When Dragons Rage

41

Though Neskartu said they would travel by traditional means from his Conservatory to Muroso, the seven-hundred-and-twenty-mile journey lasted less than a week. Drearbeasts drew their sleighs and pulled them swiftly through snow and over frozen ground. The massive ursinoid creatures, with their curved, daggerlike fangs, thick white fur coats with light blue striping, and long claws in flat paws, were feared by many—including most of the students Neskartu had brought with him. But Isaura had seen drear-beasts gamboling as cubs, so felt little dread in their company. As draft beasts they served strongly, though their prickly nature made them a danger to their handlers when either was fatigued.

The journey south did disappoint her in one aspect. Their little caravan swept past Fortress Draconis at night, during a snowstorm, so she never got the chance to see it. For so many years she had heard tales of it, and from childhood it had been the forward post of all evil, harboring troops who would someday stab northward into her mother’s realm. That it had been brought low pleased her, and she would have liked to see it so humbled.

As they neared their goal, they found much evidence of the victorious Aurolani legions that had overrun Sebcia. They had been led by two sullanciri: Anarus and Tythsai, who had once been known as Aren Asvaldget and Jeturna Costasi. Myra’mara had dealt with securing the countryside, and while there were pockets of resistance, Isaura was assured they were shrinking. The day before they reached the front lines around the Murosan town Porjal, one of the kryalniri was assigned to their company and gave them the news.

Isaura found the snow-furred mage pleasant company, especially when a, they conversed in Elvish. He called himself Trib, which was short for Retribution. Having been born on Vorquellyn, choosing such a name was his right—though, as he noted, that was quite a mouthful to shout in the midst of combat.

They reached Porjal, on the northern coast of Muroso, in the middle of the night. The city was located on the western bank of the Green River, which flowed from Bokagul to the Crescent Sea, forming the border between Muroso and Sebcia. As had the refugees before them, the Aurolani forces crossed over the frozen river with ease. They took up positions that cut the city off from the land and prepared to lay siege to it.

As the morning dawned, Isaura got her first glimpse of the city and was surprised at how small it seemed. At its heart were walls that rose up a hundred feet, with towers at hundred-yard intervals going up another thirty beyond. The walls formed a crescent that ran from shore to shore. There were many buildings outside the walls, but they mostly appeared to be slums. The lack of smoke rising from the chimneys suggested they had been abandoned.

Despite that, the pennants flying from towers provided a colorful contrast to the snow. Isaura, strolling along the lines with Trib, pointed to a cross-hatched banner in yellow and red. “That one is very pretty.”

“It marks the presence of the Duke of Porjal. The red shows his blood ties to the royal family. His grandfather and the king at the time were brothers.”

She regarded him in surprise. “You know Murosan history, then?”

The kryalniri shook his head. “You will see that Murosans take great delight in announcing their lineage before entering battle. At least, the mages do, and the duke’s retainers are rather accomplished in that regard as well.”

“I do not follow you.”

Trib let his left hand shade his sapphire eyes, then pointed to pair of black basalt dolmen set on either side of the main road. “Throughout Muroso, you will see structures such as those. They are the stations where wizards stand before engaging in a duel. Our troops have engaged many wizards—some young, some old—who are defending their towns. They advance, announce themselves, then fight. I have lost several of my siblings that way.”

Isaura rubbed a gloved hand over his shoulder. “I am sorry to hear that.”

Trib shook his head. “I had many littermates, Princess, and the best have survived. Ah, look, here comes someone now.”

A little door in the city gate opened and a single figure stepped through. He wore a scarlet robe belted with a white cord and carried a stick that was longer than a baton but shorter than a full staff. White breath trailed back from his mouth as he marched along the road. His blond hair appeared almost as light as the snow, and the mask he wore matched his robe in hue. Above and behind him a number of people peeked out through the wall’s crenellations.

The man moved to the westernmost of the black stones and stood with his back against it. His voice came loud and strong through the crisp air. The gibberers in the camp quieted as he spoke, shifting around to watch him.

“I am Gramn Lyward, son of Con Lyward, Magister of Porjal. I am an Adept, learned in the ways of the Muroso Academy. I will slay all those who come to oppose me.”

