Chapter Five
The Symarion Mountains were once home to the legendary Ice Warriors, a nomadic tribe of humans. Their ice-capped peaks maintaining a heavy blanket of snow throughout the year, thus its frigid temperatures. Legend revealed that the mountain had once erupted, spewing molten fire from its depths, wiping out the human tribes. However, a few remained, scattered across the lands.
Deep in the depths of a cave, high in the mountains, Mnuvae stood waist deep in a steaming spring, the heat of the water reddening her skin. Sweat beaded on her brow and dripped between her breasts as steam sporadically burst forth from volcanic fissures. Volcanic cones oozed molten magma—casting an orange glow over the cavern, the stench of sulphur heavy in the air. She wondered if this is what the dwarven cities smelled like, deep beneath the surface of the earth.
The trek into the mountains had been arduous, the journey alone taking several weeks. One of her Wilderling scouts had found them refuge from the cold. She had found herself continuously casting heat runes so as not to lose her fingers from frostbite. Some of her men had not been so lucky. Their extremities turning black from the cold. She was not about to spend her mana on those worthless fools.
She unbound her braid, glorious waves of hair spilling about her shoulders as she sank beneath the water, casting her gaze toward the ancient tome she had taken from the old ruins, its gilded pages aglow in the darkened corner. Dark, ancient, and forbidden magic hidden between its pages. She had pored over the text for hours—finding a spell that had the potential to raise Hath’Raal himself from the Void if she could but work the incantation. However, the magic was beyond her, the spell fizzling and dying before its completion.
A scowl creased her brow as she leaned back, dousing her hair in the water. That would have been a sweet victory indeed, to have the god of chaos himself at her side. Cëladyn would have been so proud had she managed to achieve such a feat. Instead she bore the brunt of his disappointment. He scolded her as if she was still ema’asha, a child playing at magic, and not a woman full grown, in command of legions. Is this not what he trained her for? Schooled her for all those years?
“Andar’Sarel, my lady.” The sound of a man’s voice broke her into thoughts. Exhaling in frustration that her bathing had been interrupted, she turned a withering glare on the intruder.
His chestnut hair was pulled half back in a braid, the rest hung in waves, resting on his shoulders. He was not a broad man, was in fact rather wiry underneath the thick fur lined vest, but he was tall, and the muscles in his arms spoke of his strength despite his slight frame. A bow was slung across his back. His face was all harsh angles. Tiny scars, almost invisible, marred one side of his face, no doubt from a wild animal. He had eyes the color of lilacs, and he was not unpleasant to look at. A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she returned his gaze.
“We, ah, forgive me.” The scout abruptly turned his back to her, allowing her privacy. Mnuvae’s smile broadened when the tips of the man’s ears turned pink.
“What do you have for me?” She leaned back in the spring, lifting her leg from the water, the bare expanse of her calf and thigh exposed while she inspected her painted toes. She saw the scout shift uncomfortably at the sound of the water fluctuating. She had seen the briefest flicker of desire in his gaze before he spun around.
“The dragon’s nest, we have found it.”
Praise Hath’Raal! They had been trekking through these frostbitten mountains for weeks without any success. Now she would be able to begin preparations for the ritual.
“Who found it?”
“I did my lady. It is about a half a day’s walk farther up the mountain path, in what appears to have once been a settlement. Ice Warriors I suspect.” She noticed his back straightening with pride, the pinkness of his ears fading. She smiled inwardly. It had been too long since she had a man between her legs, and the elf did deserve a reward for helping bring her plans closer to fruition.
“Well done. Have the men ready to leave by morning and also tell my uncle, he should be there.” Her tone softened, like liquid velvet falling from her tongue.
“Now, turn around, na’fen.” Cëladyn certainly would not approve of her dallying with one of her men, but her uncle was not here.
“I beg your pardon, my lady.” The pinkness had returned to his ears, and his whole body tensed at her words.
“I said, turn around.” She stayed hidden beneath the water, her tresses splaying out around her. The elf slowly and hesitantly began to turn until he was fully facing her. His gaze fixed on a point above her head.
Mnuvae rose up from the water like a siren, beckoning with her body. She took a step toward him, water droplets trailing between her breasts and down her stomach. A smile graced her lips as his gaze drank in her nakedness, arousal darkening his eyes before he looked away, hesitant to stare overlong.
He was right to fear her. She commanded the armies of the undead. The land ran with the blood of her war. She could flay a man with the simplest flick of her wrist, and soon she would command the dragons. Yes, he was right to fear her.
Stepping from the pool, she placed her hand on his chest, feeling the muscles beneath her fingertips. Trailing her fingers across his chest, she came to stand behind him, slipping his bow and the heavy fur lined coat from his narrow shoulders. She leaned up, tracing her tongue along the shell of his ear, reveling in the groan she elicited from him as she sucked the pointed tip into her mouth.
