Chapter Seven
Mnuvae glanced back at Sairalindë. She then glanced down at the undead overrunning the palace and grinned sadistically.
Sairalindë’s hair whipped about her face, Sivath’s large leathery wings beating in her ears as they flew after Mnuvae and the great emerald dragon she commanded. Since when could she do that? She could not wrap her mind around how it was possible. How someone who lacked the bonding could fly a wild dragon. It was beyond comprehension. It was a skill few possessed, something left over from when the gods walked the earth.
She grunted as Sivath turned sharply, causing her to slip. He was gaining on the emerald giant, dodging burning bolts of fire.
Suddenly all the bonded dragons fell from the sky.
Sairalindë felt the connection between her and Sivath snap as he plummeted toward the ground, a keening wail filling the sky. Air whipped past her ears as they fell in a downward spiral. Fear and panic gripped her, knuckles whitening as she held on for her life, forcing her to relinquish her staff.
All around her dragon’s fell, but above her, the necromancer’s dragon circled. Her eyes stung, tears burning. She closed them, forcing herself to calm, and time stopped.
****
“Get out of here, Faë!” Theron shouted above the din, gesturing wildly toward a crumbling section of wall, before smashing his shield into the face of a warrior, breaking the man’s face and spraying himself with blood. He plunged his sword through the Wilderlings guts and shoved him off with his foot.
“No! I am not leaving you.” She was at his back, keeping pace with him, her fingers moving expertly over her bowstring.
“God’s sake, Faë, get to higher ground! That is an order!” Theron spun to face her.
“Duck!”
Faëlwyn fell to her knees, and Theron twisted, threw his arm wide, and swung his sword out savagely, severing the head of a rampaging corpse. Its gaping mouth still gnawing blindly as its skull rolled away, milky eyes blinking.
Faëlwyn leapt to her feet firing off an explosive arrowhead, raining body parts across the yard, a grin on her lips. “Not happening, Commander. I guess you will just have to punish me after the war.” She winked, pulling two serrated arrowheads from her quiver. Turning her bow sideways, she then notched the two at a slight angle, before releasing the taut bowstring—sending arrows in a V formation into the chest of two Wilderlings.
Theron grunted at her thinly veiled innuendo, rushing forward, slicing through a pair of mages as they turned to flee his wrath.
The two stood, chests heaving, with Wilderlings and Revenir lying dead at their feet, allowing the pair of warriors a moment to catch their breath. Faëlwyn tilted her face skyward, dragons silhouetted across the dark blue expanse, bursts of fire lancing the skies.
She turned to Theron. His red hair clung to his brow, the smattering of freckles standing out against his sun kissed face. His lips curved into a gentle smile as he reached for her, his hand clasping the base of her skull, drawing her to him to brush a quick kiss to her blood-spattered brow before releasing her.
“You really ought to have gone to higher ground, Faë. You could have taken more down.”
Faëlwyn shrugged, stepping over to a fallen corpse, pulling an arrow from between its eyes. She briefly spied her brother ghosting across the yard like a specter.
“Faë.” Theron was at her back. She turned to face him, and he wore a pained expression. Words of love did not come easy to him.
“I know.” Faëlwyn watched his face break into a dazzling toothy smile, one he reserved only for her and it made her heart soar. Theron reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb caressing the pointed tip, sending a shiver of delight down her spine.
In the space of a moment, ice gripped her heart, and her blood ran cold as she watched Theron’s face drain of color, his features contorting into a twisted expression of pain. Faëlwyn stared in wild-eyed horror at the bloodied arrowhead protruding from his chest, as tiny flecks of blood smattered her cheek. Theron lurched forward into her arms with an awful gurgling sound as she caught him. She only vaguely registered Flintathriël’s silver tipped dagger embedding itself into the archer’s skull as she gently pulled Theron to the ground, cradling her dying lover in her arms.
“No, no, no…Theron!” Tears blurred her vision as she rocked him against her, clasping him tightly, her chest burning from sucking in short sharp breaths—willing herself not to shatter into a million pieces.
She had to stay strong for him.
Theron’s sea-green eyes were luminous, frantic and wild with fear as he clutched weakly at her, tattoos stark against the deathly white pallor of his skin. Blood trickled from his mouth, foaming at the corners. Crimson bubbles formed as he tried to speak, gasping and choking for breath, a hideous wheeze coming from his chest.
The arrow had pierced his lung.
