Matters of Life and Death, Dragonfyre Chapter 1

Well, here it is at last, the first chapter of the third installment of the Canticles of Andurun, and the conclusion to the first story arc for the series: Dragonfyre. I will be posting chapters 1 through 3 over the next month or two and continue to work steadily on revising book three so it will be ready on Createspace come the beginning of the year, as well as Kindle.

If you have not read, or finished reading, Dragonsong (book 1) and Dragonmarch (book 2) I would not continue! This chapter is a major spoiler, and it will ruin a great deal from the first two books if you read this before catching up on what's going on in Andurun! So I can't be held accountable, here is a more appropriate warning:

Spoiler warning! Read on at your own risk!

Having said that, please feel free to indulge in Andurun's third installment, and I will be working on getting more chapters revised in a timely fashion. With Christmas approaching and my store in a mall location, however, I'm not sure what "timely" means just yet. Bear with me, dear readers. God bless. Yours in Christ, Ian T Curtis.

High atop the most spiraling battlements of South Deep sat a vaulted study. It was sealed from every entrance by secure walls of thickened stonework, with a single wooden ladder leading through a trap door carved into the floor a long time yonder. Aside from that there was a lone winding stairwell going down into the innards of the Castle of Lords of which a guard station was placed. As many as fifty men could be at the ready within to defend the stairs and the single windowless chamber.

            But it had been many, many years since soldiers were posted in that guard station. The floors were strewn with dust. The corners of neglected walls and furniture were filled cobwebs and layers of dust that spoke of age and forgetting. No one recalled the import of that high tower, nor what lay within it. None but the reigning lords, and they were thinning over time’s span. Now August Ravenlore and Petrian Alnaroth were two of a scant number, and they coveted that secret. For within was the hold which cradled the ancient texts and scrolls of Telaine, or even the far land of Aeros from which Humans came in the olden times of Ragnarok and Eltresse. The writings of Immanuel dwelt within. The Holy Bible, first given by the Order of the Valar in distant Aeros, was located within. Insomuch, the entire history of the race’s roots lay within.

            Here August Ravenlore retreated often. He was a young man in this chamber, alive with the wonder of knowledge revealed to the quivering eye and trembling hand, just as his father showed him so many years prior. It was before chancellors, before wives and sons and loyalty, or treachery. August was a young man forever in this chamber, trapped inside the reinforced walls that would even withstand a Dragon’s flaming kiss. There was another, smaller trap door atop, hidden behind a bookshelf that was even more seldom sought than the first ladder. This one led to the heights of the tower where one could spy anything-anything at all one wished within the Thistlebrush Wastes. It would be from this vantage that the city lord of the southlands would behold his enemy come to his walls and throw themselves against it. Even now, in a starless and windless eve, August dared a look to see the Kanaron Mountain passes alight with a thousand feeding fires. The hillocks and mountain slopes bristled with men and horses and steel, all bent on tearing down the final vestige, the most enduring symbol of freedom that the Old South had ever known. His kingdom. It also overlooked the Lighthouse.

The span of the Lighthouse stretched out from the south-most wall of the city like a hand of hope, spanning upward and outward seeking aid that never visited in the southland’s most dire hour. The conical, vambrace-supported monolith stood stoically as a silent outline of fallen hope against the girth of the south wall, abandoned and forgotten. Where it belonged. Beneath its countenance lay the south gate; it was a drawbridge that spanned the mighty chasm delving across the south edge of the city. But it was sealed, as it had been for more than a century, bridge erected and portcullis lowered, every bit as sturdily constructed as the northern gate which was its sister. It remained closed in protest of the Priesthood’s alliance with the Dragons, and would likely remain sealed so long as the Old Nobility ruled that eldred city. There was little need to defend the south gates, for none could reach them. Likewise, the side gate of subtle departure, of which Justias first took leave to hunt Brackaelyk, was also duly sealed and warded, barred by many locks.

