“It is prophesied that on a day that the thirteen moons align, magical energy will be released into this world by the gods like nothing seen before. That this power will bring about it the end of these worlds. Mark my words, I believe that the day of the Zagruist will come, it is only a matter of when.”
Unknown, Journal entry, 05KR
I scratch my quill frantically against the parchment with trembling hands as I write. I cannot allow Eltera to fall, and I fear that we do not have enough to stop the impending assault from the Barbaraqs. My words are written in haste but with a clear message to Codrin back in Askela: send reinforcements at once.
I place the letter into an envelope, then press a wax seal using Jareb’s ring. The hot wax stings against my skin, but I find the burning sensation soothing, and I hold my hand to the wax longer than needed.
“You sent for me.” Dante’s words startle me from my stupor.
“I need you to ride to Askela and deliver this message to Codrin,” I tell him, passing him the letter. “I must ask that you set off at haste and do not delay.”
Dante’s blue eyes search over me, the creases on his weary face intensifying. “Lady Morgana, I must protest. If the Barbaraqs are to assault Eltera as we suspect, I will be needed here. Would you not be best sending a messenger boy or one of your maids to send for help?” Dante is as bloodied and exhausted as myself. We have been awake for far longer than our bodies should naturally allow, and his face is still sprayed with the blood of his fallen comrades. The ones who followed me to death. Purple bags have formed under his drooping eyes, and judging by his swaying, I imagine it is only adrenaline that keeps him from collapsing before me.
I place my palms over one of his hands, his skin rough and warm to the touch. He lets his hands rest between mine tentatively, as though he does not trust me. I do not blame him; I have given him little reason to, especially after leading his comrades to their early graves.
“You followed me without hesitation or question, Dante. That kind of loyalty is rare in this world. This message is important. We need help if we are to save this city. I need someone who can defend themselves across the plains, I need someone who can ride quickly. If we can keep the Barbaraqs at bay for long enough, Codrin might just be able to get to us in time.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Dante’s hand trembles between my own, and I can feel his pulsating blood like a rhythmic song. Our eyes meet and I channel some of my energy to replenish his own. His ailment is fatigue, and as such, it takes little of my power to rejuvenate him. A heat generates between my hands, and I watch as the gauntness in his face subsides, the bags under his eyes fading as if he had the best night’s sleep of his life.
“Then he will avenge this fallen kingdom. There. You should feel fine to ride now.” I let go of his hand.
Dante brings his hand up and stares at it in disbelief, “Th – thank you. I will ride straight away.”
“Do not stop. Get that message to Codrin as fast as you can.”
“What will you do in the meantime?” Dante asks as the two of us quickly make our way towards the courtyard where his horse stands in wait. To my alarm, I see no urgency from the guards. They go about their tasks as if today is just a normal day in Eltera.
“What is this!” I demand. Has Wistler not conveyed my message? Why is it that he has taken no action to prepare the guards for the Barbaraqs?
Dante mounts his steed before casting me one last glance. I slap the horse on the rear and Dante sets off at pace, almost taking out a burly man who carries a large bowl full of grain.
I search the courtyard, but Wistler is nowhere to be seen. I grab the arm of a passing guard and spin him to speak to me. “Where is Wistler?”
“I – I don’t know.” The guard cowers as if he fears I will end his life.
“Have you been briefed?” I ask, my voice elevating as my frustration rises. The man casts a confused expression over me as if the words I mumble are that of a madwoman. “Tell me, have you been briefed on the impending attack by the Barbaraqs?”
The guard merely returns a blank expression. What games is it that Wistler plays? No doubt he is hiding under a rock somewhere, quaking with fear. The man has no spine, and every inch of him shows cowardice I have never seen before.
“Prepare to defend Eltera,” I say, raising my voice for all to hear. “The Barbaraqs are on their way. Every man, woman, and child in the city that is able to must take up arms.”
The guard continues to stare at me as if frozen under some sort of spell.
“Now!” I order. The man moves and begins shouting orders at the rest of the guards, who, although confused by my commands, do not hesitate to move into action.
“’Scuse me.”
I feel a tug at the back of my dress and turn to face a little girl. She wears the stained uniform of the scullery maids, rubbing her fingers against the fabric nervously.
“What is it?” I do not have time for idle chat.
The girl averts her gaze, intimidated my tone. “It . . . it’s Lord Wistler, miss,” she stammers. “I know where it is he went.”
The girl has my attention. I want to know where the pig is so I can skin him myself. “Go on.” I smile and the girl loosens her grip on her tunic.
“He headed into the markets. I heard him say that’s where he was going.”
“That is all.” I dismiss the girl and make for the gates into Eltera. If I need to drag him back here to fight alongside the others, I will. If he won’t, I will see to it that everyone witnesses his execution.
