Chapter 18: Chapter Eighteen

Azghar had passed through Stonebrook, leaving a wake of destruction behind him as the Legion continued their march toward Normar. The battle would arrive soon, and Armaila was painfully aware of how underprepared she was.

King Theodore involved her in the majority of war counsels. Most of the men had grown acceptant of her, and those that hadn’t had stopped voicing their opinions. No one complained to have Shera on their side.

“Armaila, you and Shera are not to fight until Azghar is on the field,” the king said.

“You cannot expect me to stand by while—”

“You are far too valuable to be injured or exhausted by the start of the battle.”

The meeting ended and her apprehension grew. No one knew the exact time Azghar would arrive, but it was soon and it was unlikely he would wait long before mounting his assault.

As others filed out of the throne room, the king motioned for Armaila to stay behind.

“Your training with Veral was cut short,” he said. He led her toward a large bookcase at the far corner of the room, filled with many scrolls and leather-bound volumes each worth a small fortune. “I know nothing will replace him as a proper mentor, but a dragon rider must always seek knowledge and to better themselves. And besides, reading will calm your nerves.”

He handed her a particularly large book with a covered inlaid with gold ink and fine silk brought across from Drungatta a millennium ago.

“Is this…?”

“The True Book, yes.”

“This is too valuable, I’m afraid to touch it.”

“Go and read,” he said assuringly. “I suggest starting at the beginning, which deals with early history. One account of it, at least.”

Armaila position herself beside a window with the book carefully laid out on the table in front of her. Shera joined her from the window outside, and Armaila spent several moments just admiring the craftmanship of the cover.

Her father had spoken of the book often, though she had assumed he had never read a copy himself. Now she wondered if he had read the very pages that lay before her?

The king had left her alone—or, more likely, had left to tend to other important matters—and servants tended to the fire. Leaves had turned vibrant shades of red and yellow and it was a given that Azghar would attack before the bitter cold of winter took hold.

She opened it to the first page, which was a drawing of darkness. The opposite page told of the creation of everything by a powerful being known by man names—an almighty god, a vengeful judge, and merciful father. Armaila’s own father had spoken of these different facets but she had never grasped the concept completely.

The letters were entwined together in a show of beautify that made it difficult to read. There was an old familiarity to the words, and when she closed her eyes, she could imagine her father’s voice.

I miss him so much.

Her family was a shadow of what it should be. Her father was dead, she had an unknown brother, and repairing her relationship with her mother was a task that would take years, if they survived the next few days. Even Veral and Gregory had been taken from her.

The book described a single group of people in the beginning who were blessed with magic, and they used it to transform themselves in many ways until they became fairies and other strange beings. The magic was powerful and some did terrible things with it, so the Creator took it away.

Armaila leaned closer to the page as she became absorbed in the story.

The fairies were so dependent on magic that they could not survive without it, so the Creator relented and permitted them to keep magic in a limited form. It was forbidden entirely for humans.

A gentle knock interrupted her and Armaila slammed the book shut. Eric leaned against the doorway, his expression serious.

She felt herself flushing. “I’m sorry about the other night,” she said. “It wasn’t my intention to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s me who should apologize. I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

“Go on.”

“Your mother, she… Well, what I mean to say is…” Eric took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “She’s my mother too.”

You have a brother. Her mother’s words repeated themselves in her mind, and she stared at Eric as if seeing him for the first time. He had black hair long enough to fall over his green eyes and a tanned complexion, but his sharp cheekbones and the flecks of gold in his irises—those belonged to Mikayla Farland.

“I’ve known for a while,” Eric said.

“And you didn’t say anything?”

“I wanted to spare everyone the pain. Myself, most of all.”

“She told me about you,” Armaila said. “She regrets nothing more than leaving you behind.”

He nodded but his frown deepened. “I just thought you should know.”

Armaila’s embarrassment deepened and she realized she used her brother as a way to make Gregory, of all people, jealous. “Thanks,” she mumbled.