“I would have your name.” She purred, her warm breath tickling along his neck.
“Garel.”
She came to stand before him, her hands ghosting across his tunic. Her wet hair cool against her skin. Gooseflesh spread across her dripping body as a gust of icy air swept through the cave.
“Do you fear me, Garel?” She reached out, toying with the laces of his breeches. His gaze snapped to hers, uncertain of her game, lust swirling violently in their violet depths, his jaw clenched tight.
“Yes.” His voiced trembled as his hands twitched at his sides, aching to touch her.
“Do you desire me, Garel?” He lost the war within himself, reaching out, running his fingers tentatively along her arms.
“Yes.” He drew her to him then, her naked breasts pressed flush against his clothed chest, her dampness soaking into his tunic. Her arms reached up, circling his neck, her lips a hairsbreadth from his.
“Will you take me, Garel? On the floor of this cave and fuck me so thoroughly I forget my own name?”
“Ancestors, yes!” He was kissing her savagely then, his lips slanting over hers, his tongue invading her mouth, pulling her hard against him.
****
Flintathriël rolled in his sleep, reaching unconsciously for the warm body that lay alongside him, tangled in the silk sheets. The lack of warmth and empty space roused him from his dreams as his reach met open air. Sweeping his tousled hair from his face, his sleep worn gaze was drawn to the balcony.
There she stood, gazing out into the night, copper hair tumbling down in loose waves. The silk sheet wrapped about her, held loosely against her petit breasts, pooling at her feet. She appeared to stand in a pond of molten silver in the moonlight. The creamy expanse of her shoulders bare, reflecting the paleness of the moon.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, not bothering to cover his nakedness as he moved toward her. She smiled softly as his hands snaked around her waist, his palms settling on the flat of her belly. He planted a ghost of a kiss to her throat before resting his chin upon her shoulder. He felt the tension ease from her body as she leaned into his embrace.
“Saira, na’vahleth?”
“Do you ever wonder what our lives would have been, if this war had never started?” Sairalindë’s attempt to make her voice soft, wistful even, did not go unnoticed. He heard the underlying worry in her tone, the unspoken tension that laden her words.
“It is not something I dwell on. The war has been fought since before either of our births. It has always been, certainly much longer than our combined years.”
A small laugh escaped her lips, and he held her tighter. “Yes, we are little more than children in that regard. Yet, it is strange to think that if your uncle had only claimed Mnuvae as his daughter, then there would never have been a war. A poor decision by a man we never met.”
“A bastard cannot inherit the throne, Saira.” He remarked offhandedly. She turned in his embrace, peering up at him. There was a tightness in her eyes, the smooth features of her face half cast in shadow.
“A child cannot be blamed for the circumstance of her birth, Flint. Would that one of the women you had before me was to come forward with your child.” She retorted somewhat coldly, turning her gaze back to the window.
“So you would have my bastard take the throne rather than any legitimate child of your own?” He countered, this was not exactly the conversation he expected when he slipped from the warmth of his bed.
“I did not say that.” She released an exasperated sigh. “But would you cast it out into the cold and never look back? Like your father did to his brother’s child?”
“Saira, you do not know the circumstances, you do not know what you are talking about.”
“Do you? Have you ever asked him? Your father?”
“You were not there, neither was I.”
“But my father was.” She sighed, and Flintathriël had no response
“Does it matter? She grew up and started a war.”
She spun in his arms—pinning him with a withering stare.
“That is cold, Flint. You do not know what happened to her. What brought her to a place of such darkness? How could you fathom such a thing? How could either of us? We were raised in privilege.”
“What has brought this on? Saira?”
“I just sometimes think about the different paths our lives could have taken is all. If your father had taken her in all those years ago, she would have been raised in the palace. You would probably have been betrothed to her.”
“Mnuvae is my cousin, Saira.” He scrunched his nose up in disgust.
“It is not unheard of, Flint.” She laughed softly, leaning into him, her head resting against his cheek.
“I would have continued to study with my father. My mother would not have been killed in the war.” He gave her a gentle squeeze. He oft forgot her mother had been a dragon rider. “And I would not be standing here, naked in your arms.”
“Oh, that is where you are wrong. I have no doubt you would have found yourself naked in my arms eventually.” A smirk spread across his lips, and his thumb began tracing the outside shell of her ear.
“You barely noticed me back then.”
“I noticed.” His voice low and sultry in her ear, he felt a shiver run through her, his grin getting wider.
“Pulling my hair and pushing me in the dirt along with your sister as a child does not count.”
