Chapter Fifty-Three: Godbreaker

“There will be three—a man like a ghost, with both hair and skin of snow white. A man with no hand, old and wise, carrying a bird that does not move. And a young man who wields the storm and a golden sword.

“They will bring an end to Mandara’s reign of terror. They will break the mountain and bring it to its knees.

“They are Godbreakers.”

—Muamed, Prophet of Darmouth

The dragon lurched forwards, and the wolf met it. They collided in a crash that shook the mountain, grappling each other in a savage embrace. Faenrir thrashed, twisting its head left and right, shaking the ground with each movement. Ein found himself on all fours, struggling to keep himself from being thrown off the summit.

-Go, Ein. I will hold him here.-

“I won’t,” Ein cried in return, as the two beasts fought before him. Faenrir sank its teeth into Garax’s neck, and the dragon roared in pain. A column of fire erupted from its throat, setting the wolf’s pelt alight. Each motion was a thunderclap—feet stomping across the ground, wings crashing into stone, tails sweeping through the air. The wolf and the dragon wrestled back and forth, ripping blood from each other’s throats, howling, roaring, screaming. The wind became red and gold and silver, spraying blood, fur and scales across the horizon. Garax cried out each time he was struck, and Ein felt it. Faenrir shrieked each time its blood was drawn, and Ein felt it.

-Fool! What are you doing? Run!-

Garax held the wolf’s jaws back and roared. Crimson fire swept across the air between them and enveloped its head. Faenrir howled in agony, slamming the golden dragon onto the ground in a berserk rage. The two giants tumbled across the snow, clawing and snapping at each other. Flames charred the snowscape black. Steam rose and was swept away by the coming storm.

It was growing stronger, the wind and the snow both. There were small crystals of ice forming in the air, raking across Ein’s skin as he lay pressed to the ground. The black clouds gathered in in a massive tempest above them, a whirlwind of snow and ice and water. Rain began to fall, and the snow became sleet. It pierced through Ein’s clothing, chilling him to the core.

Garax cried out in pain as the wolf tackled him into the ground once more, the full weight of its enormous body bearing into him. The snow began to sear as he sank deeper and deeper, his weak arm pinned to the ground, his good wing beating frantically at the air. He opened his maw and let loose another torrent of dragonfire, but Faenrir’s grip held strong.

The fire spluttered at once and went out. Garax shifted his head towards Ein. Desperation was in his eyes.

He’s dying.

Ein finally found his feet, bracing himself against the wind. Garax had wrapped his limbs around Faenrir and pinned it in place, no longer fighting. His movements were weak and sluggish. Like an old man.

-Run,- he said to Ein. -Don’t be a hero.-

A hero.

Ein looked at the scene in front of him. The tempest was in full force, hurling rain and snow relentlessly at the summit. Cracks had opened across the ground, fissures spreading deep into mountain. The sky flickered and hurled a fork of lightning into the distance. It made a sharp crack as it connected with the ground. The sky flickered again, and another thread of lightning appeared. It was roaring; everything was roaring. The tempest, the wind, the mountain, the wolf, the dragon.

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A hero is a person who fights, even when he doesn’t want to.

They’d saved the third Blood of Kings. But Ein couldn’t just turn around, turn his back on the man who had read stories to him since he’d been a child, the toothless storyteller who’d taught him bawdy songs and secrets that none of the other adults knew. The clumsy drunkard who had taught him the Way of the Wind, the Way that he lived his life by.

Listen to the wind.

I don’t want to fight, Ein thought, staring at the gargantuan wolf before him. I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to fight.

I have to fight.

He was singing before he knew it, his voice so low that he barely heard it above the wind. It was the faintest ghost of a whisper, the lullaby that Rhea used to sing to him when the summer storms crossed the Felhaven forge.

“Thunder and lightning, the giants are fighting.

It’s raining and roaring, isn’t it frightening?”

Garax was fading now, his tail flickering weakly, his golden eyes glazing over. Faenrir dug its jaws into his throat and pulled, but the dragon held on.

-Ein…!-

The tempest reached a crescendo, lightning cracking across the mountaintop like a whip, waves of sleet drenching the boy and the two giants. Thunderclouds danced around them, blasting the mountains, piercing the clouds. The smell of smoke was thick in the air.

You’re a Fateweaver.

Tears streamed down his face as he sang, a fast, frantic arpeggio like the stormclouds that rumbled above. He could no longer tell the difference between his voice and the wind. They were one and the same.

Your actions will decide the fates of many to come.

He felt Lady Reyalin by his side, lending him her strength. Energy raced through his veins. His body was hot, so hot that the snow was melting around him. He drew upon his deepest reserves of Spirit, and then some. He found the link to Aeos and latched onto it, taking more still. More Spirit. More. Garax had stopped moving now, still clutching Faenrir in his death-grip.

No.

Rage boiled through Ein, threatening to overwhelm him. Sleet evaporated against his skin. The mountain rumbled and shook. The fissures widened.

I’m a Hero of Faengard.

Garax gave him one final look, and then the life left his eyes. His scales dulled to a stone grey, hardening, crackling. The golden dragon became still amidst the blizzard. It was no longer a dragon—the storyteller had returned to the earth from whence he’d come from. He was nothing more a figure of rock now.

No!

Ein arched his back and screamed. His throat was aflame, a raw channel of energy that projected his fury to the storm. Lightning struck again, to the left and the right, circling the Summit of the World. Faenrir wrenched a leg from the Garax’s stoney embrace, breaking off his right wing. It fell to the snow with a crash.

Ein took a step forward, and then another. The tempest whirled around him, wailing, screeching, wrenching at his clothes with cold fingers. Water and ice. Snow and sleet. Wind and rain. The stormclouds rumbled, flickering with threads of light. He felt a hand give him a push from behind.

Alend’s.

“On lightning I dance, for the storm sings to none other.”

The sky opened, and a pillar of jagged light impaled the mountain. The last thing Ein saw was a boy and a wolf, and they were embracing each other.

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The sky became white for an instant, brighter than the sun itself. Everywhere, the mountains shook. Ice and stone broke from the cliff sides, tumbling down into the depths. The earth quaked. The wind howled, lashing rain and ice across the land.

The boy’s cry was so great that even the people of Darmouth heard it. The mountain itself bent beneath the force of his words. A chasm opened from where the lightning had struck at the Summit of the World, above the sea of clouds. It spread, wider and wider, travelling straight down the mountain to the very base. The mountain grumbled and groaned as it broke into two, a steaming crag forming between the halves.

The storm continued to rage above them, but the worst of it was over. The villagers opened their doors and ran out into the streets, loosing cries of joy and exuberance in the thinning rain. A sparrow darted from the windows of one of the huts, speeding towards spire as quickly as it could. The grey clouds parted and a sliver of light poked through the sky once more.

“Talam,” the villagers cried, pointing at the mountain. “Talam!”

Godbreaker. The boy had broken Mandara. He had broken a god.