The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (17 page)

He lowered the Sword, and held the belts aloft. “Will the mighty Killangrathor carry us to the slaughter?”

Torin studied the hatred that burned in the dragon’s eyes, steamed from its nostrils, and quivered ever so slightly in its curled lip. He would have fanned that ire if he could, though Thrakkon’s insult was likely enough. Killangrathor would never suffer being ridden like some mule. The confrontation Torin had hoped to instigate had come.

He waved the Sword at his side—tiny movements, like a pennon in a lazy breeze. A reminder, he supposed, lest the dragon act upon its obvious urge to snap his tiny frame in two. Still, he couldn’t believe that it hadn’t happened already.

“Together, we shall finish what began ages ago. And when this land’s rivers run red, and we have fattened ourselves on those who oppose us, the true conquest will begin. For if you will, Killangrathor, I would have you free us of our shackles and bear us in search of glories hitherto undreamed!”

An echo of the message he had been carrying for some time—as cryptic as it was vain and absurd. But the dragon Illychar must have understood something Torin did not, for the great beast finally snorted and settled back upon its haunches, as if accepting of Thrakkon’s proposal.

Again, Torin’s hopes fell. He signaled the others forward. They came hesitantly at first, but as one giant and then another began to scale the creature’s ravaged hide, the others took to it with greater enthusiasm. They settled in among the long row of spines that ran from the crest of Killangrathor’s neck to the tip of his tail. With ropes and belts, they tied themselves to these natural anchors fore and aft. Should the dragon choose to rid itself of its passengers in midflight, it would not do so without considerable effort.

Perhaps he should not have been surprised, Torin thought, moving now to join his companions. He had glimpsed already the concessions these Illychar were willing to make to see their common goal of survival in this realm achieved. Only, he had counted on Killangrathor behaving differently. A creature such as Killangrathor served no one, the Entients had told him, even when it might appear otherwise. Which seemed to suggest one of two possibilities: Either the dragon had cast lots with the Illysp willingly, or, perhaps even more frightening, its will had become as irrelevant as his own.

The beast snarled, but made no further complaint as Torin sheathed the Sword in a sling across his back and clambered up the dragon’s side. Bony knobs and ridges in the scaled flesh made for easy handholds. Within moments, he had settled in at the head of his line of giants, at the base of Killangrathor’s neck. The spines there were taller than himself, and as thick as his legs. He belted himself at the waist to the one behind him, and tethered a line to the one in front to help maintain balance. He doubled all with safety ropes, should one or more loosen or fail. Coarse as it was, a thick line of dragonhair served to cushion his seat. Were it not for the smell, he might have been comfortable.

Without warning, Killangrathor rose from his crouch. Torin’s stomach
lurched, and he gripped at that tangled hair with white-knuckled fists. He looked up to find the creature leering back at him, as if to say their time was up. Spreading its wings, the dragon cast its shadow over half the valley floor. A few experimental flaps summoned a chilling wind filled with sand and dirt. Torin felt himself squint, but Thrakkon refused to release his grip in order to clear the grit from his eyes.

The dragon reared and shrugged, testing their bindings, perhaps, or their courage. Its body shifted and rolled like a ship at sea as muscles knotted and released. Torin’s remained clenched.

Then the monstrous creature squatted low before catapulting skyward, roaring and flapping and climbing toward the unfamiliar sun.

F
RIGID WINDS RAKED HIS FLESH,
clawed his eyes, and chafed his ears. His stomach churned, and his head roiled, dizzied by the rush of images racing past below. Already, his hands and legs ached from clinging so tightly to the beast he rode.

Despite his discomfort, Thrakkon felt truly invulnerable.

Flight itself offered a sensation unlike any other, both sickening and exhilarating. But it wasn’t the freedom of soaring high above a broken earth that filled the Illysp lord with rapture. It was knowing that he did so having conquered a dragon—the mightiest creature this world had ever known. Their game of dominion may have only just begun, but Thrakkon had won the crucial first toss. Everything he meant to achieve had suddenly become attainable. After this, no dream was too great.

He forced himself to relax his grip, to trust in the straps and buckles that held him fast. He closed his eyes, reveling in the violent rush of wind through his hair and across his cheeks. Such power, such majesty. To be wielded as he saw fit. Should the Eleahim unite against him, he would divide and scatter them once more, maybe even set fire to the Maelstrom that had birthed them. He could think of none that would not be made to cower before—

His thoughts and world seemed to buckle as Killangrathor dove sharply, pinning him against the spine at his back. Thrakkon opened his eyes, muscles knotted anew with unspoken panic. What was the dragon about?

He thought to cry out, to draw the Sword and threaten to kill them all. But Killangrathor already seemed intent on doing just that, racing like an arrow almost directly into the earth below. At such an angle, and at this accelerated pace, it was as though the beast meant to shatter its own neck.