As I reach the streets of Eltera, I am passed by a swathe of men and woman making their way towards the castle gates. This reassures me that my message to Orjan and Sparrow has been received. Something does not seem right, however. The more I look, the less I see of the Wyverns. Where they would normally be loitering on every street corner, harassing people in the streets, there is nothing. More people knock into me as they make their way past, and I hear murmurings and whispers of my warning being heeded by the common folk.
At least they have heeded my warning, which is more than I can say for Wistler. There is no sign of him as I patrol the streets, and I do not have long to find him before I will need to return to the castle walls to ensure that the guards are setting up the correct defensive formations. When I attacked the Barbaraq camp, I saw no signs of siege equipment, so how is it they intend to storm the walls?
Roaring cheers and shouting at the western side of the markets snaps me back to attention. I follow the sounds until I am led to the entranceway of what looks like an old library. This must be where the pits are that Orjan told me about. Judging by the blood, vomit, and tankards scattered on the ground around me, this is no longer used for its former purpose. The smell of stale ale wafts into my face and hits me like a wet cloth, the musty smell unforgiving. The rapturous noise continues inside with men and woman chanting and cheering as if they are singing bards.
“Breyton, Breyton, Breyton!”
My heart races. The bastard is here. The man responsible for my being here is just beyond these doors.
There are far too many Wyverns here for me to dispatch on my own. All I need is to get close enough to Breyton. Close enough to snuff out his life just like I did the Barbaraq chieftain. I pull my hood up and step inside, sliding into the shadows beside the doorway. Maybe I can get a clear shot of Breyton and hit him with a blast of energy from where I stand.
Standing at the far side of the library overlooking a large hole in the ground, a hooded figure raises his hands to draw silence from his people. So this is the man responsible for the downfall of Eltera.
As silence falls over the room, I hear the sobs of a child, but I am not sure where the sound comes from.
“Preya! Preya, come back, wake up, please wake up.”
Breyton stands at the head of the pit, casting his eyes down upon whoever is unlucky enough to be in there. His wears a dark purple tunic with gilded edges, which gives the mark of someone who enjoys the finer luxuries in life, unlike the rest of the people he presides over.
“Let it be seen that this is what happens to those that cross the Wyverns.”
My eyes widen as Breyton speaks, for I recognise his voice in an instant. He begins to lower his hood, freeing his face from the shadows.
“Wistler.” I hiss his name, drawing the brief attention of several bystanders. For now, everyone’s eyes remain fixed on their leader. If I wanted to gut the man like a pig before, now I want to drag him through the streets of Eltera by his entrails. My heart beats faster as my anger rises. The coward was behind this the whole time. And I had no idea.
“Let me take in the beast before you, let me see the one you call Dragon.” Wistler moves to the top step of the pit and looks down. His face lights up as he takes in whatever spectacle lies in there. The crowd cheers.
“This beast thought he could double-cross us, thought he could help the people of this wretched kingdom rise up,” Wistler sneers, his face venomous with rage. “Look at him now, look at where his futile attempt at regaining some semblance of honour has gotten him. Facedown and in the dirt, his armoured shell torn from his back.”
In this moment I know that my plan has failed, and my panic flares. Orjan is dead at the hands of the Wyverns. Is this what will trigger Laith to kill me when he hears of it? What if Laith were to discover that it was I who sent Orjan here to infiltrate the Wyverns, and as such, cost him his life? The hatred that Laith has in his eyes as he kicks me over the edge to my death is one that only grief can bring.
By trying to evade my fate, I may have merely brought it to my doorstep.
I feel a twinge of regret for Orjan’s demise. I had high hopes that he would ring true to his task and bring an end to Breyton’s reign of terror, but like so many others before him, he has let me down.
I edge closer through the crowd until I can make out the scene below: a boy, crying over a slaughtered woman. And Orjan.
Alive. But barely.
In this moment, I realise I must do everything I can to save him. He is the key, after all. If I can keep him alive, I might still be able to deter my fate. But there are too many Wyverns here, and my magic stores are still depleted after fighting the Barbaraq chieftain. I have to get Breyton alone. Or come back after I’ve chosen a victim to replenish myself.
“As planned, the Barbaraqs are on their way,” Wistler continues as I turn to leave. “My offer of allegiance has been accepted by their chieftain. We will march to the gates and let them in.”
I stop dead in my tracks as icy shock consumes me.
Wistler paces back and forth at the top of the pit. “They know not to target Wyverns, so make sure your properties and armour are painted with our colours. Everything else is theirs to pillage as they see fit. Treasures, women, children.”
Why? Why would Wistler commit such an atrocity? Why would he allow the savages in? They will slaughter everyone they set upon.
“The Barbaraqs’ numbers swell. They are a growing force to be reckoned with. With them by our side, I have no doubt that we will be powerful enough to storm Askela, to take back rule over Levanthria. King Athos Almerion has been absent for years! It is about time we took back control of our lands.”
“What of the sorceress?” a voice calls out from the crowd.
