A Balance Broken (Dragonsoul Saga) (44 page)

The wizard tapped the flask to his head before he slipped it into his pocket. “It is complex, but I am certain you could pick it up.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Tallen closed his eyes and thought back to his experience in the Dreamrealm. “It was a warning. The…spirit said something about its…its…” Desperate for the word the visitor had used, he calmed his frustration with a long exhale. “…its
counterpart
being master of the orcs – the orcs who are after me.”

Tallen heard the clatter of the wizard’s pipe hitting the floor, followed by a short trickle of Water. Dorias’ voice was strained. “Its counterpart is master of the orcs – you are certain the spirit used this term?”

Opening his eyes, Tallen nodded. “I’m certain. It also said that I was vulnerable to this counterpart when I’m in the Dreamrealm. The spirit warned me not to return there.”

Popping to his feet, Dorias paced the few steps of Tallen’s cell. Merl cooed, following Dorias with one eye. Tallen watched him in silence, an unnamed fear growing in his heart.

Dorias stopped and lifted an eyebrow. “What do you know about the Dragon Wars?”

Tallen gulped, and the unnamed fear expanded into his gut with a gurgle. He shook his head. “Not much. I read a book or two, mostly fiction about heroes.” Tallen lifted his gaze to meet the wizard’s. “All the races fought each other – dwarves and orcs against humans and elves. Dragons fought too. In the end, the dwarves switched sides, and the orcs were driven into the far north.” He paused, wrinkling his brow. “Then the Cataclysm happened, and the humans, the People of Gan, fled…”

The fear dropped into his bowels, and Tallen fought a desire to run to the privy down the hall. Merl cocked his head, and Dorias tilted his in much the same way.

“What’s wrong, Tallen?”

Blankly staring at his hands, Tallen’s fear leaped into his throat. “In the dream before – at home – the creature named itself to me. It called itself Gan. It said I was one of its people.” He shook his head in confusion. “I’ve heard us called the People of Gan, especially when our ancestors were in exile across the ocean. What is Gan?”

Dorias sighed, exhaling through tight lips. He tapped a toe while staring at Tallen, before sitting back down on the edge of his chair. “You already know more than most of the common folk of the kingdom, and I mean no offense, for you are nothing if not uncommon.” He tilted his head. “Tell me something, Tallen. Have you ever heard of the Dragonsouls?”

The name hung over the room like a blanket of dread. Tallen watched the wizard’s face, certain he had never seen such a serious expression on it. “No,” he answered with trepidation. “Were they a part of the Dragon Wars?”

Dorias smiled. “You will make an excellent wizard some day.” He returned to tamping his pipe. “The Dragonsouls were not just a part of the Dragon Wars – they were the cause of them. They should have been named the Dragon
soul
Wars.”

A fruity scent lifted from the bowl as he packed it out of his soft leather pouch. “There were two spirits that appeared upon this world long ago – when only the dragons lived here, or so it was written in the Elder Days.” He waved the stem of his refilled pipe at Tallen. “That is why they took on the rough shape of dragons, though no one ever described them as more than shadowy or shining spirits. ‘Like wisps of smoke,’ Talernicus wrote.”

Tallen reached for the small pitcher of water by his bed, splashing a little when he poured it into his rough-hewn cup. He gulped it down with abandon, drops lapping over the corners of his mouth and onto his shirt. The water tasted brackish and warm, but it soothed his parched, nervous throat.

“That’s it,” he said with a gasp.

Dorias nodded gravely, his eyes narrowing in sympathy. Faint crow’s feet formed in their corners. “I’m going to tell you the whole thing. It is better we know the truth and face it than hide behind a lie until it is too late.” He pulled the flask back out, flicking it open and holding it out for Tallen. “Take another swig.”

This time the liquor calmed his nerves and settled his stomach, allowing him to breathe easier. When he offered it back to Dorias, the wizard gestured for him to hold it for the moment.

