Chapter Six
The day dawned dark and brooding, and the heavens threatened to open at any given time. Flintathriël strolled casually through the training yard, carelessly tossing his silver tipped dagger into the air by the blade, catching it by the hilt and repeating the action many times over, the bluish crystal glinting as it caught the light. He whistled a cheerful tune, kicking lightly at the loose earth with his bare toes.
He spied Faëlwyn by the archery dummies. The runes along her arms glowing ever so slightly, as she nocked and fired her arrows in rapid succession. She hit three of the figures square between the eyes, before the youth beside her had even loaded his crossbow.
He watched her sling the bow over her shoulder and begin rubbing vigorously at her fingers, the light glow of the runes fading out. A smug, self-satisfied grin spread across his lips when he noticed the ring. It was about time Theron got around to it.
“Something chafing against your bow strings, sister?”
She smiled at him, an air of girlish giddiness surrounding her, so unlike Faëlwyn. It took a special kind of man to tame his sister’s wild heart, and Theron had proven worthy.
Her smile turned to a frown as she removed the ring and passed it to him for inspection. He held it up, admiring the intricate floral design. It was a beautifully carved rosewood ring. He knew Theron had some minor talent at crafting, but this was a masterwork. Minuscule roses bloomed along twining vines, weaving themselves along the rosewood band, oiled and treated with a glossy polish, six words inscribed inside.
Na’vahleth, na’vahla, na’tasae. My heart, my love, my soul.
“So Theron finally asked you? Congratulations, Faë.” He wrapped his arm about her shoulder and pressed her to his side in a hug. He was unable to allow an opportunity to tease her to pass him by.
“Now we can have a double ceremony.”
She threw his arm from her shoulder, laughing in his face at his joke. “I shared a womb with you. If you think I am sharing my special day, you are sorely mistaken.”
“Ah, so you are female after all.”
This earned him a hard punch to the shoulder, and Faëlwyn snatched her ring back, slipping it onto her slender finger. Pulling her bow from her back and loading another arrow, she took aim, lining up the shot. However, something whistled past her ear and a dagger hit the dummy, knocking her previous arrow to the ground. Faëlwyn looked over her shoulder, eyes narrowing on her brother.
“Show off,” she muttered before stomping forward and pulling the dagger from where it was embedded deeply in the wood, tossing it at her brother’s feet.
Flintathriël retrieved his blade, slipping it into the sheath on his belt. He was about to leave when he saw Roggar running toward them with an armful of arrows.
Faëlwyn turned as he approached, the delicate arches of her brows raising high in surprise. “You have finished them?”
Roggar laughed, a deep rumbling erupting from his chest. “Of course,” he said, placing the bundle gently on the ground, passing one to Faëlwyn for inspection.
Flintathriël picked up one of the arrows from the pile, turning it over in his hand. The arrowhead was larger and wider than average, but still decidedly light. Something rattled inside the tip, like it had been hollowed out. He gave it a slight shake.
“I would not do that if I were you, Whitey.” Roggar warned.
“Why not?”
The dwarf’s eyes crinkled so much that he wondered how the man could see at all when he smiled.
“Care to demonstrate, lass.” Roggar gestured to Faëlwyn.
A smirk, not unlike Flintathriël’s own, quirked the corner of her mouth at his quizzical stare.
“My pleasure Roggar.” She turned to him. “I suggest you stand back, Flint.”
He frowned, but did as she asked.
“Everybody, get back,” Faëlwyn shouted to the people in the surrounding vicinity, and the bystanders shuffled back several feet to watch her demonstration, their curiosity piqued.
“Back farther if I were you,” Roggar suggested as he moved back several more feet.
She nocked her bow, aimed, and fired.
He did not expect the massive boom that knocked him to the ground. Lights flashed momentarily in front of his eyes before he shook off the effects and brushed hair from his face. He regained his feet. The small explosion had taken out a half dozen of the training dummies, splintering them so they now resembled little more than kindling for the fire. A good many of the soldiers who had gathered to watch, now sat, scratching their heads.
“What in the name of Hath’Raal was that?”