Surely the creature had something else in mind. Refusing to let his alarm show, Thrakkon simply clung to the dragon’s gnarled backbone, searching for some clue as to Killangrathor’s designs. He had assumed the dragon would test his patience and his authority at every conceivable juncture. He just hadn’t anticipated the first of those tests to come so soon.

As the floor of a barren valley loomed nearer, Thrakkon went from praising his own glories to questioning his decision in raising the dragon from its deathbed. He should have known the beast would never be tamed. Better that
he had decimated its corpse to save himself the challenge.

With eyes narrowed in defiance, however, Thrakkon finally saw the truth. An animal stood among the rocks below, growing swiftly in size and clarity. A horse, Thrakkon realized—the very mount he had ridden as deeply as he could into the Skullmars before the narrow paths had made it useless. He had left it for dead at that point, allowing it to stumble about the foothills until starvation worked its course. The steed had proven more resilient than he would have thought.

Though not for long.

It seemed too late for Killangrathor to halt his descent when the dragon did so, swooping now to skim the earth. Massive jaws opened wide, scooping up the frightened mare with piercing impact. A single, piteous whinny was all the horse could muster before Killangrathor jerked it effortlessly into the air.

Thrakkon’s makeshift harness suddenly seemed a flimsy thing, groaning with the strain of the dragon’s every movement. But his gaze remained fixed upon Killangrathor’s awesome maw, where his former mount dangled, tattered and bleeding, impaled upon crooked rows of stalagmite teeth.

Then the jaws closed, teeth grinding, and the doomed creature fell away in ruined chunks.

Despite his frustration, Thrakkon marveled at the horrific display. Hovering above the mangled carcass like some nightmare vulture, Killangrathor seemed every bit the master Thrakkon considered himself to be. A lesson for his benefit, he was certain, and one he would not soon forget.

With the power of the Sword pulsing upon his back, Itz lar Thrakkon met the unspoken challenge with cruel understanding and savage delight. The stakes had been set, then, and the battle lines drawn. An ongoing struggle against the flesh-wearers, against an unruly dragon, against the world entire.

A smirk split his wind-ravaged lips. This promised to be fun.

K
ING
G
ALDRIC SWEPT INTO HIS
solar, pleased to find his counselors already assembled.

“A draught of the hemgrape, if you would,” he said to his steward. “Better yet, bring me the flagon.”

The king looked to the others, stood or seated about the chamber with cups of their own, and with servers standing by. Heads bowed in greeting.

“Have the ministers been made comfortable?” he asked of his returning steward.

“To the best of my abilities, my lord.”

Galdric took the flagon and drained its contents in one long, satisfying pull. The sweet red slid down his throat like liquid velvet, its sharp aroma clearing his head like a fresh winter breeze.

“I’ll take another,” he said, passing back the empty container. He wiped the sweat from his brow, then found and faced Eban, the city’s chief minister.

“How goes the exodus?”

“As well as one can expect, my lord.” Eban had a gruff voice for one so refined. “The latest tallies have six in ten safely downriver, and the next wave set soon to embark. The bargemasters report open waters, and advance scouts have swept the canyon egress, reporting all clear upon the western range.”

Galdric nodded his approval, and again to thank his steward as he drained another wine flask. “How long before the city is clear?”

“At the current rate, her streets will be empty before midnight. However, we expect that rate to slow as we come upon those who resist.”

“They have until dawn, then,” Galdric determined. “I’ll not risk my garrison beyond that for the sake of a few mules. How many would you say there are?”

“Of which, sire?”

“Mules. The ones who will not go.”

“Less than one in ten, my lord. Though doubled if you include those trying to convey more than their allotted possessions.”

Fair numbers, given the circumstances, and in line with what Galdric had witnessed himself throughout the day. In an effort to boost morale in a dispiriting venture, the king had taken to the streets with his personal retinue, helping to ease fears and beg cooperation. For the most part, his people had responded admirably, clearing their homes without panic and in accordance with the restrictions imposed. It was only natural, however, that the city’s administrators and enforcers be called upon to contend with those who refused to go quietly—or not at all.

“And how fares the legion, my lord?”

Galdric looked to Hamus, a minister of public works, who was the opposite of Eban—a brute in terms of size, but with a strangely tremulous voice.

“The legion has found its stride,” the king responded encouragingly. He had checked throughout the day and just moments ago with the watch. Now that Corathel’s troops were fighting evasively, rather than trying to fragment and destroy the Illychar horde, the number of casualties had been greatly reduced. “The new tactics will allow them to hold out for much longer than they could have before. With a little luck, sirs, we may see ourselves through this yet.”

