Six days earlier, three hundred miles west of Durrin’s rocky prison, a general fought for his kingdom—and his life.

“To me! To me! Elandrians, to me!”

General Volthorn Skarr ducked under a spear thrust, then caught the blow of a mace on his shield. Blades flashed around him.

“To me! Elandriaaa!”

He thrust and hacked with his short sword, its glowing red blade cutting into armor and leather far deeper than any normal weapon. Spears and swords rammed into his armor only to rebound back, repulsed by bursts of blue light.

“To me!”

The hilltop around him was a melee of shouts and weapons. A spear rammed into his collarbone so hard it nearly knocked him over, despite the enchantments on his armor deflecting most of its energy. Volthorn was running out of time—he could feel his armor draining of terracharge with each blow. He dispatched the spearman that had struck him, then glanced about, looking for the green surcoat of an ally. All he saw were the red colors of Calamar.

This was it. If his soldiers could hold this hilltop, their daring charge had a chance to succeed. On this charge hung the fate of his left flank, the whole battle, perhaps the city of Meradov and an entire Elandrian province.

“Volthorn!”

The chaos behind him parted as a pair of korriks pushed up the hill, shields and spearpoints out as they fought back-to-back.

“Kelzern! Trazar!” Volthorn called. As always, his broodmate brothers were never far behind him. “The battle is nearly ours!”

His broodmates stood around him, giving him a moment’s reprieve. He spotted a fallen green standard and snatched it from the ground, hoisting it into the air. “To me! Elandrians!”

The hilltop was a roiling mass of soldiers: korriks, avirs, and humans each locked in one-on-one struggles with sword or spear. But as he waved his standard, his soldiers came to him. A trio of men clad in heavy armor charged up to stand by Volthorn’s brothers, using their height and long spears to drive the enemy back. Then a band of five korrik broodmates joined them, pushing their way through the intervening opponents with a bloodcurdling war cry.

“Form a shield wall!” Volthorn bellowed. “The hill is ours!”

More soldiers came, fighting their way up the hill to join Volthorn’s vanguard. In the charge that he had led a moment ago, he had outstripped his infantry. But now they were catching up to him, sweeping away the Calamarvans on their side of the hill.

“Reinforce the line!” Volthorn yelled, pointing to the growing shield wall in front of him as more and more soldiers arrived. “Don’t let—”

Something rammed into Volthorn’s helmet, knocking him over. Sky tipped and ground rolled as his vision jerked violently, then filled with a wincing flash of blue light.

“Kraack’s beard!” Volthorn cursed.

He rolled over onto his hands and knees, head swimming as he struggled back to his feet.

“Griffins, General!” someone yelled nearby. “Keep down!”

“I know a talon strike when I feel one!” Volthorn snapped. He glanced at the sky. Griffins circled and dove, over a score of them, harassing the soldiers in the shield wall with outstretched claws. Red dye on their plumage identified them as Calamar’s forces.

“Sloppy,” he muttered, feeling the dent on the back of his helmet. By rights, the blow from the griffin’s talon should have snapped his neck—or the boulder that broke his fall should have—had it not been for the enchantments on his armor. He closed his eyes, concentrating. While the rest of his armor still vibrated with an invisible hum, his helmet had been completely depleted.

He touched a sapphire in his belt, drawing power from the jewel into his clawed fingers. Terracharge the power was called—the heartbeat of the earth, captured and channeled through metal and stone. As he absorbed the energy, his skin began to tingle and glow with a faint blue light. Then he pressed his fingers to his helmet, letting the metal soak up the energy like a sponge.

The cries of battle snapped Volthorn back to his surroundings. Griffins still wheeled overhead, but a platoon of archers was already jogging up to drive them away. With the efficiency born from three years of war, the archers set up in two lines and began launching volleys into the air. As they reloaded, accompanying spear bearers presented a porcupine of bronze points to any griffin that tried to dive for an attack.

How was the larger battle faring? Volthorn leapt atop the boulder he’d just cracked his head against and surveyed the hill. Despite the griffin assault, the shield wall was still holding and was even beginning to push back the red standards of Calamar. Periodic blasts of fire or flashes of light marked the presence of pyromancers and terramancers in the fray.

Volthorn turned to look downhill. Besides scattered units of soldiers still moving upward, the hillside was strewn with the carnage of the assault he had led minutes earlier. Bodies from both sides lay scattered on the rock and grass. Among them moved several dozen figures clad in blue, working furiously to dress wounds or move the injured onto stretchers.

Through the chaos came a swifter, running up the hillside with no sign that the incline offered any impediment. Part feline, part canine in form, swifters were as lithe as cheetahs and as strong as wolves. Their long legs could propel them at incredible speeds. While little use in pitched battle, swifters made excellent messengers and scouts.

“Lieutenant Silverpaw!” Volthorn bellowed, waving him over. The lieutenant came to a halt with barely a sign of being winded.

