Flames over land, fire over sea
Some will fight, and some will flee.
The city of Sunsee lay brooding and quiet in the oppressive evening heat. The tail end of a fierce downpour had just passed over, moving out to sea, leaving everything sodden, glistening and sticky.
It had also left a strange feeling in its wake, as though another storm, a far worse one, was brewing.
Commander Tarrow, standing outside the main gates, wiped his face uselessly with a drenched handkerchief. He felt oddly nervous, though he didn't know why.
Damned weather, he thought irritably. The rain had done nothing to ease the stifling heat; now, instead of suffocating with each breath, he was drowning in the humidity. And the storm had done nothing to budge the persistent crowd, which was growing bigger every day.
There had been no word on the King's condition, either, and rumours were running rampant.
The Dragon came so silently that Tarrow simply stared at it for a long moment without comprehending what it was he was seeing.
It soared overhead, from behind him, vast wings spread against the dark clouds, filling the entire sky. Tarrow watched its long body taper into a slender, barbed tail, moving sinuously through the air. It moved eastwards, towards the mountains, then turned gracefully and came back, low over the forest, opened its huge jaws and breathed a stream of fire onto the crowd of several hundred people.
It passed over his head, over the gates, and began attacking the city.
It was only the sudden, bone-shuddering roar that broke Tarrow out of his frozen trance.
His mind struggled to catch up with the surge of terror that flooded through him.
People were on fire in front of him, screaming. The rest of them scattered like mice, out onto the road and into the forest.
Tarrow turned and ran for the gates.
Two other Watchmen were already there, hammering on the door. A moment later it opened, and a scuffle broke out as those inside tried to get out, while those outside tried to get in.
“Stop!” Tarrow shouted. “Cease fighting!”
They ignored him.
The Watchmen inside managed to force their way out, and fled onto the highway.
Tarrow screamed at them to come back, but no one was listening.
Every single person around him appeared to have lost their minds.
Tarrow felt dangerously close to losing his grip on his own…
Running to the door, he slammed the butt of his halberd into the face of someone trying to get out, shoved his way inside, and raced into the street.
Sunsee was on fire, everywhere. The Dragon circled above the city and then landed in the vicinity of the military quarter, and proceeded to cause havoc. Every nearby soldier ran in that direction. Ordinary people ran out of their houses into the street. Watchmen either ran around like headless chickens or stood dumbly, as though their brains had fallen out of their heads.
Tarrow stood in the middle of the muddy road as people fled around him, heading for the gates. He couldn't remember a time in his life when he had actually panicked, but at this moment, he genuinely had no idea what to do.
Dreikan, he thought suddenly. The General. Yes. He must be responsible for this mess. This… this was the army's problem!
Terrible screams echoed from the direction of the barracks. They are all going to be slaughtered, Tarrow thought, a dark, sick chill passing through him. Steel weapons were of no use against Dragons. They wouldn't even scratch the thing.
Sunsee was going to be decimated.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tarrow thought he ought to go and protect the King, but he tossed the thought hurriedly away. Neodine was just a man, already badly injured and not likely to survive in any case. And the Watch were useless…
To hell with this! Tarrow thought. Those soldiers could all die stupid, heroic deaths if they wished to, but there was only one sensible course of action in this situation...
To get the hell out of there.
He ran for the stables.
Grisket Trice sat outside a tavern on the main street, feeling moody and restless. The tavernkeeper refused to serve him any drinks, on Hawk's orders. He had tried establishments other than the one where he was staying, but it seemed everyone in the damned city knew who he was, know. That kid had been thorough.
He regarded his injured leg, bitterly. He had taken off the splint, against the instructions of the nurses, because he couldn't stand it any longer. They had responded by refusing to supply him with any more of the herbal concoction that had been keeping the pain down.
His knee ached horribly.
He stared at the white buildings around him, glowing with lantern-light, ghostly and slightly misty in the damp gloom. He should have left Sunsee by now; Carmine had insisted that he did not need to stay and wait for her or Sirannor, that there was nothing more he could do here, and that he was needed in the Outlands.
She was right, and so was Hawk, but that only made him more grumpy...
The roar shook the entire city.
Grisket barely had time to gather his scattered thoughts before the building across the road from him exploded into flame.
Shouts and cries came from the tavern behind him, and suddenly people were spilling out into the street, gasping and staring in horror.
