Twelfth of Harbinger
She found herself standing on the roof of the crumbling watchtower. Storm clouds gathered overhead, turning the midday dark as night as the cold rain began to pour. A strong wind threatened to knock her off the building as she took a hesitant step forward, two daggers in her hands. Before her, among the ruined parapets, stood Adrianna in that damnable silver dress that had lured so many to their deaths. Her blonde hair didn’t move in the driving wind. She grasped a curved sword in one hand, Davos’ throat in the other.
“You are marked by the gods, Belkai,” Adrianna shouted over the rain. “Everything you love will be turned to dust. Your precious forest will burn.”
“Let him go,” Belkai yelled back, and tightened her grip on her daggers. “You have a chance to walk away.”
Adrianna’s face twisted as she gave an animalistic growl. “I hope you feel this.”
Without another word, and before Belkai could take another step, she threw Davos backwards. Eyes wide with fear, he fell a hundred metres to the ground, his body shattering on impact. Belkai felt every bone shatter, every blood vessel erupt, every agonising second that his heart kept beating until it finally tore itself apart. She screamed and leapt at Adrianna, only to feel the sword enter her stomach and begin to tear –
Belkai Androva woke to find her husband’s naked body pressed against her own as he slept in the silk sheets. She took a deep breath to settle her racing heart and ran a hand down his bare chest, feeling his warm skin and twisting his chest hair in her fingers. The beating of his heart settled her own as she felt a body shaped by years of hard labour, and the scars both old and new – including those left by his recent captivity by a pair of werewolves using him as bait to draw out Belkai. She’d saved him, and killed his captors, but still the dreams kept returning, tormenting her even in her victory. The further she was from her home in Narandir, the worse they seemed to get.
She didn’t realise he was awake until he cupped her cheek with one hand. Eyes still closed, he whispered,
“The dream again?”
“Yeah.” She turned her head and kissed his hand, her own fingers now resting on his thigh. “Worse this time.”
“It’s only a dream,” he said. His eyes opened, and he smiled as he leant forward and gave her a soft, lingering kiss. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know,” Belkai whispered, and gave him a weak smile. “You’ve always been there.”
He gave her another kiss then rolled onto his back, stretching his powerful frame in the soft bed. Belkai admired his body for a moment before turning her attention to the room. They were in the royal palace in Taleia, the capital of the Aliri Empire, at the invitation of King Silari. After both his invading forces and the Svaletan defenders had been slaughtered by Arcane forces at Arborshire, he had been persuaded to seek Belkai’s counsel and learn the reality of the situation that he had been pulled into by Echtalon, one of his highest generals.
The room that they had been given was nicer than anything that either of them had experienced before. Every surface was gold trimmed, with bronze statues of presumably famous elves along the walls. A beautiful ceiling mural showed elves dancing in a country fair. The bed had occupied much of their time and attention with its burgundy silk sheets. Perhaps, Belkai thought as her hand rested inside Davos’ thigh, there was something to these royal invitations.
“You’re officially royalty now, exposing yourself in palaces,” Davos said – as if he were reading her mind. Or were her own thoughts feeding off his, subconsciously reading his mind and translating it into her own? She had found new abilities growing inside her. First she had found herself sensing Davos’ thoughts, and as she focused she had learned how to read others’ as well. It was only limited, but she knew that the ability would grow. Stories had always told of the most favoured of the Brilhardem who could read minds, but Belkai had never seen herself as more than the average student. Certainly she had never been a master – but that was before Narandir. Had that mysterious magic unlocked the Brilhardem’s abilities within her? Or was this a natural growth of the magic? Time would have to tell.
“Where are you?” Davos whispered, bringing her back to reality. The sun was still breaking in the distance as she turned her head and gave him a kiss.
“I’m here,” she promised. He was so patient, she thought. He knew her propensity to let her mind wander, but never seemed to lose patience with her. Her hand squeezed his thigh as she said, “I’m with you.”