“General,” Silverpaw said, dropping his tail in the swifter version of a military salute. “The right flank holds. Green Pine Battalion is standing strong, despite heavy casualties.”

“And the rest of the line?”

“Iron Thicket Battalion is faring better. Cavalry and swifters have the riverbank secured. As I ran over, the center looked strong as well.”

“Thank the stars,” Volthorn said, feeling a knot of tension in his chest give way to relief. The rest of the army had held firm during his daring charge on the left flank. His mind went to work, thinking through his strategic options, projecting a half dozen ways the remainder of the battle could play out. He made up his mind. “Have Captain Mern commit all our remaining reserves on the right flank. Order them to press hard. We will save Meradov yet!”

The swifter sprinted away. Other aides and messengers were arriving, finally catching up to their general. Volthorn spent the next several minutes hearing reports and sending orders. Every update confirmed his hopes: the battle was swinging in the Elandrians’ favor. The Calamarvans, their flank splintered by Volthorn’s unexpected assault, were on the point of collapse. If he could route them here, the road would be clear to relieve the besieged city of Meradov, only four miles away.

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image [https://i.imgur.com/oMY8NOJ.png]

Created by the author in Inkarnate

“How is the air battle?” Volthorn asked a griffin captain that landed in front of him.

“Your reckless charge outstripped us for a few minutes there,” the griffin said, lifting his wing so an avir could wrap a bandage around his hind leg. “But Calamar has only committed several dozen flights to this battle: the rest of their griffins must be supporting their assault on Meradov. My squadrons will have air mastery soon.”

“Once you do, target their standard-bearers on the right flank,” Volthorn said. “If we can throw them in confusion, our cavalry can get around to their rear and carry the day.”

The griffin glanced at the sky. “May we carry the day while the day is still with us.”

Volthorn cursed as he followed the griffin’s gaze westward. In the thick of battle he had lost track of time. When had the Sun sunk so low in the sky? If he couldn’t score a decisive victory by sunset, the enemy could slip away and regroup during the night.

Volthorn left his aides and strode downhill toward one of the wound-dressers. The young avir lad was kneeling over a half-conscious soldier, tying off a quickly reddening bandage on the soldier’s leg. The avir’s once-blue tunic was splattered with mud and dirt. Besides a kit of bandages and salves, he carried a ram’s horn slung over his shoulder.

“Dawn Warden,” Volthorn called, referring to the religious order that the avir belonged to. “How much daylight is left?”

The avir looked up, his face a nearly colorless grey with exhaustion. He glanced at the Sun’s position in the sky. “Too little,” he said, then turned back to trimming the bandage.

“I need something more exact,” Volthorn said. “When will you sound your horns?”

This time the avir—who looked to still be in his teens—pointed to one of the western mountain peaks. “The moment the Sun hits that mountain, we blow. Maybe . . . half an hour.”

“That’s not enough time,” Volthorn said. “The shadow of a mountain shouldn’t count as true dusk. We’d have an extra hour if the horizon was flat.”

The avir held up his hands. “My apologies, General. But that’s the Dawn Warden code. We can’t deviate from it.”

“We need more time!” Volthorn said. “An extra half hour of fighting, and we could encircle the enemy and force their surrender. Then tomorrow we could lift the siege around Meradov.”

“And what is that worth, General?” said a female voice. Another Dawn Warden had joined them, a middle-aged woman who carried herself with grim confidence. She carried a horn identical to the avir’s, as well as several waterskins, one of which she handed to her companion.

“Is it worth the souls of our troops?” she continued. “Is a fleeting victory worth the eternal torment of those dragged by demons to the Void?”

“All I’m asking—” Volthorn said.

The Dawn Warden held up her hand. “You know we cannot make exceptions. Neither can the Dawn Wardens behind Calamar’s lines. We blow when we blow. Not before, and stars forbid not after. Enough wounded will die during the night as it is, may demons never find them.” She turned to the avir. “Come. We need a hand with a stretcher.”

They moved down the hill, leaving Volthorn to grind his teeth in frustration. He had no authority over the Dawn Wardens. They moved with the army but were separate from it, with their own leadership and even their own supply chain. Their independence was deliberate—it prevented exactly the kind of exception-making that he had just demanded.

Part of him knew they were right. Each minute a battle dragged on past dusk, the greater the risk that the souls of the fallen would be claimed by the demons that haunted the night.

“Shadows,” he cursed, kicking a fallen shield before stomping back up the hill.

Volthorn returned to his cluster of aides and resumed hearing reports. As he had hoped, the reserves were tipping the tide on the right flank. Coupled with his successful charge on the left flank, the Elandrian army was slowly encircling their opponents.

But time was not on their side.

A long blast of a horn sounded from the far side of the battlefield, where the mountain’s long shadow was creeping over the terrain. The call spread into a symphony, as dozens of Dawn Wardens behind both armies’ lines lifted their horns. From his vantage on the hill, Volthorn could see the effects ripple across the battlefield. Gaps opened between opposing ranks of soldiers. Arcs of fire and flashes of light faded as mancerers on both sides disengaged. The cries of war fell away, replaced by the monolithic blowing of horns.