Lowering his arm, he caught a glimpse of a huge, leathery shape, its wings tattered and patchy gold scales gleaming in another burst of fire.
Hells bells! he thought, shocked, hardly believing what he was seeing. The Dragons are free!
The Dragon soared away over the city, long streams of flame licking the buildings as it went.
He had known, of course, that the Aegis was about to fail; Mekka had heard it from the Arkanian Ambassador, but… he had hoped that it was a hoax, or that the Angels were somehow mistaken; he hadn't truly believed that such a thing was possible!
The Outlands, he thought in sudden alarm. The Freeroamers.
They were in danger…
Grabbing his crutch, he pushed himself angrily to his feet. Damn himself for a fool! Sitting around here, wallowing in self pity!
He limped as quickly as he could towards the stables.
Quite a few others had the same idea, it turned out. People were everywhere, rushing for their horses or trying to steal the mounts of others. A brawl broke out beside him as Grisket hurried painfully across the yard.
Gods, he hoped that Foxxin was still there…
To his relief, Carmine's chestnut stallion was still in his stall. Grisket grabbed a frightened stable boy and ordered him to fetch the tack. The boy looked pale and dazed, but did as he was told.
Further roars, crashing sounds and screams echoed over the city, and the conflagration was taking hold around them. When the stable boy returned, Grisket helped him to hastily attach the saddle and bridle, while other horses were dragged out of their stalls on either side.
Nearby, someone was pulled with a cry off their mount.
Grimly, Grisket led Foxxin out into the yard. He didn't have a hand free to draw his sword…
“Hand over those reins,” a voice demanded.
Grisket stopped, and turned.
A long, polished halberd was levelled at him. Beyond it, equally impeccable armour, reflecting the firelight. And above that, the furious face of Commander Tarrow.
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“What happened to your own fancy steed?” Grisket sneered.
“It appears,” Tarrow answered through gritted teeth, “to have been stolen!” He took a step forward. “That horse is now mine!”
Grisket limped around to face the Commander of the Watch.
“Don't be a fool, Trice,” Tarrow said haughtily. “You are in no condition to fight me. You're a crip–”
Grisket's crutch slammed into the side of his head, and Tarrow folded up neatly and fell with a clatter to the ground.
Tossing the crutch away, Grisket mounted Foxxin and galloped out of the stableyard.
Sunsee burned as he rode, white buildings aflame, black smoke billowing into the muggy night air. With no wind to sweep it away, the fumes choked the streets in suffocating clouds. Grisket coughed and blinked stinging tears from his eyes as he guided Foxxin down the main thoroughfare.
At some point, he passed the infirmary. The large, white, seashell-inspired building, usually a haven of peace, was now a hive of chaos.
Grisket thundered past without slowing.
Most of the people in the street fled in the opposite direction, towards the main gates, but Grisket headed westward, towards the docks.
A few minutes later, he reached the harbour, only to discover yet more madness. The fire had not yet spread this far, and the Dragon appeared to be momentarily occupied in its vengeful effort to destroy the military compound. But a large crowd of frightened, angry and confused people had gathered here. Cityfolk, sailors and soldiers mingled and argued, fought and shouted. Several brigs from the Middle Isle had recently arrived, with scorched sails and charred, smouldering decks. Their crew and survivors had disembarked only to find their city under attack as well. Now most of them were scrambling to set sail again.
The entire harbour was clogged with ships and boats of all kinds, everyone getting in each other's way in the panic to escape.
Grisket reined Foxxin to a halt and searched the crowd. It was difficult to identify anyone in the gloom and flickering glare from the distant burning buildings. He rode around the edges of the throng, keeping a safe distance, but could see no sign of Carmine or Sirannor.
After several long minutes with no success, he turned and rode back.
Dammit, he thought in frustration. If they hadn't made it onto one of the ships, they were likely still on the Isle.
He refused to acknowledge the other, more terrible possibility: that they hadn't made it at all…
He spurred Foxxin onwards, keeping to the shadows of the warehouses lining the docks, then caught sight of a fishermen hurriedly loading supplies onto his small sailing boat, in a relatively quiet space at the end of the harbour.
Turning his horse, he galloped over.
The fisherman looked up in alarm as Grisket approached, and jumped into his boat.
“Hoi, there!” Grisket called. “I mean no trouble!”
“What do you want?” the man called back, preparing to cast off.
Grisket pointed out at the dark sea. “Got friends trapped on the Isle,” he explained. “Could use some help.”