“Do not speak,” she said, taking his hand in hers and peppering his face with fevered kisses. “Ena an na’vahleth, na’vahla, na’tasae. Ir vahla ena.”
Faëlwyn pressed a kiss to his bloodied mouth, brushing the auburn strands of hair from his face as the light in his eyes dimmed, and his hand went limp in hers.
“Theron…” But he was already gone from this world, there was naught left to do but wish him safe passage to Elysium.
“Jha’umrithe, may Ildaer’lor guide you, na’vahla, na’tasae.” Faëlwyn released a gut wrenching cry, tears searing their way down her cheeks. Her chest ached. Her heart torn from her chest. Sudden, violent sobs wracked her body. Then she gasped for breath, she could not breathe. Around her the battle raged on.
She clutched Theron’s still form against her breast, and she did not know if she would ever be able to let go.
“Faë?” Her brothers voice was low, his hand placed lightly on her shoulder. “We should move him.” Faëlwyn held Theron tighter, shaking her head, unable to bear the thought of releasing him. Flintathriël crouched down in front of her, brushing her tears away with his thumb, locking his eyes with hers, sadness heavy in his silver-blue irises.
“Faë, you cannot stay here. The Wilderlings, the Revenir, they are…it is too dangerous.” He tore his gaze from her, inhaling sharply, the color draining from his face, panic etching itself into his sharp features.
Flaming stars burned across the sky, only they were not stars. They were dragons, and they were falling. Faëlwyn’s gaze locked onto Sivath’s snowy white form as he plummeted to earth in a spiraling downward tailspin.
Flintathriël turned back to her tear stained face, and she saw the conflict in his eyes. Sairalindë was up there.
“Go,” said Faëlwyn, her voice stronger than she felt.
Her brother wavered, his eyes flickered to Theron’s still form. His skin was still warm as Faëlwyn held him tightly to her chest. Flintathriël kissed her brow then sat back on his heels.
“Get him somewhere safe, or they will be on you.” He cupped the side of her cheek, forcing her gaze to meet his. “Take that pain and grief and use it. Make those fucking animals pay for what they took from you today. Do you hear me? You make them pay for this!” His voice was low, harsh and desperate. He dropped another kiss on the top of her head, and was gone, sprinting across the yard, dust swirling in his wake.
****
Mana welled up inside her, building like a crescendo, magic flowing, rushing through her veins. Lightning sparked at her fingertips, one hand gripping tightly to Sivath’s spine, she thrust her hand upward, a giant lightning bolt shooting from her fingers.
The emerald dragon roared overhead as the bolt lanced its eye, the beast thrashing wildly in the sky as it too began a spiraling descent.
It was a hollow victory however, for the ground still raced to meet her. She hunkered down against her dragons back, sending a silent prayer to the gods for them both to survive. Sairalindë’s prayers went unanswered, and she heard the sickening crack of his neck breaking as Sivath crashed to the ground in a horrendous display of spurting fire and smoke. Earth and grass flew up in huge clumps. She was thrown from his back, hitting a wall of solid rock and crumpling into a heap. A mournful mewling escaped the creature, and the dragon flailed weakly before stilling.
She gasped against the pain that ripped through her body. She was in torment as she spat out bloody saliva, pain gripping at her side as she tried to stand. It was not hard to tell she had several broken ribs and was undoubtedly bleeding internally.
Gingerly she lifted the bottom of her tunic with her right hand. Her left hung limply at her side, dislocated. She gritted her teeth against the sight of the flesh across her abdomen scraped bloodied and raw. Blood leaked from her nose, and a wheezing rattle echoed from inside her chest.
Tears sprang to her stinging eyes when she spied Sivath in a great heap. They had crashed down in the old sandstone quarry they used to play in as children and were not far from the palace. A few small trees grew sparsely across the gravelly earth.
She limped over to her old friend, wincing against the pain with each slow step.
“Oh, Sivath,” Tears burned their way down her cheeks. With her uninjured hand, she rubbed Sivath’s snout. His sapphire eyes fluttered open. It hurt deep in her chest. Her old friend was dying, slowly and painfully. She wrapped her arm across his snout, laying her head down against his leathery skin. Soothing tendrils of magic flowed into him, easing his pain. They had been together forever, Sivath, her oldest friend. He had been her mother’s dragon before her, whom she had lost ten years past, at the age of twelve.
