The Call of Athakses

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley,” King Feolthanos grumbled. It brought the bickering lords gathered in Albinaur to a pause–an ever burning reminder of their new reality. The petitioning ambassador of Laothnir was stunned into silence. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, Lord Aglerne,” the king continued, his eyes locked upon the ambassador. “Maybe you were sitting on your horse half-drunk when the dragons descended on us. Well, I was there, among my men. I seem to recall those black-winged beasts torching the knights of Emerindas as well as of Laothnir. Perhaps our little war was not of interest to them. Perhaps it did not sufficiently entertain them. I would have loved to have asked them, but I was a bit distracted by the screams and the smell of meat. Perhaps you missed both in your pavilion. It is no matter.” The king raised his voice. “My retreat from the Eglian Valley was not a Laothniran victory, nor was this parley a surrender. How petty our disputes seem to me now. It is simple! We are human, they are dragons! We can go back to butchering each other over lands and titles once the matter is settled. Or perhaps we shall all die together upon a burning field, brothers in ashes. There’s your reunited Londor. No go. Out of my sight. Tell your king to send you back to me once he’s decided to be a little more reasonable.”

Lord Aglerne’s lip trembled. “Your Majesty–”

“I have spoken on the matter,” King Feolthanos said forcefully. “And you have been dismissed.”

The king grinded his teeth as the plump southern lord trotted from the hall, so loudly that Sir Voltier could hear the bones chafing. The gathered lords remained quiet, their eyes frantic as they looked to each other in unease. They looked so much like children beneath their proud banners. Some of the soldiers who had been in the field were present as well, still covered in mud and soot. They sat slumped upon their benches, staring catonically at their cooling supper. Occasionally, a wary glance would snap towards the king, seated at the head of the dais, still in his armor, the golden sunset sigil etched upon his surcoat, singed as it was around the contours. Sir Voltier never thought the king looked so old.

“Are there any more petitioners?” King Feolthanos said to his steward after a moment.

“None, sire.”

“Good.” The king rose, mouth agape, searching for words. At last, he settled on, “My lords! My loyal knights! My good soldiers! Be thankful! The complexities of the world will trouble you no longer! There is us, and there are the beasts. I am no longer simply your king, I am much more. I am a man. Every man is a target for the Fell Beasts of Milnúniar, and therefore every man is an ally, regardless of his realm or master. Any who do not see this simple truth are fools, and they will die as fools.”

“...Will we die?” asked Sir Edvar of Ifismir, his voice weak. His armor was still stained with the ash of his brother, immolated by the dragon horde.

King Feolthanos eyed the knight and clenched his teeth. “We shall be the men who vanquished the dragons from Greater Londor. Or we shall be the men who died upon their feet, doing something.”

~*----*~

“King Aniardel the Fortunate!” Feolthanos muttered the moniker as though it were a curse. Sir Voltier followed his king through the muddy camp at Aldinaur, braziers lighting the night sky. Men were furiously packing their tents. They had been ordered to spread out, lest an errant dragon attack engulf the rest of the Emerindasian army in flame. Most, the somber knight predicted, would merely flee home.

“If fortune cared anything for humanity, that impish little dullard would’ve been reduced to a pile of ash upon the valley!” The king halted then, as if struck by something. He turned to Voltier, head downturned. “Forgive me. Your father…”

“There is nothing to forgive, sire.” The image had been forever etched upon his mind. Lord Engelimir Errol had been taken by flame upon the Field of Fire right before Voltier’s eyes. It still didn’t feel real.

“Still, my condolences,” the king said softly. “He was a noble man.” Feolthanos pursed his lips, and with a little nod, stood up straighter, as if an actor putting on a new mask. He resumed his quick pace. “But the time for grief is not now. We must act. And act fast.”

Feolthanos led the knight into his private tent and dismissed his guards. When the two were alone, he turned to Voltier, never looking so human. “I need you to tell me, and tell me true. What hope have I to bring King Aniardel to the table?”

“I think the king of Laothnir would rather die than swallow his pride,” the grieving knight said softly. “But would his lords die for their king’s pride?”

“Right,” King Feolthanos said. “Go for the lords.”

“We could send a delegation to Selúith Turus–”

“The moon-sorceresses!?” The king scoffed. “Are they going to impress the dragons with their parlor tricks? No, what we need are soldiers.”

“The sorceresses might have combat prowess.”

“If they had, I would know about it.”