“Yeah, she won’t allow this to happen. She acts on the king’s behalf.”
Wistler has a confident swagger about him which I am not used to seeing. “Leave Morgana to me. She will not survive this night. True, her arrival and insistence on staying has not been ideal, and she has been a thorn in my side. Despite the magic, she will not be able to overcome our combined numbers.”
I can’t help but smile at his insolence. His words simply add fuel to my burning anger. How little the man knows me. I have never run from a fight. I head into every battle knowing full well that the gods favour me. This is not the night that I will greet the afterlife.
A spark of magic ignites in my hand, the static sensation causing the hairs on my arms to stand on end. I let my energy surge up my arm and around my body, feeling exhilarated.
“Breyton!” An older man in fine dark robes limps to Breyton’s side, his frailties telling me that like Breyton, he is used to having others do his bidding. “Our scouts send word that the Barbaraqs are approaching the gates.”
“Paint the sign of the Wyverns on your walls and your armour! Head to the gates and ready yourselves. Tonight, the Wyverns rise up. Tonight, the Wyverns take over the whole of Eltera. Then Levanthria!” Wistler pumps his fist into the air and the Wyverns set about to some barrels at the side of the rooms. They splash their hands inside and begin smearing red paint over their chests as directed.
“Wistler!” I bellow. Moving out of the shadows, I plant my palm into the face of a scrawny Wyvern beside me and bed my fingers into his skin. Within a moment I am channelling his life force to replenish my own. I have no desire for discretion anymore as my anger at Wistler’s treachery consumes me. The magic courses through my hand and down to my free arm and I stare straight into Wistler’s unforgiving eyes. It is as though he does not fear me, as if a different person stands before me, someone far braver. The pressure in my hand grows until I release a bolt of magic at him.
He grabs hold of the older man and yanks him in front of himself. My magic hits the man in the chest, and he collapses aggressively to the floor, his life snuffed out in an instant.
“To the gates!” Wistler commands. He makes smug eye contact with me from across the room, then disappears into the crowd. Many of the Wyverns follow him, but a few are stupid enough to remain behind. Clenching my fists, I begin to summon the dark magic that I can wield, drawing all the shadows in the room to my palms. A dark energy emits from my body, causing the dust on the ground to rise up and whip around me as if I am the centre of a storm.
The crowd screams as the Wyverns push and shove each other in the small space, scrambling to retreat. I fire out a blast of energy that obliterates the room in an instant, sending bodies hurtling across the room. Books come crashing down from the walls, torn pages whipping into the air as though a tornado has breached the walls. As I walk towards the pit, groans of the Wyverns that remain conscious capture my attention, and one of them tries in vain to crawl to safety. I stretch out my arm and drain him of his life force, then point towards the others in the room and do the same to them, replenishing the magic I have just used. Faces become taut and aged, withering away until nothing but bones and dust remain. The burning sensation crippling my body subsides, replaced by a warmth that soothes me. I rush down the steps and into the pit where the young boy kneels in terror, cradling the head of a dead woman. He cowers in terror as I near him. Then my attention is drawn to Orjan who lies motionless, surrounded by pool of his crimson blood with his face buried in the dirt. His hardened shell has been torn from his back, and his skin hangs loosely from its edges.
I might be too late.
I kneel, placing my hands upon him as I summon my magic. Energy begins coursing through him from my fingertips, my hands pulsating to a euphoric, heartbeat-like rhythm.
Orjan’s heart stops. My intervention has come too late, his soul is now in the afterlife and my fate is sealed.
“No,” I whisper. “No!” I channel my magic harder, even as the euphoria morphs into pain. He cannot die on this night. His death will all but confirm the vision I have seen. And on top of that, I have an alternative reason that surprises even myself: I don’t want Orjan to die.
Orjan convulses as his body pushes back against my magic. What I am doing is not natural. Bringing someone back from the brink of death is like wading into the afterlife and telling the gods to go fuck themselves. Agonising pain sears my arms, and my veins begin to protrude from my skin as if they are ready to burst. A stabbing sensation rips through my back and I know my magic is working as I begin to absorb some of Orjan’s injuries into my own body. I can’t take it all, however; to do so would end my life too.
I absorb what I can, and Orjan’s wounded back begins to heal and scar before my eyes. The hidden force between us becomes unmanageable, and my arms are forced back away from him. I shriek in pain as my wrist snaps back. The connection to my magic breaks and I collapse on the floor beside him, writhing in pain from using the darkest of forbidden magic. It has been years since I let my magic course through my own body, always relying on the life force of others.
The young boy’s eyes are wide with fear at the spectacle as I reach my hand towards him, in need of replenishing. It is as though hot knives take it in turns to stab through every inch of my skin as my magic use takes its toll. My veins burn but my body shivers. I know he is only a boy, but I need to stop this pain before it destroys me.
The boy sits frozen in terror as I place my hands on the sides of his face.