One of the kryalniri plucked her staff from the snowbank into which it had been plunged and started off toward the Murosan, but Neskartu emerged from a tent. The kryalniri’s head snapped around as if she’d been roped. She bowed in the sullanciri’s direction and drew back.

From within another tent two of Neskartu’s apprentices emerged. Isaura recognized Corde and a slightly older man—his age was hard to tell, but white had begun to tinge his beard—named Parham. The man did not carry a staff, but instead had a set of five silver rings that were linked together as if a chain. He stretched them from left hand to right, locking them into a rigid column, then let them slide together in a ringing circle. One came free, though she could see no gap in it, and Parham plopped it over his head to hang around his neck.

Parham approached the battleground with confidence, but without swagger. He wore a bright yellow tunic and boots and trousers of black. Sunlight glinted from the rings while derisive shouts poured down on him from the walls.

Even at a distance, by the set of his shoulders, Isaura could see that Gramn Lyward thought little of his opposition. He twirled his staff with ease, bringing his left shoulder forward and letting the stick whirl behind him in his right hand.

Parham bowed, then brandished the quartet of rings that still remained linked. The third from the left glowed red for a second, then a sizzling scarlet disk arced toward the Murosan. The Southlands’ mage flicked his left hand, launching a green spark that intersected it. Brilliant light flashed, as if lightning had struck when they met, and Gramn smiled as the Aurolani attack flew past.

From the wall, however, came gasps. The red disk had missed the mage, but had slashed at the dolmen, leaving a dully glowing scar. Gramn half turned to regard it, and when he turned back he seemed a bit less confident. His staff still twirled in his right hand, but more spasmodically, and his mouth tightened.

Parham twisted the rings, then let the chain of them swing around his right wrist once, before catching hold of them with his left hand and snapping another spell off. This time the second ring glowed gold. A fiery golden eagle fletched with lightning swooped in at the Murosan. Its talons reached for him, the claws growing longer as it approached.

The staff came out and around in a lemniscate of pale blue, catching the magickal bird and splashing feathers into the air. Then both sides of the loop began to twist tighter, drawing the figure eight into a thick cord that torsion made yet more tiny until it evaporated. It took every trace of the bird with it.

Trib nodded. “Neatly done.”

Parham spun his chain, then grasped the four links two and two. He oriented them full on Gramn, as if their ends described a tube. The rings glowed and a furious gout of fire poured forth. The fiery column shot like dragon’s-breath straight at the man.

Gramn took a step backward, but that was all Isaura could see before the flames hit him. She expected him to burn, but the torrent of fire exploded as if it were a stream of water hitting a wall. The flames roared as they blasted away from the Murosan, and even so far away the heat kissed her face like a summer breeze.

The fire failed when Parham staggered back a step, shivering with fatigue. The flames collapsed into a greasy black cloud, which ascended quickly into the air. Steam from the melted snow curled up lazily to cover the battlefield in a low fog and, for a moment, nothing could be seen of Gramn.

Then the Murosan rose from the mist. One end of his staff burned, but he quenched it in a puddle. His once-scarlet robe had been singed brown and black in places, and white smoke rose from the ragged cuffs and hem. His mask and blond hair remained intact, however, and a cold smile split his soot-stained face.

The stick began to spin again. Slowly at first, one rotation then another. Gramn eyed his foe and the staff picked up speed. A bit faster, then a shift in direction before it spun very fast indeed. The Murosan gestured casually with his left hand, striking a green spark, then snapped the staff hard along his right forearm.

Silver fire wreathed the stick, then shot out at Parham in a jagged bolt of searing lightning. The Aurolani mage let four rings hang from his right hand while he swept the remaining one up and off his neck. He stabbed it edge on toward the lightning, then dropped into a crouch and touched the ring to the ground.

The lightning bolt bent in mid-flight and struck the ring. Its argent fire played in little flames over the ground, consuming the vapor rising from puddles, then drying the puddles themselves. Though Isaura felt no heat from it, a tingle did run over her flesh. That spell had likely taken Gramn years to perfect, and yet its fury had been dissipated so easily.

As he knew it would be. She shook her head. Parham had never been a diligent student and had always sought methods that were quick to power instead of ones that could be built upon. It was not that the man was stupid, he had just been lazy and believed that because his intelligence let him do some things easily, that those which were difficult were not worth learning. Toward that end he had shaped his rings and had imbued them with enchantments that made casting a limited number of spells very easy and made those spells themselves staggeringly powerful. That Gramn had stood against any of them was a wonder.