“The Middle Isle?” the man exclaimed. “Are you crazy?”
“Think about it!” Grisket replied. “Those Dragons have been stuck on that island for a thousand years! They ain't goin' back there any time soon!”
The fisherman hesitated, then rubbed his chin. “You got a point...”
Grisket retrieved a gruble from his pocket and tossed it, flashing, to the fisherman. “The Freeroamers'd be grateful.”
The man looked at the golden coin in surprise, then up at Commander Trice, noticing his blue sleeve and silver badge. “Freeroamers, eh?” He looked around for a moment, seeming undecided. He took his cap off, scratched his head, then put it back on again.
Then he shook his head, and tossed the coin back to Grisket. “Keep it,” he said.
Grisket caught the gruble and gave a nod of dismay, but the fisherman shook his head again. “Got family up in Misty Hill,” he said. “Last year, the Bladeshifters tried to kidnap my young granddaughter. One of your people, a lady Centaur, got her back unharmed.” He nodded at Grisket. “I owe you one.”
Grisket smiled, and leaned down, hand outstretched. “Commander Trice.”
The fisherman took it. “Tarin.” He nodded out to sea. “How will I know 'em?”
“Lass with red hair,” Grisket replied. “Name's Carmine. And a man older than me, name of Sirannor.”
Tarin looked doubtful. “I ain't wanderin' around that damned island lookin' for 'em,” he said.
“No need,” Grisket assured him. “Just wait at the docks for a day or two.” He shook his head darkly. “They'll either be there, or not.”
Tarin nodded. “Fair enough.”
A sudden scream came from somewhere along the docks. They both looked up at once, expecting to see the Dragon approaching, but instead beheld something strange and terrible: a group of soldiers clad in black armour had started attacking the crowd, seemingly at random.
People scattered everywhere. Soldiers wearing the red armour of the Darorian Army attempted to engage the attackers, but were simply cut down. Grisket watched in horror as a black sword cleaved a man entirely in half with one swing.
“What the Gods?” he exclaimed.
He looked back at Tarin to see that the fisherman had already cast off, his boat sliding out into the black water of the bay. “Good luck to you, Tarin!” he called.
“You too, Commander!” the man called back.
Grisket urged Foxxin into a gallop and raced for the gates.
* * *
Carmine sat alone at the end of an empty pier, staring eastwards, where an almost-full moon had risen, spilling its light across the waves like a bleeding ghost. The storm clouds had receded and smoke from the volcano pushed away west and north, revealing a star-speckled black sky.
But those distant points of light held no beauty to her; they were like chips of ice scattered in an empty pit.
The wind had turned, a cool breeze blowing now from the sea, stirring her hair, which was matted with Dragon blood.
She had seen no one on her slow, dismal journey back to the main encampment. No one at all. She had been forced to return on foot, the horse she had stolen having disappeared, most likely taken by General Dreikan.
She was certain the General was still on the island. She had not seen him, but she knew that he was here, still, somewhere, perhaps hiding in the hills. All the ships were either gone or ruined, and there was no other way of leaving the Isle. Everyone else had fled, or died in the attempt.
Just him and her, she thought, the only living things left on this hell-blasted piece of rock.
Bodies floated in the water behind her, thunking with the slap of waves against the wooden pylons of the pier.
Carmine wasn't afraid of Dreikan, did not care if he crept up behind her and finished her as he had her father. Behind her grief, a black wall was building itself up, brick by brick, a wall of cold anger as merciless as that void between the stars. For now, she was too sad to acknowledge it, but one day, the General was going to be staring at that wall.
Her tears had finally stopped, leaving salty trails down her cheeks, dried by the breeze. She had left Sirannor behind. Clutching him, she had lifted her face as the heat of the approaching lava grew too intense, and finally drove her reluctantly to her feet. She could not carry him all the way back to the camp, and had no means of burying him. So she had simply turned her back and walked away down the pass.
She had been determined not to turn, not to look, but upon reaching the point where the slope declined steeply, her resolve faltered.
There was nothing behind her but reddish rocks and cliffs, and a steadily advancing lava flow, rolling brightly onwards towards the sea.
Somewhere behind the camp, beyond the hills, the lava spilled now into the ocean, taking whatever remained of her father with it.