She stood back and placed her hand as high as she could on the dragon’s head. The heavy rasping of her building hysteria made it difficult to breath.
“Sae’lihn jha’umrithe, sleep now my friend.” She sent a pulse of electricity into his skull. Sivath breathed his last agonizing breath, and the dragon was at peace.
Wiping at her tears, she limped over to a small tree, and grasping hold of a low hanging branch, straightened her arm out as best she could. Bracing herself, Sairalindë took a deep breath and tightened her grip on the branch. She pulled hard and screamed as white-hot pain tore through her, and her shoulder popped back into alignment.
There was not time to heal herself, or grieve, for the emerald dragon had swooped into view—landing heavily on the sandstone steps cut into the side of the quarry, the creature’s left eye charred and bleeding.
“You privileged bitch!” Mnuvae leapt from the beast’s back, willow wood staff in hand, dark magical energies swirling violently around her.
“How dare you!” A bolt of violet struck the earth at her feet. Turning, Sairalindë limped as fast as she could toward a narrow road leading away from the cliffs, dodging the attacks, shooting sparks of lightning over her shoulder. Her lungs burned, and it was difficult to breath, but she was almost there.
“Shorolth, stop her!” The dragon leapt into to the air at Mnuvae’s command.
How was she controlling the dragon? It should not be possible.
The dragon flung itself into the air, circling in front of her. She was too slow, the beast flung its talons wide, raking across her chest, and she screamed as the sharp claws shredded her flesh, before hoisting her into the air and tossing her as though she were a sack of wheat.
The breath was knocked from her body as she hit the gravelly ground, skidding to a halt. She could not move, she could not breathe, and blinding, indescribable pain burned her lungs. She managed to roll to the side, clasping her hands over the gaping wounds.
The dragon’s talons had cut deep, she could see clear to the bone across her shoulder where her flesh had been shredded, and blood poured from her chest and abdomen. Her fingers were slick with her own blood, and she was afraid to move her hands for fear her insides might spill out onto the ground. Bile rose to her throat, and her stomach heaved. Sairalindë was forced to choke back the bloodied bile as to not tear her wounds further.
Fear gripped her unlike anything she had ever felt when Mnuvae advanced on her. A sardonic grin plastered across her bloodstained face.
Sairalindë was rapidly losing blood. Desperately she tried to tame her breathing, weakly attempting to knit her flesh back together before she passed out against the pain. Tiny sparks of healing magic surged then ebbed sporadically to no avail. She was weakening.
Bleary eyed, she spied the broken half of her stave, and Sairalindë attempted vainly to crawl to it before Mnuvae’s foot kicked it away, her heel coming down on Sairalindë’s hand. The heavens chose this moment to open up, rain bucketing down from the sky.
Mnuvae twisted her foot, grinding Sairalindë’s hand into the ground, which quickly became muddy. The necromancer crouched before her, and Sairalindë looked defiantly up at her tormentor. The woman’s blood-red eyes were inches away, and she could definitely see the family resemblance in the sharp angled features.
“Shorolth here is a High Dragon. And I command her.” Sairalindë’s eyes flared wild, pupils blown out.
“How?” she managed to grind out between gritted teeth. She could feel Mnuvae’s breath on her face. The necromancer waved her off with a flick of her wrist.
“It matters little now. You have bigger problems. Do you feel that burning in your blood? You see among other certain attributes, the adult High Dragon has an interesting little quirk.” Mnuvae leaned in close, her cheek brushing the edge of Sairalindë’s ear. She shivered against the iciness of the rain seeping into her bones, her blood mingling with the muddy puddles.
“The dragon carries venom in its talons.” The sadistic smile widened as she pulled away. “It could take hours, or it could take days, but it will kill you.”
She was dying? A brittle, humorless laugh escaped her. This was not how she had imagined the day playing out when she had awoken that morning. Poisoned by a lunatic and her dragon thrall. She was going to die in a pool of her own blood, in the rain, with her shoulder torn open, bone exposed, from dragon venom.
Mnuvae stood and began to walk away. The bitch was going to leave her here where no one would find her. She was so tired, her body screamed with pain, her blood afire, she could only accept her fate. Sairalindë laid her head to the ground, watching the droplets of rain splash down beside her. It soaked into her body and ran down her cheeks. She closed her eyes just for a moment, but right before her lids fluttered shut she thought she saw him, silver hair and flashing daggers, his skin glowing with runic splendor.