***
When Belkai emerged from the room two hours later, she was wearing a flowing red dress gifted by Siara after she had avenged the Sons of Retribution’s attack on the Temple of the Sun in Svaleta. Her protector, a former Svaletan sell sword named Loranna, stood across the hall clothed in a leather jerkin, her sword hanging on her hip. She gave Belkai a knowing smile as she began to lead her down the corridor.
“Davos will not be joining us?” Loranna asked. “Did my lord tire him out?”
“He will be joining a prince on a tour of the city,” Belkai informed her with a wink. “He is getting an extra hour’s sleep until then.”
“I imagine so.” Loranna turned her eyes to the murals that decorated the long walls. “I never imagined that the Aliri were so artistic.”
“We often forget the positive qualities of our enemies,” Belkai agreed. “Maybe there’d be less war if it were different.”
“I doubt it,” Loranna replied. “The powerful always want more.”
She’s not wrong, Belkai thought. Most of her troubles had been brought on by her craving for knowledge. It was a good pursuit that had gotten corrupted. That’s a lesson to be remembered.
They turned a corner to find a series of elves wearing golden armour and with hands on their sword hilts lined up against the walls. Belkai could feel the tension as the Southerner and Svaletan marched down the hall, eyes set straight ahead at a golden door, before which stood an older elf wearing a grey robe.
“My Lord Belkai,” the elf said, bowing as they approached. “You are expected.”
He looked to Loranna and said apologetically, “Your protector is asked to wait here.”
Loranna glanced at the elven honour guard and nodded. “I understand.”
Belkai didn’t look back as she followed the elf through the golden doors. They clicked shut behind her as she stood in the throne room of King Silari, tenth son of Rimalda. He was about what Belkai had expected. Only two generations removed from the long-destroyed Palian Empire and its rule, Silari was a powerfully built man, exuding power even as he sat in richly coloured robes on his golden throne. To one side stood the general that Belkai knew as Echtalon, the leader of the Aliri’s eastern armies. He was tall, a cunning look in his eye. He had joined Loranna’s expedition into the southern desert to save Belkai and Davos. She honoured him for that much, even as she felt her husband’s pain at the suffering that Echtalon’s plans had brought on Svaleta. To Silari’s left stood General Faelin, a relatively young woman who had been a master archer until Echtalon had taken her under his wing. Their presence, as well as their honoured positions, gave Belkai hope as she approached the throne. Perhaps Silari understood the true extent of their current crisis. Certainly he knew to summon people that she could almost trust.
“Lady Belkai, it is an honour,” Silari said as Belkai bowed. “The generals have spoken highly of you.”
“Thank you for your audience, my Lord,” Belkai responded as she straightened. “I could only wish that this was under better circumstances.”
“Indeed.” Silari smiled grimly. “There are those who questioned why I granted you an audience. After all, you are not the queen of a recognised kingdom, nor do you lead a recognised army.”
Belkai knew he sought the drama, so she asked, “What answer did you give them, your majesty?”
Silari laughed. “I told them that when a woman kills the Father of Serpents, claims Narandir as her own, then shatters your army, you don’t refuse her request for an audience.”
“This was never about me,” Belkai told him. “Narandir was never meant to be the centre of attention. They – and I - merely wish to exist.”
“I would disagree,” Silari said, and Belkai could sense the shift in his own mind. She became wary, understanding the danger that had arisen. The king’s eyes narrowed as he continued, “By its very nature and existence Narandir demands to be central in all our lives. The Svaletans see a forest with cursed creatures, and they avoid it in fear. That is typical of their foolishness. But what is your Forest, Lady Belkai? There is ancient magic there that is far beyond what I have seen come of any mage. The Arcane do not rage over a simple patch of trees. You destroyed Ashelath. You have killed the Sons of Retribution. What is in Narandir that demands such violence?”