            A lone candle with a withering wick cast a pallid glow over the contents of the room where August now occupied. His thoughts reflected his predicament; trapped in a solid tower of isolation, bound by a course that could not be averted. His own son now loathed him for his actions, though Uriel did not see that those self-same actions were for the preservation of the southlands! How it vexed him! August growled and slammed the moldy tome closed that he was thumbing through. There was no joy in his great learning this night. Anxiety gnawed at him like hunger in his vitals, leaving him no moment of comfort. The candle wavered from the wind, leaping madly but anchored where its flame first came, finally dwindling and spitting before resuming its quiet vigil. August placed his head in his weathered hands, elbows propped upon the table he sat at. He paid no heed to the armored form that found him within, striding up with no effort to hide his coming. He was erect with helm in hand and cloak cast behind strong shoulders, a resolute look coloring his features. He raised a gauntleted hand and coughed into a fist before August paid him any heed. The tired and wrung lord of the south raised his head (so much like lead at that point) and stared at Aran Wintermane.

            “Have you come back in victory?” August wondered.

            “You bade me not to return else wise, or only my execution would be here to greet me, my lord.”

            “The pup is dead?”

            “Dead as dreams, my lord,” Aran said stiffly, still acquiring the taste of playing the role of assassin. He was a proud man, ambitious to a fault. There were times when he was accused of being cold or heartless, or even ruthless in his ambition. But to slay a man with his back to you; to kill a man when he didn’t even have a weapon in hand…

            “You verified this yourself?” the city lord leaned back, smoothing his graying hair away from his cheeks and neck where it had fallen in his musing. “Did you see life flee from him?”

            “I stayed long as I deemed, my lord,” Aran answered plainly. “I have been a knight of the south long enough to recognize death when I see it presented, Lord Ravenlore. Justias Eventine is dead.”

            “Witnesses?” August inquired with a growing smile, clearly pleased at his subordinate’s ability to perform.

            “Only one,” At that point Aran stepped aside and allowed Elgar, formerly of the Priesthood of the Dragon, to come forth and present himself. August looked the burly, commonplace man from head to toe. Elgar swept a semblance of a courtly bow, eyes never straying from August.

            “I am Elgar, my lord. Your conspirators in Cantlin City thought it best that I accompany Lord Wintermane to his city, seeing as how too many within the mountain city know me, or of me at the least.”

            “Why are you here?” August demanded.

            “To confess a change in loyalty, my lord,” Elgar admitted quickly. “I aided your man in dispatching the Dragon Slayer King, though truth to tell it was nigh entirely the knight’s performance that put paid to the fool. I am ready to serve you, and as such I am now a vassal of the Lord Wintermane.”

            “Are you?” August arched his brow, looking from Elgar to Aran.

            “I have taken him as an esquire, my lord. He…proved himself to me already.”

            “Then I am willing to grant this concession to you, Lord Wintermane. You are absolved of your former ties, so long as you have unswerving loyalty to the rule of the Old Nobility. My son the prince holds the greatest claim to an established throne now, and I mean to see him placed upon it. When I die, and I hold no illusions that it will be very soon that I die, Uriel will assume the throne of this castle. No longer will men name it the Castle of Lords, though it was a republic, a pool of nobles. No, it shall be Castle Ravenlore.”

            “Where shall I serve in this new kingdom, my lord?” Aran Wintermane asked plaintively, his voice cold and hopeless.

            “You?” August smirked, “There are always places of esteem for such zealous patriots as you, Lord Wintermane. You shall be my son’s vassal, one of many; but chief among those. You have earned it with the blood spilt to assure this privilege.”

            “Would that my lord grant me a furlough, to atone for the method I employed to strike down King Eventine. I feel need to cleanse myself.” Aran was expecting perhaps some rant from August, but then again, the cunning lord of South Deep was not at all moved by this plea. He barely registered the fact that he even heard him, waving the notion away with a casual hand.

            “I cannot give you leave now, my good captain. The whole host of the Priesthood is almost upon the very doorstep of South Deep, and Lord Revnas has not yet returned with the relief from the Nightshade I was hoping upon. The valor of every man shall be sorely tested in days forthcoming. Your excellence of character will have another chance to shine. Now begone, and take care that you do not loose your tongues to speak of this tower or its storehouse of knowledge with any man. I will consider that high treason, and appropriate a suitable punishment for you.”