“The lighter spirit – Gan as you have surmised – appealed to the humans and the elves of Tarmor. Its characteristics were of compassion and order. Some considered it the personification of Order, as in one half of the Balance.” Dorias sniffed. “I consider it more likely the reverse – that the sect evolved from a Dragonsoul myth, but I doubt the Temple would like hearing me say that out loud. Regardless, that brings me to the other half of the circle – the Dragonsoul known as Galdreth.”

Tallen sipped again from the flask, the name stirring fear that hid in the recesses of his being. “Gan mentioned that name. I could not remember it until you said it just now.”

Dorias rubbed his face. “You’d better let me have a sip of that.”

Tallen passed the flask reluctantly across.
I’m going to need more than a strong drink for this, I fear.

“The dwarves and orcs at first followed Galdreth,” Dorias continued, “because that spirit promised them the power and riches they craved. At times during the Elder Days, everything remained at peace, the two sides balanced and constructive. But at some point, Galdreth changed, as is the only constant with Chaos.” Dorias puffed on his pipe. “Or perhaps, again, Galdreth was just a chaotic personality from whence developed a cult that still may exist among the dwarves. It obviously exists among the orcs.”

He paused while the smoke rose about his face. “Regardless, these two sides could not remain at peace forever, and eventually the hostilities rose to the level of the Dragon Wars. Those wars ended with the Cataclysm, but they did not cause the Cataclysm.” The orange glow of his pipe lit his face in shadows. “The Dragonsouls did.”

Tallen sat with his half-filled pipe in hand. He stared at Dorias. “The power I felt in the Dreamrealm was great, but was it enough power to crack a continent?”

The wizard pulled his pipe from his mouth and pointed it at Tallen. “That is why I have searched this island like a madman – why I bowed and scraped to Varana to come here. When I sensed the darkness upon the Dreamrealm, something made me think of the chaos of the Dragon Wars.” Dorias looked at Merl, who squawked in encouragement. “I am one of the few wizards who believes that the Dragonsouls were not destroyed in the Cataclysm, as most think. Rather, they were only trapped. However, I do not know what that trap is, how it works, or if it can be broken.” He bit on his pipe and folded his arms, puffing away. “I’m looking for any record of it. There were thousands of mages during the Dragon Wars, and many fled to the Isle. Someone had to leave a copy of what happened. Those arrogant bastards wrote down every detail of their mundane lives.” His voice lowered near a mumble. “As if future generations would care one whit about their preferences between shrimp and prawns.”

Tallen lit his pipe with a tendril of Fire. Touching the power calmed his mind, as did drawing upon his brother’s gryphon-carved gift. “You were saying about the trap?”

Dorias stared at Tallen with an open mouth. He laughed, a hearty chuckle that must have rung down the hall. “I do have a tendency to ramble off on a tangent, don’t I, lad? Tomas used to have such polite ways of getting me back on point.” Merl cawed in clear agreement, and Dorias shook his head. “Well, that’s just the point. I can’t find out anything about the trap. Now that I am certain Gan has visited you, and that Galdreth hides the Dreamrealm from me, it must be that they are imprisoned. It must also be that this prison grows weak.”

“You are right,” Tallen whispered. “I remember that now. Gan told me that their prison weakened, and that Galdreth would reach freedom much sooner.”

The sinking in Tallen’s belly must have shown on his face, because Dorias reached out and patted him on the knee. “Don’t worry, lad, at least not yet. We still have many powerful friends on our side. I am going to teach you the ways of the Dreamer – some defenses that you can use within the Dreamrealm.” He moved his hands over Tallen’s head. “Pay attention. This will keep you from entering the Dreamrealm again, no matter what tries to drag you there.”

A short wave of Psoul Aspect emanated from the wizard. Tallen watched the way the net of magic closed over his head.
I can do that – and undo it if I want.

Dorias lowered his hands when finished. “There. Much more elegant than what Britt did.”

Merl cawed and flapped his wide wings.

“Ah, yes, Merl. It is late. Perhaps we should let the young student rest. He has been through enough tonight as it is.” Dorias offered a short bow before moving toward the door. “My search is more important now than ever, but I promise to visit more often in the evenings. I must teach you how to use your most powerful Aspect.”

Merl squawked a soft farewell before he lighted from the window in a flutter of black feathers. Dorias slipped out.