Belkai had no reason to be surprised by his knowledge. She had made no effort to stop the rumours that had spread, and had even started a few herself. Ashelath’s death was no longer a secret, and there was no hiding the Arcane’s response after they violated Svaleta’s temple. The nations were on notice that Narandir had changed, and that its new lord was not someone to be trifled with. She wasn’t sure what the exacts result of those rumours would be, but it meant that the Arcane could no longer act in secret as they attempted to confront her authority.
“The Forest holds many secrets,” Belkai told him, and her mind involuntarily pictured the tunnel that the elves had found, the sealed doorway that elven blood had been shed to find. “Not all of them are meant to be discovered.”
“And yet they affect everything that happens in our kingdoms,” Silari pointed out. “General Echtalon here travelled far into the western wastelands, guided by visions to find the witches of Angmir. Visions, it is now revealed, that were planted by Ashelath himself.”
Belkai noted how Echtalon stiffened at these words. Is it shame, she wondered. Or do you fear the king’s wrath?
“We began our invasion of Svaleta based on those visions, I might add,” Silari said, venom dripping from his words as his eyes flashed with anger. “Which seemed correct until the unthinkable happened – the march of Narandir. Echtalon’s army was scattered, Ashelath’s witches were quite literally torn apart.”
Belkai swallowed nervously and said, “That war was instigated by Ashelath to give me access to Narandir. His mistake was in thinking that I would hand it over to him.”
“Indeed.” Silari sat back in his throne and rested his head in one hand. “So you shattered Echtalon’s army to redeem yourself for your master’s actions.”
When Belkai didn’t respond he grunted and waved a hand. “I do not blame you – or my generals. The subtleties of the Arcane are not to be underestimated. But now you come telling secrets that should not be revealed to potential enemies. So let me ask you: what do you want of me?”
Belkai glanced at the generals, who so far had not spoken a word. Echtalon looked at her with a blank face that couldn’t hide the nervousness that she could sense. He feared her retribution, she understood. Everyone knew that the Lord of Narandir had married a Svaletan Lowborn. A crime against Svaleta would be an offense against one of the most feared regions on the continent. Faelin, however, was openly curious. She knew little of Belkai and had not seen her power in action. From what little Belkai had seen, she begrudgingly respected the general.
Turning back to Silari, she had an appropriate quietness to her voice as she announced, “I have come of my own accord to appeal for peace. You know the truth about this war, and you know what the Arcane have done to your army at Arborshire. They are no friends of the Aliri. And more is coming. I need the nations united if we are to survive what is to come.”
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“We have done nothing against the Arcane.” It was Faelin who spoke. Silari glanced at her but did nothing to stop her from continuing. “They have no reason to oppose us.”
“The fact that your alliance with Ashelath was unwitting is irrelevant to them,” Belkai replied. “You sided with the Deceiver. The Arcane have decided that you will pay the price.”
“We already do,” Silari told her. “The western border faces attacks every day and we are losing ground. The wildlands will no longer be contained. Something is stirring them. Too much of our military might has been shifted to oppose them.”
“It is only the beginning,” Belkai warned. “The first winds that announce the tempest.”
“What do you know that we don’t?” Faelin asked.
“The Arcane have been confronted on this continent and have lost. They want Narandir’s power and they want vengeance.” Belkai looked them each in the eye in turn. “No one is safe. We have to stand together.”
“Our mages have already attended a secret council,” Silari told her. “You would be aware of this, of course.”
Belkai nodded, though she had no idea what the king was talking about. Brimur, of course, she thought. But what is his goal? And why was I not a part of this? That mystery would have to await another time for its solution.
“The mages will play a decisive role in what is to come,” Belkai said honestly. “But so will kings and kingdoms. Farhad does not know that I am here. But he will accept a peace offer. I urge you to make it, King Silari. Now is not the time for division. We have to set old grudges aside for the sake of all our futures.”
“This is something that we must discuss,” Silari told her, and she nodded her understanding.
“Do not waver too long,” she warned them. “Our enemies are sure. We have to meet that challenge.”