A bell sounded from the tallest tower in the castle, a deep vibrating sound that was impossible to ignore.

Eric cursed under his breath. “Azghar’s here.”

Armaila wiped sweat from her brow with a trembling hand. The tower was one of the few structures in Normar that provided a view of all sides of the city, and beyond. The exact size of the Legion was difficult to assess in the twilight, but it was mind-numbingly large.

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The city was prepared, but so was Azghar.

The Legion hacked their way through the trees Shera had placed, but it slowed them enough to give Normar the advantage of fighting in daylight. Their gray cloaks first appeared like wisps on the edge of the forest.

The Legion surrounded Normar and bedded down. Fires twinkled around the city like thousands of fallen stars—there were likely as many fires as there were soldiers, an intimidation tactic.

Armaila traced her finger along the side of her sword, impatient. “Waiting is the worst part,” she said.

“No.” Eric frowned. “The aftermath is.”

The first wave was on foot with swordsmen in the front and archers in the back. Arrows flew while the others propped ladders against the city wall. Theodore’s army worked to throw them back and kill any soldiers that breached the wall, but they took heavy damage from the archers.

The north wall, Shera said with urgency.

Armaila looked to see gray cloaks spilling into the city.

They swooped down and Shera covered the ground in an angry wash of orange fire that scorched the ground and left behind a twisted pile of charred bodies. Armaila gripped her sword to keep the weapon from falling as the dragon twisted in the air.

They flew too close to the wall and a blond figure leapt onto the dragon’s back. Armaila’s grip on her sword loosened and she watched in horror as it fell to the ground below.

Shera unsuccessfully tried to bash the man against the wall, unable to do so without harming Armaila. She was forced abandon the strategy and fly higher to escape the barrage of arrows aimed at them.

Armaila struggled against the brute strength of her attacker, reaching for the dagger in her belt she had placed before battle. She managed to jab the blade into his arm hard enough to loosen his grip, then she threw him forwards. He lost his balance, falling face first into the dragon’s neck-spikes. A moment later, a smear of blood was all that remained of his presence.

The dragon landed and Armaila retrieved her sword. They returned to the tower and watched as the battle raged. A deep cut marred the top of Armaila’s right hand from where an arrow had grazed it, but she could barely feel the pain. She used a piece of cloak to staunch the bleeding but it soaked through in minutes, so she uttered a small spell to mend the flesh.

The second wave of soldiers began to pour in once the sun was at its highest. The men in Normar were exhausted, and far too many were dead or wounded. Outside the wall, horses hauled massive carts of disassembled parts, stopping beyond the reach of Normar’s archers.

Shera swooped over the soldiers and wooden structures, letting fire once again spew from her maw. The flames stopped short—an invisible force blocked them from reaching the targets.

“Magic…” Armaila murmured, almost saying the word like a curse.

They returned to safety, unable to do anything as the weapons were assembled. The wood and metal began to take the form of a trebuchet, large catapults that would deal severe damage to anything they hit.

Shera’s restlessness grew as the day dragged on. The onslaught of soldiers had stopped, and they were back to waiting as the construction continued. The dragon began to pace, growling every so often.

They are almost ready, Armaila said.

Azghar cannot sustain a spell like this for long.

They flew over the Legion again, and like before, the fire was harmless. Armaila winced at a dull throbbing in her head, realizing after a moment that it came from Shera.

As they passed over the wall, heavy rocks flew across the field and crashed into the city walls, breaking the stone with an earsplitting cacophony. The weapons were hastily reloaded and fired again, further damaging the wall and leaving gaping holes for the Legion to flood though.

“To the eastern wall!” Armaila heard Eric shout below as he ordered men to close the gaps.

The protection spell grew weaker the closer they came to the city—arrows and spears took many down, but the Legion still greatly outnumbered Theodore’s men.

We have to last until the third wave.

The throbbing sensation Armaila grew worse. Shera landed and began to claw at her head, her claws making an awful grating sound as they ran across her scales.