For some time, Tallen lay there, waves of information sifting through his brain. Churning anxiety and excitement kept him awake, until at last, he drifted into a sleep full of fitful dreams and shadowy shapes.

Each signatory power shall commit soldiers in proportion to their total military strength. Logistical support shall be provided in like proportion.

— The Great Concord, Article III Section 2

M
usic drifted down the stairs leading to the roof of the bastion. Jaerd tilted his head, straining to understand why the notes haunted him so. A sense of trepidation seeped into his bones. Shifting his sword belt, he trotted up the steps and out onto the roof.

The snap of fluttering banners gave background to the harp notes and poignant words. Six banners of the Great Concord signatories stood out against the brisk westerly wind. The five gold stars on gray of the Free Cities slapped against the long forest green banner of the elves, its rampant stag dancing in time to the music. The silver throne with gold crown on sable of the dwarves leaped about at one far corner of the bastion, while the white-rayed sun on red of Hadon rippled at the other. The first winds of winter already frolicked across the Northlands, and Jaerd pulled his cloak closer about his neck.

Following the soft trickle of music, he found Shaela, the bard from the Free Cities. She leaned against a granite parapet, strumming her harp and faintly singing the tune he recognized. When he lifted the blue banner of Gannon behind which she hid, she stopped her playing and pulled the hood tighter about her head.

“Hello again.” Jaerd offered a gracious bow. “You play very well, and your voice is…enchanting.” He noticed a strand of dark hair slip from her hood. “When you first joined us I thought you had hair the color of honey.” Jaerd shrugged. “Must have been a trick of the light.”

Shaela ducked her head, tucking in the strand of hair. She avoided his direct gaze, staring instead at the wide vista of the Northlands and the Dragonscales that spread below and about them. “Must have, My Lord.”

Jaerd laughed, clapping his hands together. “I, my dear, am no lord – just a captain. You can call me Jaerd, if you wish.”

She nodded, her focus drifting from pennant to pennant. Her eyes paused on one at the rear of the bastion. “I recognize most of the banners here. Ours of the Free Cities, yours of Gannon blue. The elves, the Hadonese Empire, and even the dwarves. But I do not know that one with a rocky island on sea blue. Whose banner is that?”

Turning his head toward the flag, Jaerd grunted. “That is the banner of the Sarian Union. It has not really existed in many decades, having broken up into its separate members some time ago.” He scratched his jaw. “Tarrak Goldmar says they have not sent a garrison here in a century, but their banner is flown out of tradition.”

Remaining silent, Shaela began to tune her harp.

It sounded fine a moment ago.

Curling his cloak about his arms, Jaerd watched the few clouds in the sky scud across the newly risen sun. It slipped farther to the south with every quicker passage overhead. “You sing
Storm of my Heart
very well.” He leaned against the parapet opposite her, after first scraping away a light dusting of snow. “The thing is, I’ve heard that song in Gavanor and in the Free Cities, and the words you use are different from either of those.” Jaerd kept his gaze fixed on her. “In fact, the only other place I have heard the words sung like that is in the Barony of Dadric – in my home town.”

Jaerd took a step toward her reaching out with his hand. The young woman dodged his grasp, but he clamped onto the corner of her cloak. Her hood fell away, and she met his eyes directly.

“Dawne?” Jaerd’s heartbeat accelerated with excitement and fear.

The woman’s face mirrored his own in more ways than one. Both excitement and fear played upon her features, which had the same defined chin and prominent cheekbones that he and Tallen both wore. Her eyes, however, were a blue-green match for his. This close, Jaerd could also see the honey color at the roots of her long tresses.

She nodded faintly, caught like a rabbit in his hand. “Surprise. It’s me. I…I had no idea I would meet up with you. I—”

Jaerd lifted his hand palm out. “Stop right there. What in the Fiery Hells are you thinking joining a military expedition out here!” He smacked his palm against his forehead. “Mother is going to kill me when she finds out.”

