“Malliath,” Alijah called out, falling to his hands and knees. Pain shot through his chest and shoulder, spreading around the arrow wound.
“I saw the truth with my own eyes,” Inara had said. “I saw your wounds, wounds inflicted upon Malliath by Athis and Ilargo.”
Her claims splintered his memories, taking the king back to their fight on the way down the pit. His mind clawed at his recollections, desperate for the truth. It was right there, right in front of him; he knew it. But every time he pieced the images together they misaligned, robbing him of clarity.
“Malliath!” he yelled this time.
He could feel the dragon trying to get through to him, his vast mind navigating the mess Inara had made. Alijah managed to rise to his feet and turn to face the oldest of thrones. He focused on it, using its details as a harbour in the storm. It was a slab of black stone, with flat angular features and a high back that had severely cracked at some point over the millennia. It wasn’t beautiful and it wasn’t meant to be. It was there to display Atilan’s strength.
With little thought, he was rubbing the indentation where his shoulder met his chest. There was an itch beneath his scaled armour that irritated him. Memory struck him, though it was not his. He saw, and even felt, the jaws of Ilargo grip around Malliath’s neck and shoulder, piercing the muscle beneath. The memory brought pain, staggering the king.
“What’s happening…” His words trailed off, along with his attention. Alijah tried to sharpen his focus but an inferno swept through his mind, all to the sound of beating wings.
Follow my voice.
Alijah hesitated, though he couldn’t say why. Malliath’s voice had always possessed a soothing allure that comforted him in his darkest hour. His thoughts stopped there when a searing hot jolt plunged through his mind. The king was cast back through his own memories, taking him to moments over the last fifteen years he didn’t recognise. He saw himself experiencing the same confusion and agony in the halls of his palace in Valgala and then again in The Red Fields of Dunmar.
This wasn’t the first time his mind had split open.
Gathering what strength he could, Alijah balled his fists and roared, “MALLIATH!”
The doors at the far end of the hall blew open, turning Alijah on the spot. Cold mountain winds filled the chamber and snow spilled across the floor. The stone beneath his feet shuddered when the largest dragon in the realm landed in front of The Bastion’s main entrance. Alijah felt Malliath’s purple eyes upon him, as if they were only feet apart.
It was within that gaze that Alijah lost himself. His past melted away, consigned to the darkest depths of his mind where he could never hope to grasp it.
He closed his eyes and then snapped them open. The doors to the hall were closed, though he could not recall the last time they had opened. He was still sitting on the ancient throne with no memory of having left it. There was an itch in his mind that questioned it all, sure that he had forgotten something crucial. The king shook his head and decided it was the disorientation that accompanied the inhabitation of a Reaver.
His thoughts quickly turned to his sister. Inara had levelled her usual threats but it had been satisfying to witness her fear after revealing his knowledge of their plan. It would be even more satisfying when he finally saw the light fade from her eyes and that of his parents’. Then he would be rid of his mortal trappings, free to exist solely as the king of Verda and nothing else.
There was, however, a small fear of his own. Its voice grew louder in his mind, bringing him to his feet. Could they do it? he asked Malliath, sensing the dragon’s presence somewhere above him. Could the Drakes be just as instrumental in the undoing of our work as they were in the making?
There came no response.
Frustrated, Alijah stormed across the hall, his face angled to the ceiling. Malliath? he demanded.
I am thinking, came the dragon’s reply, his tone one of impatience.
I don’t see how they could, Alijah continued, pacing now. Their magic will be fading like all other creatures. Hells, even the doorway will be closing soon. The king stopped to cast a quizzical eye over the snow dispersed across his floor. He could see with a glance that the doors were closed, a Reaver posted either side. As he tried to recall the last time they had been open, Malliath spoke into his mind, turning his sight back to the ceiling.
All things are possible, the dragon said.
Yes, Alijah agreed. But some things are certain. The Crow has seen our future. He warned us that we would be challenged, and by those who claim to love us. If there was a chance our great work could be undone, he would have orchestrated events to prevent it. The Rebellion plans to use the Drakes no less, a race brought into being by the guiding hand of The Crow. The king shook his head, his own reasoning filling him with confidence. No, he muttered. They have no hope.
Malliath’s presence settled around Alijah’s mind, adding weight to his words. All things are possible. We would be foolish to underestimate our enemy now, when we are so close to victory.
Alijah ran his hand over his jaw and nodded in agreement. You’re right, he said absently. This could be one last challenge we need to meet. But our forces have just arrived in the valley, he added, sensing the thousands of Reavers entering The Vrost Mountains.
Time is against our foe, Malliath counselled. Empty the towns and cities of Reavers and have them make for the doorway. They have but to create chaos, preventing any Drakes from entering the realm of magic, until the door closes.
Alijah was already relaying such commands to every knight in the surrounding areas. He