“That, Whitey, was a special order for your sister here,” Roggar stated, sounding exceedingly pleased with himself.
“They are perfect, Roggar.” Faëlwyn was positively glowing with excitement, pulling the dwarf into a tight hug.
“Your new betrothed is not going to like having to replace the dummies.”
Faëlwyn poked her tongue at her brother like an ema’asha, and he chuckled before sticking his own out.
“Betrothed? When did this happen?” Roggar asked.
“Last night.” Faëlwyn flashed the ring at him.
Roggar took her hand, appraising Theron’s handiwork. “Nice craftsmanship. You know it does not count if he asked during sex right?” Roggar sniggered, dropping her hand.
“Get out of here, Roggar.” Faëlwyn laughed, pushing at his shoulder as he turned to leave, still chuckling to himself.
“You elves need to stop with all this betrothal business, Faë, Whitey. Myriani will be getting ideas.”
“You should be so lucky,” Faëlwyn shouted after him, but the dwarf just waved her off with a smile and went about his day.
Her face held a perplexing frown when she turned back to Flintathriël. Faëlwyn pointed past him, and in the distance, he heard shouting. His brows furrowed as he followed the direction of her gaze.
Commanders were suddenly barking out orders, soldiers gearing up, others running for armor and weapons, preparing for battle. He heard a familiar voice and glanced around to see Theron running toward them, still kitted out in hardened leather scouting armor. A quiver full of arrows and bow at his back, and a matching pair of silver daggers bearing the insignia of the Nuvian at his belt.
The commander of the Nuvian skidded to a halt before them, dust swirling around his mud-caked toes, looking winded and exhausted. The runes visible along his hands and face were dim and dull, as though all their power had been exhausted.
How long had he been running?
“What is it? What is happening?” Faëlwyn stepped forward, brushing a shoulder length strand of auburn hair back behind Theron’s ear. His face glistened with sweat, and his sea-green eyes looked more tired than Flintathriël had ever seen him.
Theron straightened himself, regaining his composure, brushing Faëlwyn’s hand away—donning the mask of Commander and speaking with the authority due his rank.
“The undead march this way. As we speak, they are swarming in from all sides.”
“On the Palace? How much time do we have?” Flintathriël demanded, though judging from the elf’s reaction, he did not want to know.
Theron’s face hardened, his jaw clenched, and the jagged scar on his chin turned white with tension. “None.”
“None? Then how did you—”
“I ran.” Faëlwyn’s words were cut off.
“You out ran a horde of Revenir!” She croaked, her gaze wildly searching Theron’s face. His features softened, discarding the mantle of superior for a moment. Gently he brought his calloused hand to cup Faëlwyn’s face between his palms.
“And Wilderlings, but, yes, I did. Severely depleting my runic power doing so too.” Theron pressed his brow to hers.
“I am all right, Faë.” He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and stepped back into his official roll.
“How many?” asked Flintathriël.
“Five thousand at least. It looks as though Mnuvae has gathered her entire force. Commander Tathar is readying the infantry. Eletha has called her Dragon Riders to the skies, and now I am here to lead the Nuvian. Ready yourselves for battle. It is going to be bloody.”
Flintathriël spun and ran to collect his gear, slipping the holster for his scimitars across his back and over the hardened leather cuirass, sliding half dozen stilettos into the sheaths at his belt alongside his silver tipped blades.
He sprinted back across the yard to rejoin Faëlwyn and Theron, pushing through the throng of bodies now crowding his path in their swiftness to make ready. The urgency of the situation a tangible entity.
“Flint!” He stopped in his tracks at Sairalindë’s voice, grunting in pain as an armored body smacked into his shoulder. She was suddenly at his side. Her copper hair braided and coiled high upon her head, stave strapped to her back and dressed head to toe in dark green leather armor.
“Good hunting,” she said, leaning up to kiss him lightly on the lips. He pulled her to him in a scorching kiss that left them both gasping for breath. Flintathriël smiled and set her from him, dropping a kiss on her brow.
“Good hunting, na’vahleth.”
Sairalindë smiled and then hastened in the direction of the other Dragon Riders.