Narandir will burn, Belkai remembered Siara telling her. As she studied the elves and their indecision she thought, not as long as I’m still breathing. As the elves debated their next move, Belkai was preparing for whatever was necessary to ensure her people’s survival – and, she was starting to realise, that included all that lived on this land. Narandir had never been intended to be isolated. It was a gift for all mortals, should they be open to it. This might be their last chance. She wouldn’t let them miss it.
***
Located northeast of Svaleta, on the opposite side of Lustria, the Ikari Dominion was separated from its neighbours by the unforgiving Artax Mountains. Covered by a perpetual mist that limited access to a handful of paths known only to locals, this formidable barrier led to the Dominion often being labelled the ‘Shadowlands’. It was a fertile land dominated by a warrior race, a union of clans dominated by the Clan Sar in the village of Iradima. They had forged a fierce loyalty to each other that had been extended to those outsiders who had chosen to settle amongst them. It had also removed the ancient stigmas that cut a woman off from her ancestors when she married someone outside her tribe. At forty years old, Shalah Gildarem was too young to have any memory of the days a millennium ago when such stigmas held power. The orcs didn’t have the long lives of elves, rarely living past 150 years. Had Shalah bothered to think on it, she wouldn’t have expected to live that long. She was the skin-wife of Arak Gildarem, the Brilhardem’s combat trainer. She had been married for her looks and her physical prowess in battle, and her love for a fight had not diminished over fifteen years of marriage. Arak was rare in that he honoured Shalah as much as his heart-wife Glish, but there were still expectations on Shalah that could not be ignored. In the current age, though, she could at least travel to her former village without fear of reprisal.
The village was named Sargo’ran and lay in the easternmost province of the Dominion, only an hour’s walk from the ancient canyon that marked the border of the orcs’ land. It was a humble place, rundown and isolated from the rest of the Dominion. It had made them a strong clan, and they fiercely protected their land against the occasional raid from the goblins that dwelt in the eastern wastelands. This was the open secret that many in the central human nations had forgotten. There was a small pocket of civilisation on the continent, surrounded by sorcery and dark creatures that belonged in nightmares. The worst of those in Shalah’s mind were the feral orcs, taken in the prime of life and poisoned, either with disease or dark magic, and turned into mindless killers. They lost all honour as they sought the taste of blood from whatever they could slaughter. The humans knew little of this. Their peace was bought with the blood of elves and orcs – and the scattered human tribes that were often treated with disdain by the ‘advanced’ nations of the interior.
Shalah stood on the edge of the canyon beside her brother Ugnar. Far below them amidst the red and brown rock twisted a fast-flowing river. To the west lay a massive stone bridge built by the Palians that had survived the ravages of the centuries. Hunting parties used it when they travelled east, though the younger and more foolish preferred to make the climb and ford the river. They saw it as a test of their mettle; the older saw it as an excuse to show off to those of the other gender. Women were far more likely to make the climb – and the best became highly sought after as skin-wives. Shalah had been the best of her generation. She still was, as far as she was concerned.
“I killed my first goblin right here,” Ugnar said. Dressed only in leather pants, he pushed on a boulder with his bare toe. “I was, what, six?”
Shalah grinned, baring her sharpened teeth. “Yeah, and according to the stories you cried the entire time.”
He shot her a glare that would have made any other species run in fear. Shalah ignored it. “I cried because he put a spear through my waist.”
Shalah shrugged. “You still cried.”
Ugnar had to laugh as he looked back over the canyon. His voice lowered as he said, “It has been six years, Shalah. Why are you here?”
Shalah watched him as he tried to focus on the land to the east. “Are you asking, or the Matron?”
Ugnar didn’t looked at her when he answered. “Our mother approved of Arak, Shalah. She would have taken him if she’d had the chance. But when you didn’t return, she started to question if you had turned your back on the clan.”
“I am the wife of the combat trainer for one of the most powerful magical orders on the continent,” Shalah pointed out. “It has been six long, busy years.”
“You are only a skin-wife,” Ugnar said quietly. His eyes widened as Shalah grabbed him by the neck and spun him around, her fingers digging into his throat.