“Stop,” Armaila demanded, growing uneasy with the strange behavior.

Without waiting for Armaila to remount, Shera dove off the side of the tower, tearing into the Legion with a blur of fire and teeth. Armaila felt as several weapons, both swords and arrows, found their way through the dragon’s scales and into her flesh.

Shera!

Shera returned to the tower, covered in blood and panting.

The Legion’s bodies lay strewn over the field in a heap of charred and eaten flesh. Normar’s own forced were nearly depleted, with far too few men to withstand another attack if Vincent did not honor their agreement.

Armaila’s breath caught in her throat as she saw the line of mounted soldiers appear on the far edge of the eastern field. She saw a man donned in armor that looked more for show than battle—jagged bits of black metal stuck up from the shoulders and helmet, and his horse was similarly garbed.

Azghar raised his hand and the third wave rushed toward the city.

They continued to advance until Armaila was sure they would not stop, but the men finally reined in their horses, leaving Azghar alone as he charged forward. He seemed unphased by their disobedience.

“Who dares to fight me?” he demanded, stopping inside the city wall. His voice was unnaturally loud, amplified by some spell. She could not understand how he had the strength for it, even with the aid of his fairy soldiers.

Someone shot an arrow toward him but he raised his hand and it fell to the ground harmlessly. Azghar turned in the direction it had come from, and with a dismissive wave of his hand, the archer slumped over with a loud, wet crack.

From the corner of her eye, Armaila saw Eric charge.

Armaila leapt of Shera’s back and they dove toward the ground, positioning themselves between the two men. Azghar sent a ball of crimson fire spinning toward them and Shera deflected it with her own.

The throbbing in Shera’s head grew unbearable, making it difficult for Armaila to think. “Leave Erithor alone,” she demanded.

“Do you know what your king has done?” Azghar asked. “Do you wish to serve a man whose very existence is stained with blood?”

“Blood-stained? Look at this field.”

Azghar drew his sword and Armaila did the same. As Shera leapt towards him, she swung down with her blade, but the weapon hit an invisible barrier and flew back at an awkward angle, ramming the hilt into her fingers.

Armaila switched the sword to her left hand—the training Veral had given her helped immensely, but the blade was still clumsier than it should be.

“You’re no more than a child,” Azghar said. His tone was something between mocking and sympathetic.

“And you are a weak, old man.”

He thrust his hand forward and, with a single word, sent Armaila and Shera both crashing into the wall.

Armaila rubbed her chest, sure that something was broken. She forced through the pain and rose to her feet.

Azghar removed his helmet and threw it to the side, revealing his sharp features and light hair. He spoke a string of words that ended his protection spell. “Go on,” he urged.

The distance between them was too great to try a physical attack, so Armaila began whispering one of the few spells she knew, one which she hoped would destroy him. A swirling mist of smoke appeared, obscuring his face as tendrils reached inside his nose and mouth.

Within moments, the spell vanished, leaving her weak.

Azghar reached into a small satchel that hung at his side. He produced a small, blue gem. “Did my father teach you nothing of magic?” he asked. “Pathetic.”

Armaila’s stomach turned. “Shera, go.”

“It’s too late.” Azghar held the gem up to the light, admiring its terrible beauty. It was uncut, but had many natural facets that caught the light and it glistened brighter than any jewelry.

Shera road and the sound reverberated throughout Normar, causing nearby trees to sway and loose roofing tiles to crash into the street.

Azghar strode through the city with confidence as he tossed any guards that opposed him to the side as ragdolls. Vincent had kept his word, but it was not enough.

Tears rolled down Armaila’s cheeks as she sensed what was happening to Shera. She was going mad, just as the dragons before her.

“I have no choice.” Armaila set her resolve and drew her sword—she had to act before it was too late. “I’m sorry.”

Shera crumbled to the ground as the sword plunged into her hear. Armaila fell beside her, screaming as the blood pooled around her.

Azghar had won.