“Whitey, you really think this is the time?” Roggar’s voice boomed from behind. He spun to see the dwarf standing behind him in shining black, steel plated armor. A horned helmet adorned his head, and a huge broad-axe was strapped to his back.
Flintathriël’s brows shot up in alarm.
“What are you doing, you idiot! Get out of here!” His brow drew into a deep scowl at his friend’s idiocy.
“That is awful sweet, Whitey, but I am not missing this battle for anyone.”
He expelled an exasperated breath. “Fine. But if you die, I am telling Myriani your last breath was expressing your utter regret at not settling down and siring a brood of elf-blooded children with her.”
Roggar stared at him, mouth agape in horror. “You would not dare.”
“Then do not die, you hard-headed idiot.” He grinned at Roggar’s flabbergasted face.
A thunderous roar pierced the air. The elf and dwarf looked skyward. An enormous dragon with glinting emerald scales descended rapidly toward the crystal spires of the palace.
“That is not one of ours, is it?” That was when he spied the rider.
Mnuvae!
“How…” His lips would not form the words as the dragon let out a high pitched wail. It pulled up tight, spewing molten fire from its gaping maw, swinging its mighty spiked tail into the side of the tower. Flintathriël and Roggar stood frozen to the spot as the sparkling crystal spire came hurtling toward the earth, molten flames licking at the sides.
He saw a shimmering wall of light appear as the earth shuddered. The ear-splitting ring resonated through him, and he clasped his hands over his ears and fell to his knees. The crystal spire shattered into a billion splintered shards. Beautiful razored slivers flying like arrows, as the tower peak decimated the palace walls, and the Revenir and Wilderlings swarmed the palace grounds.
“If I survive this”—Roggar reached for his axe—“a brood of elf-blooded brats might not be the worst idea.”
Flintathriël’s face set in a grim line as he unsheathed his scimitars.
****
Sairalindë watched in horror as the tower peak came crashing down as if in slow motion. The dragon circled high overhead, spitting its mutinous breath at the crumbling palace. She gaped, wild-eyed at the soldiers fleeing in panic, trying to escape the inevitable. The blast radius would be immense. Who knew how far the shards would scatter. It could well decimate half their forces when it hit the ground.
She had seconds to act.
“Magi! Quickly! Your barriers!” She did not wait to see if anyone heard. She could not stop the destruction, but she could limit the casualties.
She sprinted toward the hurtling projectile, lungs burning. Tearing the staff from her back, snapping the leather strap that held it and skidded to her knees. Thrusting her weapon into the air, she cast her barrier. A luminous wall of light shot skyward just before the tower spire hit the ground, the image shimmying and rippling through the barrier.
The energies from other magi joined with hers as the spire crashed to the earth. At a quick glance, she saw that several dozen battle magi had lent their mana to her barrier, Myriani and Caewen among them. A prickle of fear shot down her spine at seeing her apprentice on the battlefield.
“Hold steady!” Sairalindë shouted over her shoulder, and she felt the surge of magic flow into the wall.
The barrier wavered as it was battered with millions of crystal shards, splintering to dust as they slammed against the shimmering wall of her blockade and fell to the ground. She heard a gurgling cry as several pierced the barrier, and felt the loss of mana as a black-haired mage took a shard to the throat. The ringing in her ears was deafening, but she held her ground, grit her teeth, and maintained the barricade.
Momentary silence descended upon the palace grounds. Clouds of dust swirled around the rubble of the shattered tower. Sairalindë dropped the wall, sucking in several deep breaths as she felt the slow draw of her magic returning, tension leaving her body as she glanced about to see Myriani and Caewen safe for now.
Still, shrieking groans were heard and mages scattered as the Revenir began swarming over the walls and wreckage. She could do little else but run.
“To the skies, take that abomination down!” She heard Eletha shouting her orders.
“Sivath, go!” She called to her dragon, his name echoing through her mind as she watched the other Dragon Riders take to the skies. There was no time to harness him.
He was already preparing for flight, his wings open and waiting as he watched the emerald dragon rise into the sky.
She planted her feet, launching herself onto his back, grasping his spines with one hand and clasping her staff with the other. She scrambled up to lie between his shoulder blades. Her hair coming loose as Sivath soared high above the clouds with a thunderous roar—swooping after the emerald dragon.
