It rallied what strength remained in his men and they fought on with increased determination. Sure now that they would overcome, Vighon threw himself back into the battle and tore through his enemies with righteous anger. They had tried to tear down his kingdom and plunge the world into darkness and death. They would be made to pay, just as their master would.
It felt like an exhausting lifetime before the last of the Reavers was returned to the true death, their black husks cast into the mud with the rest. Vighon desperately wanted to sit down, if not lie down, and consume his bodyweight in water. His every muscle ached and he was steadily becoming aware of fresh wounds up and down his body. But then he saw her. Inara. Backed by familiar faces and a large group of elves, dwarves, and Centaurs, the Guardian of the Realm was walking towards him. Just the sight of her kept him on his feet, his head held high.
Like those behind her, Inara wore a forlorn expression. Had the flames not returned to his sword, the king would have assumed the Drakes had failed and that magic was lost to them forever. Instead, it was their sacrifice that weighed on them all and rightly so.
Fighting his battle fatigue, Vighon sheathed the sword of the north and moved to meet his love. They drew together in a tight embrace, oblivious to each other’s odour and filthy appearance.
“They did it,” she uttered, her own fatigue coming through in her voice. “Adan, his kin, all of them. They gave themselves to the tree. They’re gone.”
“They will be remembered as heroes,” Vighon promised.
Inara’s eyes looked past the king. “Where are Gideon and Ilargo?”
“Look!” someone shouted in the distance, shattering their moment. “They’re coming from the south!”
Vighon swore under his breath and moved with Inara to get a better look. Beyond the battleground, a dark stain was riding over the snowy plains, heading towards them. “They must have come from Tregaran,” the northman reckoned, thankful that their longer journey had kept them from the previous battle.
Turning to his men, he knew he needed to call on them, but how could he? Every one of them had given their all to prevent reinforcements from overwhelming those in the pit.
But what choice did he have?
“Men of the flaming sword!” he cried, freeing his fiery blade once more.
The king was proud to see so many rally to him, ready to fight for The Rebellion. Behind him, Asher was drawing his broadsword, the last to do so among the Galfreys and their elven warriors. Kassian spun his wand around between his fingers before stopping to admire the small glare of light that ignited at its tip. Only Inara stood without her trusted Firefly in hand, the Vi’tari blade still resting on her hip. It was the hint of a smile, however, that brought a question to Vighon’s expression.
“Wait for it,” she said, her eyes fixed on the advancing Reavers.
The king’s curiosity took form in his mouth but the words never left his lips. The answer cast a shadow over them all.
He saw now that the sword of the north was nothing compared to a dragon, for Athis the ironheart rallied every man, dwarf, elf, and Centaur: a mighty roar exploding from deep in their chests. They cheered him on as he soared across the sky, cutting through the air like a scaled spear. In no time at all, the red dragon had flown well beyond The Rebellion’s camp and was now angling down towards the Reavers from the south.
Athis scorched the earth.
His first jet of fire cut them down the middle, sending at least a hundred back to the afterlife. Banking to the west, he quickly came back around and unleashed his fiery breath upon the fiends. An inferno consumed the southern horizon as a column of black smoke wafted up to the heavens. After several minutes, his final pass finished those lucky enough to have escaped his previous attacks, ridding The Moonlit Plains of the last Reavers.
The Rebellion gave a resounding cheer, celebrating their victory as a whole. Only those who truly understood why hundreds of Drakes had gone down into that pit and never returned maintained their sombre expressions.
Athis landed on the snow, directly in front of them. Inara didn’t hesitate to meet her companion and share a quiet moment, their heads bowed together. Vighon could only imagine the anguish of their recent separation and was filled with joy to see them together.
“It is done,” Reyna announced, though her words carried no further than those on the council. “Alijah and Malliath have been proven fallible.”
“And with them The Crow,” Nathaniel added smugly.
“The latter remains to be seen,” Inara replied, her eyes scanning the area.
Vighon looked to Reyna and Nathaniel. “We will take the day and night; give our forces the rest they deserve. Tomorrow, at first light, we make for The Black Wood and join Doran.”
“And then?” Kassian queried.
Vighon took in the sight of those around him, all as tired as he was and sick of war. “Then we end it,” he declared.
46
Eternal Companions
The midday sun beat down over Ayda’s southern lands, its intense light pressing upon Gideon Thorn. Even with his eyes closed, the brightness urged him to awaken from the depths of his great slumber. Slowly, his eyes began to flutter as they adjusted to the oppressive light.
“He’s waking,” someone said.
A moment later, his mind caught up with his surroundings and he realised it had been Aenwyn who had spoken. He was also aware of the desert heat now, reminding him where he was. With that thought, he remembered where he had been.
The Darkakin!
Willing his eyes to open, the old master took in his environment, eager to be free of