            “I fully understand, my lord,” Aran said, bowing quickly and spinning on his heel, walking mechanically to the ladder and his escape. Elgar swept another unpracticed bow.

            “A pleasure to have met with you, my lord,” he intoned with a grin.

            “To be sure,” August replied dryly, making it quite clear that he desired to be alone now. Elgar followed after Aran, and soon the lord of South Deep was indeed alone in his isolated tower once again. Closing his eyes, he reached over and pinched the candle wick, extinguishing the flame between calloused fingers. The dark soothed him.

***

            April the seventh had come. A fortnight of rugged travel, or little longer, had restored Lord Revnas and Heckron Gadwort to the city of their mutual birth. The spires and walls of South Deep stood yet, the banners which streamed from the flagpoles were of the Old Nobility, the remnant thereof, which defied the yoke of Dragon rule. The host was led by Revnas and Mathias, as well as William, Beowyn Gardys and Mali Chardyss. There were ranks of many horses and hunting dogs with muzzles and tethers, as well as wagons with mules for food, clothing, faggots for firewood and a plethora of provision for the march and the siege which awaited the march’s end. All told they would add near to three thousand troops to the defense of the city. This had largely been thanks to Lord Gardys who had insisted that they remain for a fortnight while he sent couriers and envoys to dig out any man worth his salt that yet named the Nightshade home. Hermit and miser, Sell Sword and starry eyed youth had come with sword and spear, or bow, spade, sickle, or any other tool or weapon they might rummage, salvage, or create. Revnas also was restored unto his people a husband, and Rachel Holmgard rode beside him. She was bound in a rich furred cloak of deepest silver, from wolf pelts which were gifts from Jenneba before the company departed Bukerest.

            Jenneba (and many of the common folk) did not desire to see Beowyn leave them for fear that he might not return, but the bear-like man would not be denied. He was a stout advocate of right, and once possessed a strong arm and strong mind. He vowed that he still possessed at least one of those, and he was meaning to use it to defend the freedom of his people. Thus he led his own small host from the southeast of the Nightshade Forest. Apart from all of these roamed the enigmatic wolf that Elias Blackwaith named Herios. The shadowed beast had a man’s mind and an animal’s countenance. It favored William and Gerad Thesten, captain of Lord Chardyss’ host, and was never far from one or the other. The horse and mules carrying soldiers or goods did not fear the lupine animal, and the hunting dogs or tethered falcons some men carried did not have a care for the wolf either, which gave many pause. But there were numerous queer tales that originated within the murky confines of the Nightshade, and even the minstrels could not invent all of the stories for the amusement of the gullible. It appeared that then and there one of those bizarre tales walked with them and fought beside them. The hunters of the forest deemed Herios an omen of good fortune and took great care to make the animal very welcome, even to the extent of hiding their wolf skins or bear pelts won from expeditions. William fancied that Herios was their elected mascot.

            The thunder of applause and cheers of joy leapt from the peasants of the city even before their company arrived hard pressed at South Deep’s safe walls before the host of the Priesthood had them utterly enveloped. As it stood, no other aid would reach them before the battle began in earnest. That was assuming there was more aid to be found within Kallendaros. The enormous gates of the outer wall were thrown open, the winches, levers and pulleys activated to cast the doors apart and permit the reinforcements entrance. Scouts and archers mounted on parapet and battlements waved greeting, shouting praise at their timely arrival and raising their voices to the One God for remembering His people’s need.

            Out of this maelstrom came swooping down the graceful form of sterling red, gold and platinum; a Phoenix. The creature swept down, eagle eyes finding the figure that he was searching for, and he bore down to land beside the oncoming host. William knew at once that it was Valiant Sun, the Phoenix from the southern mountains who had pledged fealty to his son as an ally and a mount. He cantered aside, followed by Phillip and Mathias as Revnas bade them to take leave. Time was of the essence; the dark wall of the enemy army was not but a half day’s march off out of the hillocks. Twelve hours was precious little time to disperse their regiments into suitable positions for the conflagration to come, and every moment was now precious.

