from the fragments of the sarcophagus and, as she knelt to examine the pieces, she stepped back.

Carsten entered the burial temple behind her, a concerned expression on his face. “Arcaena, what happened?”

The dark elf queen stepped forward and shoved part of the rubble aside. Sure enough, there were the hellish runes. “There is your answer.” Carsten came over and looked at the blazing inscription. Suddenly, understanding dawned on him.

“Whose crypt was this?” He asked.

“Your cousin’s,” Arcaena replied. “And now the body is gone.” The dwarf shook his head.

“From the look of things, it isn’t a body anymore.” Emblazoned on the flagstones, the outlines still glowing crimson, were runes spelling a single word: SEALED.

Frostspire Castle

Issavea drifted through the throne room much as one might through a nightmare. Scorch marks blackened the floor and walls, noting where her niece had attacked her. Just another way to remember the conflict, she thought bitterly. She picked up a shattered glass lampstand, examining it with muted sorrow.

“I am truly sorry for your loss.” The voice was Shargann’s, but Issavea could feel another presence in the room.

“Are you?” She asked. “Or are you two just going to miss having my niece as leverage?”

“Now that is hardly fair,” the benefactor admonished. “You went along with our plan from the start. And it worked beautifully.”

“Beautifully?” Issavea rounded on him. “Alienating Enlin, tricking me into fighting her, killing several leaders, almost wiping out an entire army, and it worked beautifully?”

“With a plan of such magnitude, one can expect quite the array of hiccups,” he admitted. “But we have succeeded nonetheless. The nations stand united and, with Murethal killed by Olaf, cooler heads will prevail among the Vanahym. Thanks to a little bit of creative politicking, the Therians remain hidden, and the Free and Outlanders are on more…cordial terms. The Mierthyn are free, as I intended, and Arcaena and Carsten are soon to be wed. Your niece grieves for her husband now, but that will soon be remedied, thanks to the Seal’s resurrection. We have done all, and your pawns have moderately happy lives ahead of them.”

“If so,” Shargann said, facing his mysterious employer, “you have a promise to keep. We want a face and a name.” The benefactor nodded, throwing back his hood. It revealed a dark elven face, ringed by dark, greying hair.

“My name is Deyann. Not that you know it, but there you have it all the same. Now, we have urgent matters to discuss.”

Dragon Point

Enlin sat at the entrance to the cave, resting rather uncomfortably on a large broken stalagmite. All around her were the meager supplies she had packed for the journey; food, water, a change of clothes, an extra cloak, a staff, a few bags of seed for late spring planting, and an iron plow. Ordinarily, such a load would have been a challenge to carry, but her childhood friend Turson, another wizard, had offered to help. While not strong himself, the man did command an entire nest’s worth of large dragons, and these were more than capable. He had even been so kind as to offer Enlin one of these as a mount to take her to the island she had selected, and he was waiting patiently for her to decide that it was time to leave. She stared out into the rain, her own eyes misting over as she thought over the news of the past few days.

It might have been tolerable for her husband to die if she had at least been allowed to attend his funeral. But, since she was neither one of the Free, nor an Outlander, she had been unable to do so. That had merely been the final wound in a long series of blows that she had weathered in the past few days. Turson stood at the entrance to the cave from the sea, his hands hidden in his simple brown cloak. The hood was thrown back, revealing his wind-swept and untended blond hair. His own dragon, Stormrider, lay curled up beside him, neck craned like a ridiculously large, scaly bird, watching the raindrops fall.

“He probably isn’t coming, you know,” he remarked.

“One more day,” she asked plaintively. “Give me one more day.”

“If we wait much longer, this storm could turn into something bad,” Turson reminded her. “And my dragons can’t fly if they can’t see. Visibility was far from good yesterday; can we afford to let it get worse?”

Enlin sighed. “No, I do not suppose that we can.” She slowly got to her feet, looking down the beach one last time. “Get…wait a moment.” The young woman stepped out of the cave. “Is there someone out there?” Turson rolled his eyes inwardly, but still climbed to his feet.

“No, Enlin, there…” He stopped, his eyes widening in disbelief. “No…that cannot be…” But it was. Away up the beach, a small, battered figure could be seen moving their way. He had no cloak, and the armor he wore was notched and torn in several places. Blood splattered the faded cloth at the joints and caked the plates, but there he was. He had a staff in his hand and a lacquered axe in his belt. Now that Enlin was aware of him, she would not wait for his approach, but started running toward him. She could, in her travelling attire, since she was not wearing a dress. They met halfway between the rocky sea wall to the south and the cave to the north, and Enlin wrapped her arms around Olaf. He gave an explosive grunt.

“Easy there, darling,” he gasped. “Alive doesn’t mean healed.”

“Alive is far better than the alternative,” she replied, releasing him. “I thought…”

“I know.” He lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Why? You came back.” She looked down at him. “Are you all right?”

“I still have a few cracked ribs, and my neck still hurts something terrible, but I’m not dead. So I suppose so.” He looked past her into the cave, seeing the dragons and the luggage. “Is everything ready?”

She nodded. “Come. We have to make the island by daybreak tomorrow.” He nodded.

“A cottage, just the two of us. My, that sounds wonderful.”

Enlin shook her head. “Olaf…it may not just be the two of us.”

“What do you mean?” He asked. She blushed and put her hand on her stomach as though it hurt.

“I…have something I need to tell you.”