His tone grew serious. “I did notice, but I was young and foolish. That day I saw you in the stable, after letting him lay his hands on you…” He heard the ache in his voice as he dredged up the old feelings of hurt and regret.
Sairalindë was silent, they had never spoken of that day.
“It should have been me.”
“Flint…”
“You were meant for me. Had always been meant for me.”
She turned to gaze into his eyes. “I am yours now, na’vahla, forever and always.” She caressed his cheek with the curve of her palm, her golden eyes shining with love and pride. He chafed under her touch, despising the sense of vulnerability that washed over him.
Quashing down the old hurt, he buried it deep where it belonged. Flintathriël swept her up in his arms, and tossed her onto the bed. Girlish giggles springing from her lips as he claimed her mouth. Making love to her through the night, worshiping her body into the small hours of the morning.
****
Weathered huts, long abandoned, stood out against the splendorous backdrop of the ice-capped mountain. Rooftops bowed with the weight of slush and sleet from recent snowstorms, lended an eerie groan to the silence.
It had taken half a day to reach the settlement, just as Garel had said it would. A small, knowing smile graced Mnuvae’s lips as she slid a look at the scout. He had taken her on the cave floor, her body sore, still marred with scrapes and scratches from their encounter. When she took the throne, she might even keep him around.
A giant dragon’s nest lay in an area that had once been a farm hold, now a veritable bone-yard. Remains of animals, humans, and elves were scattered in smaller piles. Strewn amongst the bones were rusted weapons and broken armor, shattered wagons and mountainous piles of gold and jewels. Lying among the debris, a young dragon, newly hatched, watched with scarlet eyes.
She tempered down a rush of giddy excitement. Her hands clasping the satchel slung across her shoulders, and containing the Book of Souls. A quick glance at Cëladyn showed her he was feeling the same. Hands locked behind his back, chest, and chin, puffed out, proud. His silver-white mane wisped about his face in the frigid air, a grim smile playing on his lips. Her heart soared with his approval.
Mnuvae approached the beast slowly, whispering soothing words, much as she would a wild colt. She stared down at the dragonling as the creature lifted its head, eliciting tiny puffs of smoke in its attempt to create flames from its toothless mouth. Reaching out, she gently brushed the dragonling with the back of her knuckles. Its emerald scales were soft, not yet the tough leathery hide it would become, more akin to snakeskin in its infancy. Its horns and tail spikes were like blunted pegs, and the spines that would one day line its back had barely broken through the skin.
The dragonling wailed, a horrible shriek piercing the air.
“Falannas!” Mnuvae swore. She would have to work quickly. The High Dragon would not take kindly to her young being butchered. Her men tightened their hold on their weapons, shifting restlessly. Drawing on her mana pool, she shot forth a burst of lightning from her fingertips, the dragonling crumbling in a limp heap in its nest.
“Knife!” Cëladyn stepped forward, handing her a silver dagger. The folded metal gleaming in the afternoon sun.
She hurried forward, skidding to her knees in the freshly fallen snow. She pulled a wooden bowl from her satchel, carved with ancient runes. With a swift upward slash of the blade, she slit the dragonling’s throat. The crimson fluid spurted into her face, its metallic scent permeating the air. Catching several drops of the viscous fluid in the bowl, she set it aside as the creature bled out, staining the crisp, white snow.
“Bring me the heart,” she commanded as she cut a talon from the beast’s foot. Garel and several of her men rushed forward to do her bidding, plunging their swords into the dragon’s flesh, its innards spilling out, mingling with the blood already spilt.
Pulling the book from her satchel, Mnuvae dropped to her knees and lay it on the iced earth, hurriedly turning the gilded pages, finding the spell she sought. Written in the language of the ancients, its scrolling calligraphy gracing the golden pages, was the knowledge that would grant her the ability to command the dragons of the dragon riders.
Roughly she tore off her heavy fur lined coat and tunic until she was standing in only her boots, breeches, and breast band—shivering against the subzero temperature, her flesh already reddening from the biting cold.
She took up the dragonling claw, blood and tendons still attached to its base, and dipped it in the blood. Mnuvae clenched her teeth as she began carving intricate symbols into the flesh of her arms, replicating the images depicted in the book. She worked quickly, scraping the flesh, biting her lip against the pain, drawing blood, sticky crimson fluid dripping down her arms.
In the distance she heard the unmistakable roar of the High Dragon.
“Uncle?” She passed the claw to Cëladyn when he approached, joining her on his knees in the snow. He brought the talon to her chest and began carving across her neckline. He was harsh and rough, working quickly. Another roar, closer this time. He finished the image across her heart and clasped the base of her skull, meeting her gaze. A ghost of a smile crossed his lips before he pressed a kiss to her brow. She ushered her uncle away, and Garel placed the dragon heart in front of her.