“Tell me,” Voltier said daringly. “If you were a preceptor of Selúvith Turus, would you tell King Feolthanos about your combat prowess?”

The king chewed on that a moment. “No; if I had known of any such thing, I’d have pressed them into service.”

“Exactly.”

“Very well. I shall send the Lady Partholon to treat with them. Those clucking hens have always been fond of her.” The king gritted his teeth. “I suppose I ought to send delegations to Drigfidyr as well.”

“You should, sire.”

“My father drove them from these lands, into the mountains. They hold grudges.”

“Well, they can hold a grudge, or they can be alive.”

“Right. Nice and simple when you put it that way.” The king eyed Sir Voltier in contemplation a moment. “To you, Lord Errol, I leave the most difficult errand. I need you to ride to Kezadnirul.”

Sir Voltier’s mouth dropped agape. “Sire! That’s… it’ll take weeks!”

“Months,” Feolthanos said solemnly. “I’m sending the claw of one of the drakes we slew with you. You are not to return unless accompanied by a northern army.”

Sir Voltier collected himself from his shock. “I… Sire… I fear there will be no Emerindas should I return.”

King Feolthanos’s eyes glazed with boiling rage. He grabbed Voltier by the cloth of his surcoat and pulled him in close. “There may not be any kingdoms left at the end of this! Look at me and tell me that men will stay true to king and country with dragonfire at their back! They will flee! They will abandon their homes and throw down their arms and hide wherever they can! Unless there are people like us who are doing something.” The king remembered himself, and released the knight from his clutches. “This is my command to you,” he said after a moment. “You are to take four knights at your side and ride for Kezadnirul, not to return unless at the head of an army.” The king smiled grimly. “That may be my final command to you. When you return, I might be dead. Or I might not be king.”

~*----*~

The next morning, when the sun was just gathering its courage to peer over the eastern mountains, Sir Voltier set off with his party. He did make a ceremony of his departure, nor did he spare a final glance at Aldinaur. With him rode four knights, exactly as many as his king had commanded, though in their simple leathers, gambisons and vambraces. Sir Balgrus, large and bald, was the only one who insisted he wear mail. “I’m a bigger target,” he said, trying his best to be jolly. “More folk’ll be swinging at me.”

“Hopefully, those folk will fully appreciate the situation we’re in,” said Sir Edemieve, the Eye of Ceroculon embroidered fabulously upon her leather jerkin. She tapped the fletched arrows in her quiver. “I’ll try to stick the unreasonable ones before they make you sweat too much.”

“Oh, let him sweat a little bit,” japed Sir Avanthiril of the Solaergondas, putting a mocking hand on Balgrus’s shoulder. There was always a sly smile on her lips. “This one’s like an old dog. Needs his exercise.”

“You quit it with that!” the big man warned.

Sir Voltier appreciated their attempts to keep the mood light–all but Sir Edvar, the most affected by what he saw upon the Field of Fire. The knight-captain figured his tales would be the most convincing, and the journey would help keep his taxed mind occupied. He did not share the easy camaraderie of his companions. “How long will this errand take?” he asked his captain.

“No more than two months, if the Light of Eró is with us.” Sir Voltier gave the man a placating smile. It did not ease the tension. “In any event, the world is now changed. I do not foresee too much trouble on the road.”

Sir Edvar flashed his own performative smile. “I admire your faith, captain.”

The battered knights rode north with purpose, deep into the high green country of the Ciritheris. The clouds had parted, a gentle sun beamed down upon short grasses and errand stones, and a sleepy mist shrouded the high peaks of the Ered Litheraphalas, standing stoically along the northern horizon. The calm breeze carried the spring mating calls of sea birds, and salty waves carved at the base of the nearby cliffs. The company moved along the highland paths, trying their best to keep their glances from drifting towards the lowland vale below, where the work of the fell beasts of Milnúniar still smoldered. Sir Voltier rode at the head of the formation, so all his loyal soldiers saw him turn his head and stare silently down into the lands below. Mildewed banners torn and burnt, the sight of splintered wood and ash among the dead grass, the scarring of dragonfire upon the stones–the sight of charred corpses, metal and flesh fused together–the smell of burnt meat–the memories of heat and screaming. A cloud blocked the golden rays of the sun.