“Unlike some, Arak has respect for both of his wives,” Shalah growled. Ugnar’s treatment of his virtual harem was well known and looked down on even by some of their own clan. “I am his equal in every way.”
She let him go, and he was silent as he rubbed his neck.
“I have had many duties these past years,” Shalah told him, her eyes locked on his. “Praise the gods, they did not include seeing your idea of play.”
“So why are you back?” Ugnar asked, crossing his arms across his bare chest.
“I’m back because I choose to be,” was all Shalah told him. Ugnar knew better than to push for more.
“The timing is notable,” he said, the change of focus the closest thing to an apology that she would get. “The Harbinger is dim this year. We have heard whispers of strange events to the north. The shaman has warned of a deadly winter.”
As he spoke the wind shifted, and both had to plant their feet to avoid being swept off the cliffside. A howling sounded through the canyon, almost animalistic in its cry. Both orcs whispered curses. The brildua, the ‘wind of change’,was a much-feared event. Common wisdom said that it pronounced coming death. Legends told of its arrival before villages were wiped out by cataclysm. Shalah didn’t know if she believed the stories, but she had seen enough to be cautious.
Another sound came down the canyon, a deep roar quickly followed by hooting as if from a giant owl.
“Mirshak,” Ugnar whispered. “What was that?”
“Get to the village,” Shalah whispered back, her hand tight on her sword hilt. “Fast but silent.”
They both backed away from the edge before turning to run. They’d only made it a few steps before there was a blast of wind that knocked them both to the ground. Shalah rolled onto her back in time to see a shape pass overhead. Two leathery wings seemed to blot out the sky, propelling a scaly body with a scorpion-like tail longer than a house.
“Dragon,” Shalah called out, and Ugnar grunted as he watched the beast head towards Sargo’ran. She had thought that they were only legends. What evil is this?
“They never travel alone,” he pointed out, coming to his feet and unsheathing his sword. Legends told of the dragons’ power to raise the dead as minions to fight for them. “We need to move.”
The dragon was circling, not making any sort of attack on the village as they ran. It was waiting for something, Shalah realised. But what could possibly make a dragon delay itself in its longing for fresh meat? She could hear the war horns blowing, a deep sound that would travel for miles. Sargo’ran would not stand alone for much longer. Others would come to their defence, though Shalah didn’t know if it would be enough.
The dragon roared, and Shalah could see the air move as it was pounded into the ground. A fountain of dirt exploded, at least a mile out of town. The dragon was hovering now, blasting away with its voice, digging. The two orcs kept running, the town drawing closer as they moved. A green light was now shimmering from the dragon’s excavations. A group of orcs emerged from Sargo’ran bearing bows and spears, charging towards the strange beast. It turned away from the hole, and Shalah heard its growl even from two miles away. The ground bucked, and she hit the ground hard. Pulling herself to her feet, she couldn’t see the other orcs anymore. The dragon had landed near its excavation, and was pushing its snout against the ground.
“Shalah! Ugnar!”
She turned her attention to the heavily armoured orc who ran towards them. He held a massive sword with a jagged blade, fire in his eyes as he said,
“We’re barricading. It’ll be suicide to meet the dragon in the open.”
“The houses won’t be much better,” Ugnar pointed out, and the orc shrugged.
“It’s not the dragon that’s coming.”
Shalah frowned, but before she could ask what he meant he was running back towards the town. As the siblings followed, they watched as wooden planks and iron shields were mounted in windows.
“Get inside!”
Shalah didn’t know who had yelled out to them, but they stepped through the nearest open door to find a family dressed for battle and bearing axes and daggers. The patriarch slammed the door shut behind them, then lodged a table against it. Shalah quickly glanced around. They were in a three-room house so typical of Sargo’ran – a room for sleeping, a cooking area, and a small room for entertaining guests. It was small and relatively defensible against the average goblin raid – nothing in comparison to what was outside of the town.