Dawne’s lips quivered and wetness pooled in her eyes. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know what was going on, it’s just…” White knuckles formed on her fisted hands, and two rivulets ran across her cheekbones. “It’s just that you left a long time ago on your great adventure. Then Tallen took off on his, and I had nothing left but the inn and boring Glynn! It was—”

Grabbing her in a giant bear hug, Jaerd spun her about on the rooftop of Highspur’s bastion. He laughed aloud, the sound echoing off the mountain and out over the fortress. “Dawne! I can’t believe it. I haven’t seen you in five years. First, Tallen out in the world, now you too. This is just amazing. Wait a minute!” He set her down taking a step back. “You can’t be here!” Jaerd took Dawne by the arm and dragged her back toward the steps. “No, no. This won’t do. I’ll have to send a squad to take you back with the next southern dispatch rider.”

Dawne pulled back against his grip. “But I don’t want to—”

The long, drawn out toll of a deep bell sounded out from far above. It rang again, rolling down the mountain from Farseer’s Spire.

Jaerd knew it could mean only one thing. “Boris!”

Releasing his baby sister, Jaerd dashed down the steps into the bastion. He charged past dozens of others reacting to the alarm, intent only on finding a steed and riding out to meet the returning earl. He took the steps two at a time, his blue cloak fluttering behind him.

Within the stables, he found Khalem Shadar already mounted along with six other men.

“Hurry!” the Hadoner shouted. “We will escort you.”

Jaerd leaped over the rump of an already saddled steed and kicked his feet into the stirrups. He put spur to horse, and they galloped out the wide front entrance. Both gates stood open, and Jaerd led the charge out to the defile, hundreds of others cheering them from the walls.

Once he cleared the front gate, Jaerd saw a group of blue-cloaked men riding ahead, already turning out of the defile and onto the hilly plain. He also noticed the red trim on those cloaks. A wolfhound, hardly shorter than the horses, loped along behind them.

Khalem Shadar pulled in beside him. “For a big man, Magus Britt was quick out the gate.”

Jaerd nodded in agreement. “Then we must catch up.” He spurred his horse again, slapping its withers with the reins.

Out on the plain, the ground rolled in the last few hills of the Dragon’s Feet. They gradually leveled out toward the Norvus River. Pushing the horse and his companions, he rode hard over the recently emptied grain fields, until he crested a tall rise overlooking the river about a mile away.

Magus Britt and his four companions galloped down the far side, not two hundred yards ahead of Jaerd and his men. Brawny ripped the dirt with his claws alongside them. On the far banks of the Norvus River, a cluster of steel and blue clad cavalry struggled to cross. Shapes buzzed about them.

“By the Waters!” Jaerd reached into a belt pouch and pulled out the spyglass his father had given him years before. He held the brass device up to one eye. A curved, bat-like wing passed across his field of vision. He tried to follow it, but another orange and brown striped beast with hard horn and claws passed in front of it. The creature swooped down and tore a man from his saddle, sending his horse tumbling. The monster ripped the soldier in half, before tossing the pieces to the ground and climbing for altitude. “Dragons! Dragons assail them!”

Jaerd put his glass away and untied the curved horsebow attached to his saddle. Putting spurs to his mount, he held the bow in one hand, his reins in the other. They charged over the ground, as the lead soldiers of Boris’ detachment splashed out onto the near riverbank.

Moments later, the first flash of lightning shot out from the mages. It danced about the wings of a green and red beast that dared to swoop upon the fleeing men. Hundreds of Bluecloaks now churned their way across the shallow water, leaving a wide brown smear in the snow on the banks. More lightning flew from the mages. A blue-white bolt leaped from one dragon to the other. A massive boulder shot up from the riverbank to crash into a maroon beast with cobalt ridges. It tumbled to the ground with the rock. The other dragons veered away, pounding their wings to gain air.

The mile passed quickly beneath galloping hooves. Jaerd picked out Earl Boris at the head of his men, with Lord Gael of the elves close behind. Hundreds more horsemen dashed by, some barely clinging to their blown mounts. The rumble of the cavalry left a heavy cloud of dust in its wake. Brawny dashed among them, herding the loose horses toward Highspur’s gate. The wolfhound’s eyes darted back and forth, searching for a particular beast.