The Ciritheris was long a battlefield–a thin straight which connected the broader landmasses of the Tar Trúmentris with the Laothnirian lands of the Tyr Celiclatha. The travels trode upon intricately paved Londorian roads, sturdy and surviving the six centuries since the Collapse. They passed long ruined keeps and stone churches, overgrown remains of the once prosperous empire–now splintered, its majesty dissolved among petty lords, petty kingdoms, all fighting for local power. Sir Voltier’s father often spoke excitedly about their precursor’s might and strength. “The union of men and gods, it was–the height of beauty, of architecture, of scholarship and understanding!” Sometimes his hands shook as he talked about it–this land of myth and dreams. More real to him than his home, his kingdom, his son. “One day its glory will be restored again! And the banners of House Errol will flutter in the palaces of a Golden Age!”

Lofty dreams. But his father had only the power of his faith and the strength of his sword arm to impose his will upon time. Both had proven the extent of their mettle upon the Fields of Fire, smoldering among the bones. And still the lords bicker. King Feolthanos had the right of it–the old world was dead. Burnt away in a flash of light, reduced to dust in an afternoon. The old rivalries didn’t matter. And yet the lords of men still vied and schemed for power, gold and martial victories.

The company learned as much when they came upon the great Gates of Cynthelom–the border of Emerindas and Laothnir. Tall and strong, their northern rivals had long walled off the paths into their land; an impressive structure stretching 40 leagues from sea to mountains. Their presence was met with beckoning horns and shouted commands, and their welcome was the sight of crossbowmen upon the walls.

“I am Haeandas Aglerne, son of Lord Cyfgolor, commander of this garrison!” came a pompous, well rehearsed cry. “Who trespasses upon these lands?”

“I am Sir Voltier,” the knight-captain answered back, irritation plain upon his voice. “Knight and Lord of the House of Errol, sworn-sword to King Feolthanos. We come to rally those with sense and purpose against the impending threat of the dragons.”

The words sent panicked murmurs among the men-at-arms, but only tittering laughter erupted from the little lordling. “Does your noble king take to defeat so poorly as to pander to age-old superstitions? Dragons! Like in the childrens’ stories? Ride back to your king, Lord No-one from Nowhere, and tell him to put a little more thought into his attempted subterfuges!”

Sir Balgrus’s bald head beamed red. His hand went for his sword hilt. “Stay your tongue or defend those words with steel!!”

Sir Voltier held out a diplomatic hand, drawing upon his dwindling reserves of patience. “Your lord father was our guest in Aldinaur just last night, and a witness to the tragedy of the Field of Fire. Please, I beseech you: do not let the grudges of the old world be the epitaph for humanity. Dragons have returned to the world from ever-expanding Maw of Carabdis, and they will burn the holdfasts of the houses of Emerindas and Laothnir without discrimination. Our trifles do not interest them. Only united do we have hope of conquering this new threat!”

Commander Haeandas gave a mocking applause. “Oh, a most inspiring speech! Your words are as weak as your armies, Lord Fool! I will not–ah!”

Sir Voltier winced as Balgrus and Sir Avanthiril started to snicker. The commander’s own troops turned against him, subduing the little lordling and opening the gates. A grizzled soldier met the party on the other side, introducing himself as Ciltas. “Apologies for the theatrics, m’lord,” the frowning man said. He shook his head. “I was at the Field of Fire. I saw them dragons with my own eyes. If what you say is true, then your king has the right of it.”

“I thank you,” Sir Voltier said with a polite bow of the head.

Ciltas shook his. “Don’t need thanks.” He pointed towards a northeastern path, leading towards the tall mountains. “I’ll send you up to Castle Virithcolas, the lord Aglerne’s seat, along with a detachment. Take the fat lordling with you. Hopefully his father can knock some sense in him.”

~*----*~

The company rode single file through rocky, forested paths, writhing in the wilderness like a snake. Four Aglernan soldiers rode before them–with the bound and gagged Haeandas riding with Balgrus, who took great joy in routinely mocking the lordling. Sir Voltier found the experience incredibly surreal. Two days ago, these men were all enemies, hacking and pounding away at each other beneath the banners of lion and griffin. Now, the knights of Emerindas were being escorted through Laothnirian lands as ambassadors, finding what comfort they could in their companionship as their anxious eyes watched the skies. The good knight’s heart pounded in his chest, like a hammer upon his leathers. A sudden strike from above, and our mission is over before it even begins. One blast of dragonfire and these forests erupt into a sea of flames. He could see it, as surely as the visions of the Fields of Fire had scarred his mind. The panicked cries of the horses. The shrieks and shouts of the men, language failing them, returning to primitive fears. The chaos. The fragility of oaths, kingdoms, knights and soldiers–humanity stripped of its comforting labels and standing naked before the swirling, unforgiving truth of the world.