****
“Fight well, na’fen.” Slapping Roggar on the back, Flintathriël turned toward the swarms of undead spilling into the castle yard. They moved with surprising speed for reanimated corpses, their lifeless eyes, deep set and milky white. Hair, lank and stringy, hung in clumps from bashed in skulls and rotting flesh peeled away from bone. Odorous pustules oozed yellow mucus, and the foul stench of death and decay hung thick in the air.
Many were dressed in ceremonial garb, clutching rusty weapons in cracked and rusted armor. Soldiers laid to rest in centuries past, their wars having already been fought. Now they would fight again. An unholy fight!
Some gripped splintered staves, others broken swords and bows. There was no order to their mindless marching. He even glimpsed the fur-lined armor of a human ice warrior.
Wilderlings brandished their weapons high as they plunged forward, those who worship Mnuvae as a living embodiment of Hath’Raal’s bride. Although the god had no such paramour.
Bringing his runes to life, Flintathriël swiped the hair from his brow, sharpening his predatory gaze on the enemy at his gates. He rushed into the fray, his two scimitars drawn, and a war cry on his lips.
He charged at the oncoming horde, deadly curved blades glinting in the sunlight. The harsh clang of metal on metal sang out as bursts of mage light hit the air in alternate blasts of blue and green. Cries of battle rang out, the song of war filling his ears. Smoke billowed upward from the dragon’s fiery breath.
Adrenalin pumped furiously through Flintathriël’s veins, as he leapt over piles of rubble, slashing out violently as he hit the ground running, turning and twisting, blood dripping from his scimitars. The light of his runes glowed and power thrummed across his skin. He was a blur of flashing blades, moving at lightning speed. His enemies struck down before they saw him.
His inner wolf snarled as he cleaved the rotting corpses in two. Their decaying remains convulsing where they fell, their stench filling the air. Throwing his arms wide, a bestial cry tore from his lips, and he flew toward the enemy. Twisting and leaping, slicing and slashing, twin blades glinting. Blood spraying, drenching his face.
He was a master of this macabre dance.
A blow caught him in the back, sending him sprawling to the ground, one of his scimitars disappearing into the battle. Flintathriël flipped back onto his feet in one fluid motion, swiftly pulling a stiletto from his belt, hurling it at an advancing corpse. Striking another in its milky white eye and ripping it out, its rotting flesh tearing easily, the insides of its skull spilling out onto the blood-soaked earth.
He glanced to the heavens, all the tension leaving his body as he observed the dragon filled sky. Dozens of winged shapes glided elegantly on the wind. Their burning breaths lighting up the dark rain clouds. Sivath’s leathery hide standing out amongst them.
Seeing Sairalindë was safe, he fought his way across the courtyard, sweeping up a fallen blade, sweat beading his brow as he rushed once more into the fight—a flurry of flashing swords.
A familiar bellowing reached his ears. He spun, swinging his scimitar upward in a deadly arc, lodging itself into the collar bone of a Wilderling mage, slicing downward, and almost severing the man in two before he crumpled. He spied Roggar to his left, welding his giant broad-axe in a cleaving arc, slicing three Revenir clean in half, then barging through them like a dwarven battering ram, his war cry splintering from his lips.
He fought on with no end in sight. They were outnumbered. The air was thick with the stink of burning flesh, and the swarming hordes still flooded over the walls. Flaming corpses shambling ever forward.
An explosion erupted at his right side, obliterating undead soldiers clambering over the ramparts, knocking him to the ground, his ears ringing. He wiped the reeking flesh and pus from his face and gained his footing as another explosion went off. Explosive arrowheads annihilating yet another wave of Revenir. His gaze flitted across the grounds, and he spied Faëlwyn and Theron fighting side by side. His sister’s fingers a blur as she nocked and fired arrows from her short bow in rapid succession, runes glowing, her ebony mane coming loose from its ties. Having traded his bow for sword and shield, the tall red headed elf swung his sword expertly, though his movements seemed slow and sluggish without the effects of his runes.
Theron was tiring.