He managed a smile as a show of pride. In his heart, matters were a little less clear. Though undeniably pleased by the day’s events, he could not help but be shamed by his own cowardice. In the streets, there had been those who shook their fists and shouted curses and even thrown vegetables at his ring of guards. They had been few in number, and too craven to show themselves afterward, but the attacks had cut more deeply than Galdric had been willing to show. Hours later, the wounds still bled.

“The choice was well made, sire,” Eban agreed, and the others nodded, causing Galdric to wonder if his inner turmoil was visible through his facade. The reaction of his advisors seemed like a reassurance, though perhaps they were merely being congratulatory.

Either way, the chief minister was right. He had made the only decision he could. Abandoning Atharvan now did not mean he must do so forever. Preserving her citizens and himself would enable them all to fight another day. He would take what solace he could from that.

And hope that a new battle was not far off.

“A toast then,” he proposed, raising a fresh flagon delivered by his steward. “To a swift retreat, and a safe journey south. Would that I could see the faces of our enemies when they realize we have gone, but I shall settle for staring them square in the eye the next time they think to catch us unawares.”

The gathered ministers raised their cups, offering grunts and cheers. Together they drank, and Galdric closed his eyes, choking on the taste of his swallowed pride.

“My lord,” Minister Ordem broached carefully, “with regard to the treasury. The articles you listed have been secured for transport. But the crews charged with burying the rest have requested—”

A sound like shattered thunder buried his words, rippling through the walls and the ground beneath their feet. Those assembled steadied themselves, frowning in bewilderment. A tremor, perhaps, or a landslide. But the very uncertainty told Galdric otherwise. For he and his people were well accustomed to such shiftings of the restless earth, and this was like no quake he had felt before.

A shadow passed across the lowered sun, casting the king’s solar in momentary darkness. Then came the distant screams of thousands of voices raised up at once, followed hard upon by a clamorous ringing of the city bells.

S
CREAMS USHERED THEIR DESCENT
. B
UT
it was fire that hailed their arrival.

It spewed downward in a blistering stream, and the world below seemed to melt in a shimmering wash. Thrakkon had to close his eyes, so intense was the cloud of heat that lifted skyward in its wake. When he opened them again, a tower was crumbling, its granite blocks become like glowing embers. Mortar and stone and timbers descended in a flaming crush, sending ash and cinders billowing outward. The tallest edifice Thrakkon could see, reduced to rubble in a single, fiery blast.

Killangrathor beat his wings to hover in place, and gave another staggering roar. Bodies flailed and tumbled amid the collapsing debris, joining those that had vanished beneath. The fortunate ones had been incinerated. But there were others. Thrakkon could smell the boiled fat dripping from their charred flesh, and listened to their anguished cries. Such pain. Such blissful…succulent…harmonious…pain.

Before the dust had settled, Killangrathor winged onward, passing over an almost limitless sprawl of domes and bunkers and squat stone towers. Bells pealed throughout the city, tolling a useless warning. Their echo reverberated off jagged bluffs and carried down shallow canyons, where tiny figures raced about like ants. Atharvan had been designed to withstand the sort of quakes and slides that had shaped the mountains upon which she was built.

But nothing could withstand this.

Another intake of breath, and another flame gout, this one directed into the top of an open bell tower at close range. The watchman dove over the waist-high wall, choosing to plummet rather than burn. Killangrathor denied him by reaching down with that serpentine neck and snatching the man out of midair. With a flick, he sent the watchman soaring even higher, well above the position of the setting sun. When the man drew breath to scream, the dragon unleashed yet another concentrated flameburst.

Not even ash remained.

“We want their coils!” Thrakkon shouted in fierce reminder. Though he shared the dragon’s ecstasy, their goal here was not to reduce the entire world to soot and cinder.

Not yet.

Killangrathor responded by arching his neck and spraying a wave of fire skyward, from side to side, as if to ignite the very heavens. When at last the impressive display had expired, leaving only sparks amid a shimmering veil, the dragon tucked its shaggy chin, surveyed the sea of structures below, and dove.

Slopes and ridges fell behind in a dizzying blur. Thrakkon clung tightly to his perch. He saw where the dragon was headed. It was the first target he would have aimed for, as well. After days of siege, the city’s curtain wall stood strong, its gates and battlements keeping the Illychar hordes at bay.

No longer.

The primary gatehouse loomed ever larger as they hurtled toward it. At the last moment, Killangrathor twisted, feet extended like a striking hawk. With a grimace, Thrakkon braced for the impact.

But the dragon’s muscles shielded him, squeezing and flexing and absorbing the titanic forces that rippled through his monstrous body as beast and bulwark collided. Though thick and strong, the stones of the barbican turned to powder beneath Killangrathor’s bulk. Floors collapsed, walls caved, supporting timbers splintered and fell away. Armored bodies, iron chains, and vats of oil rained down amid the wreckage.

