Sam Bowring - Destiny's Rift

So, Bel was riding towards Holdwith, and his counterpart, on the back of a vengeful dragon. Unusual and worrying, but it had the smell of fate about it, of things being delivered when they were needed most.

Meanwhile there were two enormous armies none too distant from each other. Where and when would they finally clash? Variables everywhere, yet here he remained. There was little more to be done from here, he supposed. Troops were mobilised, and those who had not already joined the army were making their way. Even Thedd had made good on his commitment. The north was emptying, its towns and cities quiet, and those who remained behind waited uneasily for news of an outcome that would signal either celebration or ultimate despair.

He lit the roll with a spurt of flame from his finger. One last thing, before he went to join the final battle.

He needed to make a deal with Battu.

Tyrellan sat cross-legged and alone on the dusty plains. Some half a league to the north lay the fort, beneath a circle of Cloud fed by a stream high over his head. A gratifying sight indeed.

Well, not alone, he supposed.

It was the fourth day of construction, and the shadowmander’s range had grown larger than expected. If Tyrellan moved any closer to the fort, the mander would get inside and tear apart whatever lightfists were left. Instead he waited from afar, chewing on a piece of bread, watching the broken cobblestone tower. Losara was up there, having sleeping mages brought to him, and sending their legacy spells out over the plain. Very soon, they would be finished.

There were reports in the morning that a contingent of Varenkai troops had arrived about a league to the north. There they had stopped. Tyrellan was certain they did not mean to attack the fort – at least not until the main army caught up. They were here to impede, or keep watch, or something to that effect. Wise, maybe, under other circumstances, though the Throne could not have possibly guessed what it was Losara did here.

Familiar sparks went along the mander, although the increase in its size was now too slight for Tyrellan to register visually. Losara had become adept at whatever he did in the minds of the sleeping, and the legacies had come thick and fast over the past day. Hundreds of mage’s lives had gone into the making, and he wondered if Losara was going to be able to use every last one of them.

It wasn’t long before he had his answer.

Tyrellan , came Losara’s voice in his head.

Yes, lord?

We have found the limit. The last two spells have failed to reach you.

Very well. What would you have me do?

Stay where you are for now. I shall send word when we have …cleaned up. I do not want the mander destroying the fort in search of the remaining lightfists.

As you command .

Losara entered the academy hall, where the last lightfists were being kept asleep. He took form next to Roma, who did not flinch at the sudden arrival.

‘Shadowdreamer. I have just sent the next batch up to the tower.’

‘Recall them, please,’ said Losara. ‘We are done.’

Roma nodded and gestured at a mage. Losara sensed a thought travelling between them, and the subordinate headed off.

‘The rest,’ said Losara. ‘They are all here?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

There were some two hundred lightfists remaining under the watch of his mages. He was proud of his underlings – they had carried out his wishes exactly, though it had been taxing on them. Everyone had been taking shifts, but between patrolling the walls and keeping so many lightfists slumbering, rest periods had not lasted long.

The mage whom Roma had sent returned with a couple of others, between them four levitating lightfists.

‘Put them back with the rest,’ Losara said.

He moved into the centre of the hall. He could defer this command to Roma, he supposed, but a part of him felt he must take responsibility for it.

‘My mages,’ he said, and all fell silent. ‘I commend you on our success.’

A chorus sounded – not the rabble-like cheer of soldiers, but a softer, more self-assured murmur of satisfaction.

‘And now,’ said Losara – so many lives wasted – ‘Now that we no longer need the lightfists, you may snuff them out. Do not visit any unnecessary pain upon them. Proceed.’

Around the room mages raised their hands, and sent forth shadows into the lightfists. Despite Losara’s words there was plenty of convulsing. He hoped the lightfists did not feel anything in their sleep. It seemed his mages were not as skilled as he at creating a soft, gentle departure. Mercifully, it was quickly done.

‘Bury them,’ he said.

Roma nodded and set about shooting orders around the hall. Soon a macabre procession of dead lightfists was floating out of the academy, through the fort, and out of the gate onto the plains. Here, a large burial pit was already filled with tangled limbs and twisted red robes. Into it, the last were dropped. Roma then gestured at a hillock of dirt that had been excavated to make the pit, and it came cascading back in. With the hole filled, he gave a whisk of his fingers, smoothing over the earth, until no trace of the fort’s original inhabitants remained.

A more respectful burial than many will be afforded in the coming days , Losara thought, though it was little comfort. The evidence of his colossal crime, hidden beneath the dirt, was like a tumour on the world.

Out on the plains, the shadowmander stood at the edge of its circle, watching.

Tyrellan , sent Losara. You may return.

For a day and a night they rode the dragon, the land below seeming to move slowly at such a distance. Sometimes Bel would spot a landmark – a city, fort or forest remembered from the internal map he carried thanks to Fahren’s lessons – and the dragon would change course to follow his shouted instructions. Apart from those interactions there was little talk with Olakanzar, and Bel and Jaya were left to their own devices, such as they were.

Being roped into a particular position soon produced all kinds of aches on top of the wounds they already sported. With not much else to do, they had set about extending their web between the dragon’s spines so that they could, to a degree, move around. They could stand, though there was little need to do so beyond the exultation it brought, and they’d even managed to sleep a little. Olakanzar seemed to fly more slowly at night, gliding serenely, and it crossed Bel’s mind that maybe he too could sleep on the wing.

On the second day they passed over Kahlay, and Bel craned his neck to inspect. Around the city the land seemed trampled, speckled with abandoned campsites. Further south they spied the army on the march, an impressive force even from such a distance, or maybe because of it. Thousands upon thousands flattened the grass, and Saurians could be seen riding on dune claws, while great swarms of Zyvanix buzzed about. Gerent Brahl would be amongst them, but Fahren was not yet there, as Bel had learned from the sundart. Why did the Throne linger in the Halls?

‘Let us fly low!’ urged Bel. ‘The assembled people of Kainordas should see the might of Olakanzar!’

The dragon roared in answer and dived, a stomach-churning plunge. A hundred paces from the ground, his wings snapped wide and they swooped over the army. A tremendous cry went up at their passing, fearful until Bel stood tall on the dragon’s back, raising his sword, his blue hair frenzied about his head. Then the timbre of the cry changed to amazement. Such a sight would do wonders for morale, Bel hoped.