“Why are you hiding?” Shalah asked, retrieving her sword. “This is human behaviour.”
The lack of shame on their faces made Shalah pause. The patriarch smiled grimly and said,
“That’s what Grilok thought. He led the archers to meet the dragon.”
“What happened?” Shalah asked. Before anyone could answer, the ground shook again. This time Shalah stayed standing, bracing herself against the wall. She peered around the edges of a shield hanging in the window and froze. Rising out of the ground like ghosts in a nightmare were skeletal forms, rotting flesh hanging off their bones. Their eye sockets flowed green as they advanced, and Shalah heard the dragon roar again.
“They surrounded Grilok. He didn’t stand a chance,” the patriarch whispered, joining her at the window. Shalah didn’t answer, watching as two orcs sprang upon the skeletons. The fight didn’t last long. Two shattering swings of their swords destroyed two pairs of skeletons, but that was as far as it went. The surviving creatures extended their hands and let loose columns of fire that turned the orcs to ash where they stood. As if to emphasise their victory, the dragon swooped low and let loose a blast that disintegrated the house that the two orcs had come from.
“How do you beat that?” the patriarch whispered. Shalah looked around the room, surprised by the fear that she saw.
“You are Ikari,” she growled. “We will fight. The clan demands it.”
She pushed aside the table at the door and looked back.
“If you’re a true orc, I’ll see you in the fight.”
She threw the door open and stepped out of sight as the dragon made another low pass above the town.
***
Shalah wasn’t the only one to find her courage. More orcs were spilling onto the streets, ready to avenge the loss of their clan mates. Chants broke out as they marched down the streets searching for the skeletal attackers. Above, the dragon seemed to watch with morbid curiosity as it circled. Shalah kept one eye on it but had the impression that it wasn’t interested in participating in the killing – almost as if it were under orders not to attack. But who commands dragons? There was no time to contemplate. Ugnar was beside her as they turned a corner and found themselves face to face with a group of the skeletons. The two orcs didn’t hesitate, ducking under the first blast of fire to strike out with their blades. Their foes weren’t strong, their bodies breaking apart as the orcs hit them with all of their strength. The second rank lashed out with their fire magic, but Shalah and Ugnar were fast enough to duck and dodge, avoiding the worst of the heat as they pressed forward. Another group of orcs attacked from the rear, and it wasn’t long before all that remained of their attackers was a scattering of shattered bone.
It was now that the dragon dove towards them, a stream of fire erupting from its mouth. A line of houses exploded under the force of the beast’s attack, and half a dozen orcs were caught in the open and instantly vaporised. As it turned away for another circuit, Shalah spotted a second group of skeletons approaching.
“Easy for the picking,” Ugnar said, and the other orcs grunted their agreement. Shalah knew different. They now faced two enemies, one of whom was beyond their reach. There would be no victory here, she realised. A deep bellow confirmed her thoughts as the dragon dove towards the group. She looked up in time to see its jaws open, and dropped to the ground as it swooped low, its powerful legs driving talons the size of Shalah’s arms as they snatched up four orcs. The dragon turned, heading back north towards its excavation. Shalah and her group were still recovering from the attack when the skeletons reached them and unleashed their fire.
***
Ugnar found himself wedged up against the dragon’s scaly foot. He was stuck tight between the dragon and the other orc, unable to move a muscle. He had no choice but to watch the ground race by beneath them as his captor made the quick journey to the crater that it had formed outside the town. Swooping low, it released its prey, and Ugnar slammed into the hard-packed dirt with enough force to break his arm. He screamed as the bone tore through his skin and blood splashed across the dirt – and a strange leathery object beside him.
“Mother of life,” he whispered, watching as the dragon egg absorbed the crimson liquid. He gathered his strength and rolled over to see another dozen eggs scattered around the crater. He knew the ancient legends and what they said came next. He heard the flapping of wings and closed his eyes as the dragon’s jaws closed around him, feeding its unborn young with every drop of blood that sprayed through the air.