She was ready to begin, ready to bind herself to the beast.
“Akkar ath’la halen, akkar ath’la nia.” Mnuvae dipped her finger in the dragon’s blood and smeared it across the bloodied carvings on her body, the blood mingling with her own. She reached for the heart, clasping the bloodied organ between her hands and raised it high.
“Vahleth ath drogo’halen, Ir haeren ena nia.” She brought the heart to her mouth, tearing into the tough muscled flesh with her dull elven teeth.
Her stomach recoiled violently, threatening to eject its contents as she bit into the still warm heart, choking it down, bite after bite. Her stomach heaved as she lunged forward, clasping a hand over her mouth, swallowing back the bile that burned her throat as her stomach convulsed violently, trying to expel the dragon heart.
The dragon roared again, coming ever closer to its nesting grounds with each beat of its leathery wings.
Mnuvae forced herself to finish the heart, despite fearing she would become ill before she could complete the ritual. Cëladyn placed a comforting hand on her back, whispering gentle words of encouragement.
She could see the dragon approaching, its emerald scales glinting in the sunlight. Satisfied her stomach would not betray her, just yet, she rose to her feet, and Cëladyn stepped back, his face once more a mask of impassiveness.
“Drogo’halen, aler kaalah stra’lath, Ir sumia ena kaalah stra’na.” She held her arms out, the bloodied symbols on her torso alight with a golden glow.
“Aera’la vahleth aal akkar ath’ena halan, ir ellea’na tasae ae’ena.” The light became brighter, growing more intense, her skin thrummed, her body trembled, and her mana pulsed through her—channeling the dragon’s blood in her veins. The High Dragon dipped in flight, crying out in panic, molten fire spewing from its mouth, setting a decrepit building alight.
A grin spread wide across Mnuvae’s face, as she tasted the blood in her mouth. From the corner of her eye, she saw her men recoil in horror. Magical energies rippled violently beneath her skin, the lights from the runes reaching an almost blinding intensity.
“Ena’an na!” She screamed, thrusting her arms forward. The light pouring from her fingertips engulfed the giant green dragon in a spherical field of golden light. The creature buckled mid-air, crashing heavily to the ground, energies pulling at its mind and soul. The shrill, high-pitched wail unlike anything Mnuvae had ever heard.
She dropped to the ground, a burning pain tearing through her skull. She ripped at her hair, there was something, pulling and prodding, like a hot poker stirring coals inside her mind.
Arms gripped her tight while she writhed in agony in the snow, preventing her from tearing her hair out. Cëladyn pulled her tight against his chest, thwarting her ability to hurt herself, pinning her arms to her side.
She felt it then, in the back of her mind, the dragon—she was fighting, battling for control. They fought on the precipice, a clash of wills.
In her mind’s eye, she saw herself on a cliff face, battling the dragon, the orange glow of a fading sun at the beast’s back. Fire spewed from the creature’s maw as Mnuvae advanced, fending off its attacks with the flick of a wrist. Flashes of blue and purple lit the sky. Bolts of electricity sliced through the air, and she pulled the stave from her back.
The dragon gave one final roar as Mnuvae slammed the willow wood hard into the earth. A myriad of sparks speared the dragon through its chest, and the creature crumpled. She stared into the beast’s crimson eyes, robes billowing in the wind, celebrating her victory with a piercing cry.
Viciously, she snapped back into her body. She could feel her, the dragon, Shorolth, in the back of her mind, defeated. Mnuvae’s eyes fluttered open, and Cëladyn released her from his iron grip. She heard a collective gasp as she shakily gained her feet, looking askance at her uncle.
“Your eyes, my dear,” he said nonchalantly, brushing at the blood on his clothes as he rose to his feet. “They are red.”
Like the dragons.
Mnuvae swung to look at Shorolth. The beast laid several feet away, smoke spouting from her nostrils. The necromancer approached, reaching out and touching the dragon in awe. Overwhelmed with the thought that this magnificent beast was truly under her command. She motioned for one of their scouts to come forward.
‘Shorolth, melt the flesh from his bones.’ The words flowed through her mind. She felt Shorolth’s understanding, felt her bristle against the orders, felt her compliance. The dragon lifted its head, and Mnuvae backed up out of the line of fire. She watched with rapt fascination and excitement, rubbing her hands together as molten fire spewed from the dragon’s mouth. The man barely had time to scream before the flesh fell from his bones, ending in a smoking pile of ash on the snow.
Mnuvae stroked the dragon’s snout. “Good girl,” she soothed, then turned on her small group.
“Send word, I want all our closest armies marching on the Crystal Palace. Three days hence…” Her gaze locked with Cëladyn’s ice blue gaze. “I take what is mine.”