She closed her eyes, fresh tears prickling up impossibly, as though from an endless well. She had run at the Dragon to try and protect Sirannor, to distract the creature so that he might have a chance to escape. It had been a stupid thing to do, but she had done it because she knew that if she hadn't, her father would have. But it had all been for nothing, because he had died anyway, and she had been too late to stop it from happening.
Opening her eyes, she brushed away the new tears with her gauntleted hand. Sirannor had told her to take the black armour off, had warned her that there was something not right about it, but she hadn't. She couldn't. This armour had saved her life, prevented her from being crushed in the Dragon's jaws, and only with that impossibly sharp black sword had she managed to kill it.
And she was too weak to defeat General Dreikan without it.
She needed this armour.
She wished her father had been wearing it.
Dawn rose, pink and golden, like a newborn Dragon opening its eyes, before Carmine finally climbed to her feet. Turning her back to the sun, she walked along the wooden planks of the pier, shadow stretched out before her, and into the camp.
Ripped and scorched canvas flapped in the breeze. Crows had arrived from somewhere, already picking at the corpses, and seagulls spun in a hazy blue sky above her head. Bodies, weapons, broken steel armour and other miscellaneous debris littered the ground while mud dried in the sun. Off to her right, the enormous carcass of the Dragon she had slain lay in a tangled twist of broken tents.
Carmine walked through it all, carefully stepping around the corpses. In her shadow-hued armour, she felt like Death herself, doom radiating off her skin, fear and sadness and horror and pain shimmering their iridescent colours over her, the blank eyes she passed reflecting upwards in the darkly polished moltmetal. As she went, she stooped, picking up one of the black swords.
It was not as impressive as General Dreikan's Dragon-blade, but it was sleek and curved and vicious, one edge sculpted into a series of sharp, sweeping points, like a lethal wave.
Lifting the sword, she stared at her face reflected in the black metal. Her image seemed to warp and shift as she watched, as though the metal was still partly liquid, and for a moment, her grey eyes darkened to soulless black holes…
Shaking her head to clear away the vision, she lowered the sword and continued on.
At the far end of the camp, a collection of tents remained undamaged. The largest of these abutted a cliff, orange and black pennants fluttering on the tops of the poles.
The command tent.
Carmine stepped up to the flap and entered cautiously, sword held before her.
There was no one inside.
Various chairs, desks and other furniture lined the interior of the tent. Banners of red and gold, orange and black depicting the royal coat of arms and emblem of the Darorian Army hung from the canvas walls. Maps of the Middle Isle were pinned alongside them. In the centre of the room sat a large table, covered with more maps, and wooden figurines representing troop and weapon placements.
All inconsequential, now.
Carmine walked around slowly. Something on a desk to one side caught her eye. She walked over and stared down at it.
It was a round silver badge. An image of a chained sword and three-quarter sun was raised in the polished metal.
She recognised it. Commander Trice had been wearing one just like it, on the sleeve of his uniform.
It was a Freeroamer's badge.
Her father's badge.
Carefully, Carmine reached out and picked it up. I promised Commander Trice that I would bring him back.
She thought that more tears would spill out, but the well appeared to have finally run dry. Instead, her throat just ached, along with her heart. Closing her hand around the badge, she walked to the back of the tent.
A flap there led to another room, a natural cave in the cliff that had been turned into what appeared to be Dreikan's personal quarters. Everything looked in order, neat and tidy, as though the General had not been back here since the attack.
Carmine hesitated, wondering if he had indeed managed to find some way off the island, stranding her here, alone. She questioned, not for the first time, why he he had left her alive. He could have slit her throat, left her to die alongside her father, but instead he had walked away...
Her hand tightened on her sword. He wants me to hurt, she thought angrily. He wants me to come after him, reckless and full of hate…
She was sure that he was still on the Isle, somewhere.
The black wall at the back of her mind built itself up, another brick.
Her eyes fell upon a long coat hanging on a hook on the wall. It was similar to Sirannor's, but in much better condition, and of a more modern design; orange chevrons decorated each of the lower sleeves and the back of the garment, from waist to hem.
Placing her sword down on a nearby desk, she walked over and took the coat off its hook, and put it on.
It was too big, of course; the sleeves had to be rolled up and the hem brushed the ground, but it fit over her armour. Rummaging in the drawers of the desk, she found a piece of string and pulled her hair back from her face, binding it behind her head.
She pinned Sirannor's badge onto her left sleeve.
Then she picked up her black blade, walked back out into the main room, sat down, placed her weapon before her on the war table, and waited.