“So close,” Volthorn said, staring out over the battlefield. He kicked at the ground again. “So close! Seven thousand enemy soldiers, almost within our grasp.”

“What are your orders?” asked one of his officers.

Volthorn removed his helmet, feeling the welcome relief of cool air around his head. He took a deep breath, thinking through and prioritizing the many orders he would need to give tonight. “The wounded are our highest priority,” he said. “Once each squad sees to its dead and wounded, it can make camp. Have casualty reports sent to my brother Trazar.”

“Yes, General Skarr.”

The horn blasts were finally fading, their last echoes reverberating off the sides of the valley. In their wake came a new sound: bells. All across the field, Dawn Wardens were standing over the bodies of the fallen, ringing small silver bells in their hands.

A breeze wrapped itself around Volthorn, wicking away the sweat of battle on his scaly head. His eyes followed the breeze as it picked up the fringes of banners farther down the hill. Not for the first time, he willed his vision to see the unseeable. Did the breeze mark the presence of angels as they winged across the battlefield, summoned by the sound of bells to gather the souls of the fallen? Or was the breeze just a breeze?

His exchange with the Dawn Wardens replayed in his mind. It was easy to dismiss the souls at stake in the heat of battle and the light of a full Sun. But in the gathering dusk, as daylight gave way to darkness, he found himself feeling a hint of the frantic urgency the angels must feel, as they worked to gather souls before night fell.

image [https://i.imgur.com/tZ3r42r.png]image [https://imgur.com/a/PGqYkfO]image [https://imgur.com/a/PGqYkfO]image [https://imgur.com/a/PGqYkfO]

General Volthorn Skarr. Generated by the author via Midjourney.

“General,” an officer said, breaking into his reflections. “You’ll want to hear this.”

Volthorn turned. Two griffins had just landed on the hilltop, their chests heaving from their flight.

“Report,” Volthorn said.

“Meradov, General,” gasped one of the griffins. “The city has fallen.”

He stared at the griffins, trying to process what they had just said.

“Calamar breached the west gates earlier this afternoon,” the griffin continued. “We tried to drive them back but failed. Within an hour they had taken most of the lower city, cutting off two battalions still manning the outer walls.”

“You still had the inner walls,” Volthorn said.

“A squad of enemy pyromancers set the inner city afire,” the griffin said. “We surrendered just before dusk. It was either that or perish.”

“We’re scarcely four miles away!” Volthorn shouted, more to the skies than to the messengers. “Commander Gerren couldn’t hold out one more day?”

“Commander Gerren is dead,” the other griffin said.

The words hit like punches to the ribs.

“He fell earlier today, trying to retake the west gates,” the griffin continued. “We were the first messengers who could get through with the news. I’m sorry, General.”

Volthorn sat down on a boulder to process the sobering news. Commander Gerren had been the chief commander over all of Elandria’s forces, answering directly to the co-regents. Volthorn had fought under him for the entire length of the war. And now he was gone.

Eventually, Volthorn pulled his mind back to the present moment. “Gerren was a valiant leader,” he said for the benefit of his staff, though words felt like a hollow cover for the numb emptiness he felt inside. “Loyal to his kingdom, kind to his troops, honorable to a fault. May angels find him.”

“May angels find him,” the gathered officers murmured, faces downcast.

It was the ever-pragmatic Trazar that broke the silence. “What now?”

Volthorn put his hand to his temples, kneading his scaly skin with his claws as he put his mind to work. Pieces moved around on his mental map, predicting the ways the next few days could play out. “Meradov has fallen. Our objective is now obsolete. With the siege no longer tying up Calamar’s forces, they’ll be upon us tomorrow with a force double what we faced today. Tell every company to bed early and prepare to rise two hours before dawn. Our only option now is to retreat back down the Mera Valley.”

“I’ll send a flight back to the capital, to bear the news,” said Kelzern.

“Send a flight,” Volthorn said. “But tell the co-regents I’m coming in person.”

“What?” Kelzern said. “That’s a week’s journey. We need you here.”

“Now that Meradov has fallen, the course of the war has changed,” Volthorn said. “With Commander Gerren dead, I’m next in seniority. The co-regents will want to meet with me to devise a new strategy.”

The co-regents. The royal palace. How long had it been since he’d last been there? Not since before the war. He did his utmost to avoid the place.

For a moment, his mind fell back to that cursed day, seven years before. Glass showering from the ceiling. Fire and lightning. A figure in red.

Volthorn absently brushed a scar running along his cheek, the result of a spear thrust that had nearly killed him. He should have acted faster. He should have posted more guards. He should have foreseen—

Stop it, Volthorn barked to himself. The past has passed.

“Saddle my horse,” Volthorn said. “I’ll leave tonight.”