Parham’s death, however, was not a wonder. Parham had dealt with the incredible threat offered by the lightning, but had ignored the green spark. It had floated up for a moment, then resolved itself into the form of a hummingbird. The magickal creature shot forward, stopped, turned to the right, then flew into Parham’s right ear and out the left side of his skull. The bird lost all shape, but so did the mage’s head.

Great cheering arose from the walls as Parham flopped over in a clatter of rings. Gramn dropped to one knee and pressed his forehead to his left arm. Isaura was unsure if he were simply tired or was giving thanks to some god, but quickly enough he heaved himself to his feet and spoke his challenge aloud again.

Corde twisted her brown hair into a short ponytail and tied it with a piece of leather. “My Lord Neskartu, please permit me to answer his challenge.”

The sullanciri waved her toward the battlefield. She headed out in Porjal’s direction, then stopped and turned. “Yes, my lord, I know.”

Isaura frowned. Corde wore a long tunic of white over black trousers and boots. Around her waist, a scarlet cloth had been wrapped twice and knotted at her right hip, so that the ends flopped down at her knee. She discarded her gloves as she went.

“Trib, she has no staff.”

“No, Princess, she does not.”

Corde reached Parham’s body and pried the rings from his right hand. The one with which he had redirected the lightning still stuck in the ground, and she left it there. She examined the rings, giving each a raspy whirl against its mates, then looked up and bowed her head to Gramn.

The Murosan canted his head to the right. “Those trinkets did him no good, woman. Get your staff and we shall battle.”

“‘Tis not the spell or the staff, but the sorceress, Muroso-twc.” Though Gramn might not have known what the Aurolani suffix meant, Corde’s tone and the way she clipped it off made it clear that it was not a term of endearment. “I am prepared.”

“Do your worst.”

She shook her head as Gramn once again adopted the stance he had used to face Parham. “I shall do my best.”

She fanned the rings and the third glowed scarlet. The red disk again flashed to life and arced in at Gramn. The Murosan contemptuously triggered the green spark that glanced it aside, this time knocking it up and out into a grander arc. He nodded at her, then twitched his finger in her direction, inviting another attack.

The rings rang and spun, then locked down into the fire cylinder. The flames poured out hot and fast. The stream was smaller, but flowed more quickly and drove Gramn back two steps as his staff came around. He spun it quickly, summoning a golden shield that splashed the flames high and wide. Through them Isaura could see him straining, but his spell held.

Corde yanked the rings apart, abruptly terminating the fire stream. Gramn rose from a crouch at the base of the dolmen, smiling. His staff was not burning, nor was his robe. The people on the wall cheered loudly, and that broadened his smile.

Then that smile froze.

The people’s cheering sank into wails.

The scarlet disk that had been so easily deflected had arced back down. As had its predecessor, it sliced through the dolmen, this time fully bisecting the stone. The upper portion slid forward on molten rock. Its leading edge hit the soft ground and sank in until it hit frozen earth, then pitched forward.

Gramn spun and stabbed his stick against it. Blue fire shot from the staff’s base and pierced the earth. The stone slowed, then stopped, held there by magick. Gramn’s back bowed with the strain, but he held even as muddy ground oozed up and around his feet.

Corde rustled the rings against each other.

Gramn shot back over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t…”

“No need.”

The Murosan’s right foot slipped in the mud.

The stone slammed down heavily enough to shake the earth even where Isaura stood. Thick mud streaked with blood splashed out. Brown water had darker tendrils seeping through it, and bubbles rose thickly.

The wails of horror from the walls lasted longer than the bubbles.

Corde casually wiped mud from her tunic, then tossed the rings away. They crashed loudly against the stone and lay there, shining on its broad black face. The sunlight reflected off them, painting four white rings over the walls of Porjal.

Toward the center of the Aurolani position, an order was shouted. Before Corde had crossed even a quarter of the distance back to her lines, dragonels spoke, splitting the air with fire and thunder. A dozen iron balls hammered the walls within those rings. Masonry crumbled, and people fell.

The conquest of Muroso had begun.