Page 336 of Of Empires and Dust

Threads of Earth and Spirit whipped past Rist’s face, and a chorus of screams filled the air as Garramon ripped the rock out from under the rebels’ feet and sent them all into Heraya’s embrace.

For a while, the only sound Rist could hear was the crashing of rocks as they cascaded down. A tense silence followed, broken only by the flames that crackled on nearby trees and bushes.

“Count?” Magnus called out.

A momentary silence was followed by Kalder’s voice. “Six mages still breathing. Dremaine took an arrow to the neck. At least eighty soldiers dead.”

“Fuck.” Magnus tugged at the strap of his helmet. “These bastards are smarter than we gave them credit for.” He drew a long breath, exhaling sharply. “All right. Rist, Neera, eyes open. Anything moves, kill it. After that racket, any element of surprise is well and truly gone. Don’t fuck around. Bring the mountain down over them if you have to. The rest of you, prepare wards. Move out!”

They’d not been walking long when horns bellowed from the plains below, signalling the second phase of the assault.

“Pick up the pace, you sack of arse-licking donkeys,” Magnus roared, raising a hand in the air. “I’ll not have it said that we sucked each other’s toes on the side of this fucking mountain while the rest of those bastards won all the glory.”

“Sucked each other’s toes?” Rist asked, sweat slicking his forehead, his helmet sliding as he tried to keep pace with Magnus.

“Don’t question it, lad. It was the first thing that came to my mind.” He twisted his head around and glared at Garramon, raising a finger. “Don’t say a fucking word.”

Rist fell into a rhythm, each step drumming up his legs, his muscles burning under the weight of his armour. Had he done this a year ago, he’d probably have keeled over long before the sun rose, his stomach emptied in the dirt. But he was stronger now, harder. All those steps Garramon had made him climb had been for a reason after all.

Out of the corner of his eye, Rist spotted something drifting between the clouds. He watched for a few moments, wondering if it had been a trick of the mind, but then he saw it again – like a shadow, barely visible. He stopped.

“What is it, lad?” Magnus called.

Rist tilted his head to the side, following the shape as it twisted in the sea of white above.

“Rist?” Garramon stepped into Rist’s periphery.

“Dragon,” Rist answered.

“What? Where?” The man followed his line of sight. “Are you sure?”

Rist pointed towards a gap in the clouds, judging the creature’s trajectory. A moment later, something flashed across the sliver of blue sky before vanishing again.

“I think you might…” Garramon dropped his sentence short when a dragon covered in blue scales broke through the bottom of the cloud bank and roared before sweeping back upwards into the cover of the sky.

“I thought you said we wouldn’t have the Dragonguard for this assault?” Magnus asked. Fear was not something Rist associated with Magnus. Fear, shame, nor the ability to say no to whiskey. But there was fear in his voice in that moment.

“We don’t.” Garramon stared up at the sky, his eyes narrowing. “Eltoar and the others are watching over Elkenrim and Merchant’s Reach.”

“Seleraine has blue scales,” Magnus posed.

“She doesn’t have red wings.”

“Elves?”

Garramon shook his head. “I don’t know. But it matters little.”

As though responding to Garramon’s words, the blue dragon burst through the clouds again, but this time it was followed by a second. A third creature followed, smaller than the others, its scales as pale as the clouds.

Murmurs spread through the soldiers and mages as the dragons wheeled around each other, soaring across the sky towards the columns of the Lorian armies below. Those murmurs soon became gasps when the creatures plummeted.Gasps turned to utter silence as two of the dragons dropped low and unleashed rivers of dragonfire down over the men and women on the plains below. The third swooped and tore bloody paths through the columns before lifting into the air once more.

Not a word was spoken as they all stood and watched, helpless. Streaks of lightning tore upwards, shards of stone and spears of ice. In pockets, dragonfire washed over massive wards like water breaking over spheres of glass. Rist could feel the power of it all thrumming in the air. But the dragons were too fast, and the Draleid on their backs sliced through the Lorian threads with Spirit, fire pouring from their hands.

The smallest dragon soared from right to left and carved a path of fire through an entire column of soldiers.

There was something surreal about watching the devastation from so far away and yet seeing it so clearly. From above, with the wind whistling in his ears, everything seemed almost… calm. It was as though time moved more slowly. But even though he couldn’t see the men and women thrashing about and burning, throwing themselves into the dirt, the skin peeling from their bones, he could still see it in his mind. His memories flashed back to the Battle of the Three Sisters. He could hear the screams of those around him as they were burned alive, see the incandescent light of the dragonfire as it raked through the army like the blade of a god.

“We need to move.” Garramon’s voice pulled Rist from his memories. “We need to get inside the mountain.”

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