Glancing at Khalem, Jaerd signaled toward Magus Britt and his men. “We’ll give the mages cover and follow them in!”

The Hadoner nodded, and whistled to his warriors. They galloped in a wide arc to circle behind the mages. Jaerd signaled Magus Britt, and the Battlemage nodded from the saddle in return, his face set in the fierce knot of battle.

At the top of the ridgeline, Jaerd reined in his horse and scanned the horizon with his spyglass. He saw black dots receding into a gray distance. However, under the pallid sky a haze of dust drifted into the air. The hoof-churned track in the snow led directly toward the murky cloud. It grew larger, spreading along a strip of the horizon. Jaerd could not tell what it was, but the dragons flew directly for it.

He lowered the glass and looked at Khalem. “We should get back to the fortress. Now!”

Once inside, the front gates slammed shut behind Jaerd and Khalem, the crank of chains lowering the portcullises rattling within. Jaerd rode up the slope, scattered with dismounting, battered Bluecloaks – men tired and gray of face. Brawny glanced furtively among the returning soldiers, his steps nervous and quick. An occasional whine slipped from his throat. The officers and those with the most grievous wounds passed through the towering inner wall. Jaerd and Khalem followed.

“…once they killed Gaeric we were at their mercy.” Earl Boris breathed steadily, and sipped from a fresh canteen. The elf lord Gael stood beside him in grim silence. “We were only three leagues from the Norvus River at the time.”

Boris shook his head, turning away the healer who offered his services. The man then turned to Magus Britt, who stared at his blackened fingers.

“You discharged quite a bit of power out there, Magus.” The doctor took hold of the Battlemage’s fingers. “Let me heal them before they blister.”

Britt relented, and in a few seconds, he appraised his healed hands. The doctor departed to examine others who had returned.

Patting the mage on his stout shoulder, Earl Boris grimaced. “Sergeant Hall lies out there with Gaeric. We were unable to keep the bodies of the dead once the dragons came upon us.” He drew again upon the canteen. “However, Captain Vonstrass, Magus Stanton, and Doctor Forstra made it safely back, as did almost seven hundred of our men.”

Lord Marshal Magdon joined them with an aide at his shoulder. Earl Boris offered a formal salute. “My Lord Marshal. I must inform you of the dire situation our fortress faces.” Boris scanned the officers gathered around him. Jaerd saw the somber expression the earl wore and knew in his sinking gut what must be coming. “I do not exaggerate when I say this host shook the ground with its passing. Attempts to count them could only be made at a distance. Those counts were incomplete, because we could not see the end of their horde.”

Murmurs passed through the assembled commanders. General Vahn of the Free City men stood with his mouth gaping open. Jaerd heard Khalem Shadar draw in a sharp breath.

Marshal Magdon stroked his sword hilt. “What estimate can you make of their number, My Lord Earl?”

Boris worked his jaw, as if unwilling to divulge the number. At last, he looked directly at the marshal. “At least one hundred and fifty thousand.”

Exclamations of fear and disbelief shot from most of those gathered around. Lord Marshal Magdon rubbed his temples, and General Vahn swore to each of the five Aspects in turn. Magus Britt stood solid and calm, his bushy eyebrows drawing together.

“What’s more,” Earl Boris said, “Gael and his scouts counted at least six different clan banners.” He looked at Magus Britt, who lifted one craggy eyebrow. “Only Mammoth Clan was missing.”

The Lord Marshal coughed, hacking up yellowish phlegm, which he spat upon the stone flags. “How far behind you are they?”

Turning his eyes northward, even though he could see nothing but the lofty wall and towers, Earl Boris folded his arms. “They pressed us hard. I would say that their vanguard will reach the Norvus before nightfall.”

Jaerd slapped a fist into his hand. “Then we must get messages off to Gavanor and the Free Cities. We must warn the southern lands of this new horde massing on our doorstep.” He looked toward the flow of men gathering upon the walls. “We must send for relief.”

Lord Marshal Magdon nodded and shifted his blue cloak about him. “Captain Westar is correct.” His gaze focused on Jaerd. “In the meantime, we will see to the defenses of this fortress. You will have command of the forward wall, Captain.”