When it happened again, it seemed like a vision. It was only when he turned and beheld a genuine look of fear on sly Sir Avanthiril’s face that saw.

And smelled.

Smoldering trees and flesh.

The pained mewling of deer.

A stag drug what was left of itself through the stained-red brush.

Black wings on the wind.

Balgrus’s horse reared, throwing the big knight and his gagged captive to the ground. Though the large man pulled himself up without a scratch, poor Haeandas Aglerne split the back of his head asunder upon a boulder. His leg caught in the stirrups, the fleeing horse dragged his twitching body off into the deep wood, leaving behind a distinct trail of wetness.

The rest of the horses went up in a cacophonous frenzy, recoiling from the smell of fire and the sight of blood. The remaining party struggled to dismount, stumbling and tripping over leather lines and foot movements. One of Ciltas’s men dropped a sword from a trembling hand, his eyes upon the sky. With a shriek, he too fled.

Edemieve had nocked an arrow. “How many? I don’t see anything?”

“Smoke to the northwest!” a woman called.

The remaining horses all fled noisily.

Sir Voltier’s sword was in his hand. He didn’t even remember drawing it. His mouth went dry as he glimpsed the frantic shadow of one of the fell beasts.

A screeching roar echoed amid the trees. Then another.

Two more of Aglerne’s men fled to unknown fates.

The final remaining eyed Sir Voltier, whiteknuckling the spear in her hand.

Sir Avanthiril echoed the sentiment. “What do we do, captain?”

The good knight struggled to find his voice. “Spread out!” he finally declared. “Ten feet apart, at least! We make for the keep! Engage only if needed!”

The company set out in a sprint. Smoke stung at their eyes, and the embers of ash and dust assailed their lungs. Their movements were desperate, their footing scrambled and loose. Sir Voltier was not the first to trip over an errant root, though the others scant seemed to notice. Screeching and the fluttering of black wings could be heard overhead. The slow trembled beneath the dancing shadow, swooping over the frightened group. Then, in the midst of a glade, they came upon the charred remains of a deer, smoldering amongst dying flames. The grass and trees around the emaciatedcarcass were little more than charcoal and jagged glass, and the heat emanate from the scene was hotter than any furnace. “Away!” Sir Voltier exclaimed, covering his nose from the smell. “Do not go near it!”

“Ahead!” cried Sir Edvar.

A looming black chitinous figure was descending upon them, batlike wings fluttering, razor talons outstretched. The crystalline beast came swooping through the trees, aiming to again claim its kill. It hardly seemed to notice the humans, and instead pecked at the burnt bones like a starved hound, its avian squeaks and bellowing almost pitible in their raspiness.

For a time, the party stood in shock, watching the grotesque beast eat. It was a lesser drake, only the size of a horse, black obsidian sprouting amid the scales on its back. Its jaw was more a beak pecking at the ash, and vestigial fingers twitched upon its veined wings, outspread and twitching.

Collecting himself, Sir Voltier had half a mind to abandon the creature, consumed as it was in its paltry feast, but Edemieve next loosed her arrow, driving the bolt into the beast’s side, piercing scale and flesh. The creature recoiled in pain, squawking and thrashing, trying to take to the skies and flee.

Seizing the opportunity, the knight-captain charged into the fray, sword upraised, aiming to drive the brunt of his weapon through the beast’s eye. But it then tilted its head to look at him–and its eerie, humanlike eyes froze the knight in his tracks. A dazzling display of shifting colors! They were begging. The drake squawked a few more times, then, another one of Edemieve’s arrows whizzing past its head. It took sporadically to the skies, wings beating wildly. Another arrow took it in the back as it made its escape, and its pained calls faded into the arid, smoking sky.

Sir Voltier stood in place with his sword raised, dazed from the experience, shaking and sweating. He felt as if he had stared into the stultifying depth of the Umbarlith Íol, heard the shrieks of the imprisoned souls damned to torment and confinement by the Word of Andorithol, stood naked before a great, malicious eye, staring wordlessly into the very depths of his being.

Balgrus had to give him a firm shake to snap him out of it. “Captain!” the man was screaming. When they finally made eye contact, Sir Voltier watched the big man push all his fear into the depths of his belly and bury it with righteous fury. “Let’s get out of here before whatever that thing was calling for shows up.”