The dragon flew high, winging around for another pass. Soldiers scrambled atop the surrounding ramparts. Stones and arrows and other missiles arced skyward. Those that struck ricocheted harmlessly off Killangrathor’s flesh. The creature flew low, grazing the battlement, smashing men and weaponry beneath his chest, cutting through merlons and even a watchtower with his outstretched wing.

He landed atop the ruined gatehouse, legs kicking, claws flexing. Stone and iron and flesh—all shattered and crumbled when caught in his merciless grip. Arms swiped, and his giant head shook. In a thrashing frenzy, he simply shredded the city’s main portal, ripping through the iron doors, kicking aside the twisted portcullis, pulverizing anyone or anything that got in his way.

Bits of rock, shards of iron, and other materials bounced and skittered about the dragon’s hide. Thrakkon was cut and bruised in a dozen different places. He cared not. He was too busy reveling in Killangrathor’s onslaught, in the unrestrained fury
he
had unleashed.

The dragon leapt free, then, to land atop the wall beside the tangled breach. It stood high and roared, beating its wings in challenge. Thrakkon looked around. One of the giants strapped behind him had been skewered by a wall spike. Another’s head dangled upon a shoulder by a flap of skin. A dangerous place to be, atop the dragon’s back. Though safer, right now, than any other.

He turned his attention outward. Upon the broken hills fronting the city, and across the folded plains beyond, the swarm of Illychar sent to sack Atharvan had strung itself out in desperate pursuit of the flesh-wearers come to retake their besieged capital. He was pleased to see, however, that many were already turning back toward the city. Fill its streets. Slaughter its citizens. That ought to force the majority of its soldiers to respond.

“More!” Thrakkon roared.

Killangrathor needed little prodding. The dragon hopped to the earth outside the wall, using its tail to swat aside banks of schilltrons, rows of abatises, and other breastworks that helped to dissect the broken escarpment—clearing the ground for a more direct approach. He then resumed attack upon the wall itself, ramming it with head and shoulders and swipes of his powerful arms, pulling it down in ragged chunks.

The soldiers of the city’s garrison did not know whether to fight or flee.
Their confusion only added to the chaos. Thrakkon grinned at their feeble efforts to do either. Ants upon a hill, he thought again, and Killangrathor the lizard come to devour them all.

Within moments, a throng of lesser Illychar had swarmed up around him, hailing the titan’s efforts and rushing through the gaping clefts in the shattered wall. When they began to pour past like a rising tide at the dragon’s feet, Killangrathor roared and barreled onward, into the city proper, to lead the way. While the Illychar gushed and swirled down streets and squares and plazas, the dragon carved a path of its own—mashing, pounding, grinding—leaving only death and rubble in its wake.

Strapped in place, clutching tightly to the monster’s back, Thrakkon continued to ride the wave of destruction, smiling upon its rolling crest.

G
ALDRIC STARED OUT THE OPEN
window, gripping the stone sill as he watched his city be destroyed. Billowing clouds of smoke and dust lent the scene an unnatural, dreamlike quality. But the rumble of toppled buildings and the screams of victims left in the dragon’s wake were more horrid than any nightmare he had previously known. Even before the initial shock had worn away, he decided that he had seen enough.

“Captain,” he said, trying and failing to loosen his gaze from the growing devastation.

The guardsman croaked in response. “Sire?”

“Rally the Castleguard.” His own voice sounded strangely calm and distant, as though it belonged to someone else. “Have them prepare the palace for full siege.”

“As you command, sire.” The captain turned to his runners.

“And send another to make my armor ready.”

He sensed the soldier’s momentary hesitation, but by the time he turned, his orders were being relayed.

Eban, however, gaped at him in astonishment. “My lord, you do not mean to confront this creature.”

Galdric looked around at the other ministers, all of whom wore the same horrified expression. “I will not give it free rein, if that’s what you suggest.” His own horror and fury were buried beneath an odd resignation, allowing him to speak in his usual, measured tones.

“M—my lord,” Hamus stammered, “we must flee while we can!”

“And leave the rest to fend for themselves? I think not, counselor.” He turned toward the door, through which the captain’s runners were already racing.

“Sire,” Eban blurted after him, “Hamus is right. There is no sense in fighting a battle that cannot be won.”

“So they cautioned me before I slew my first boar at the age of ten. And again when I snapped the neck of the stag that gored my father. I have speared sharks, wrestled bears, and broken more horses than half of our cavalry
roughriders. Every time, I was told it could not be done. But I tell
you,
counselor, there is no beast that cannot be conquered. Not one.”

His glare flicked from Eban, to Hamus, to Ordem, and the rest. None could match it. None dared challenge his claim.

“Make your escape at once,” he commanded, without rancor or hostility.

“See that my sons are escorted safely from the city, and that our people receive the guidance they need. I shall catch up with you on the road south…”