            “Valiant Sun!” William slowed his steed and Herios came jogging up beside him, sniffing a little at the magnificent creature, “What are you doing here? I assume you have come to bring word to me?”

            “I have, but that word is too much for me to speak. I only wish that you would abandon your animal and allow me to bear you to Cantlin City. May I take you, Master Eventine?”

            “Justias has need of me?” William pondered, but his blood was already cold with fear. The Phoenix was heartbroken, that much the old hunter could see. He didn’t have the courage to ask what his greatest fear was.

            “I will bear you and one more to Cantlin in a very short span,” Valiant Sun offered, avoiding the topic entirely, “And you will see what you will see once you arrive. I cannot carry three, however. I am afraid that one must remain.”

            “I will ride after you, William,” Phillip told him before any debate could be raised. “If Mathias is to come with, then he should be with you right now, so you can go and see Justias. I will ride after with Herios and catch up with you. Granted, the wolf doesn’t rightly care too much for my company, but we’ll make do.”
            “Mathias?” William cast an alarmed look at the Valar for comfort.

            “I do not know, William,” Mathias told him, reading the man’s desire to hear some testimony of assurance. “I will surely ride with you, however. I have need to go to Justias myself and speak with him.”

            “Climb aboard and be sure to maintain a strong grip on my feathers,” Valiant Sun instructed as the pair dismounted and slapped their horses away so the animals would join their fellows entering the city gates, “Use your legs to keep a solid grip and bend low to avoid the strong winds of the upper sky, for I intend to bear you with haste.”

            “Are you certain, Phillip?” William asked as the Phoenix stooped low to allow them to climb atop his back. Phillip nodded with a confident smile.

            “Go on! If Justias needs you I will not deny the son his father! I will be after you as quickly as I may. There are likely only empty hamlets now settled between here and Cantlin at any rate. Highwaymen have fled to Eastport or back north into Lockeen, and the River Jebrahl. I’ll be fine.”

            “Then let us be off,” Mathias broke in, already straddling the great bird. He stretched a hand and aided William in fitting onto Valiant Sun’s back. It was muscular and broad, and instantly uncomfortable.

            “How does my son ride so?” William remarked with a sour laugh, though there was no humor in him at the moment.

            “By allowing me to work for him,” Valiant Sun returned, “As should you. Heed my advice and be still; we will be in Cantlin in just a few hours’ time.”

            With that they were airborne. The Phoenix leapt off the ground and took wing, spreading his fullest and tucking his strong legs beneath the bulk of his body. The new spring grass bent and danced from the launch, and Phillip’s horse neighed with disdain, clearly displeased at the rush of strength the Phoenix displayed. Then Phillip and the host of men were ever smaller, ever more vague and the land was a sea of whirring green and slurring brown, merging and blending into a fantastic sight of abstract beauty directly beneath the Phoenix’s wings. William learned immediately not to peer right down, but to keep his eyes ahead or aside and watch the scenery play by more peacefully in slower fashion. But not all the speed Valiant Sun could muster might match the grueling speed with which William’s fatherly heart beat right then. His heart brought him out of his tribulation and before the throne of his God, and for a time there was no anxiety or fear; there was only William and the glorious nearness of the One.

            “Hell’s teeth!” one of the soldiers cried out when the Phoenix took flight in a glory of sunlit color, startling their mounts and stirring their avian messengers to take wing, despite the fact they were tethered. “Why did Master William flee on the eve of battle?”

            “His son needs him,” Phillip said off-handedly, without looking at the man who posed the question. The youth stared after the dimming form of the winged creature and the tiny men that rode upon it, a yearning in his heart that gnawed painfully within. He was not William’s son, but he owed the man much, and the stink of fear hung heavily over him before he flew. Phillip feared to find the hunter in Cantlin. Would he be the same man? Sighing, he snapped the reins of his steed, called to Herios to follow him, and cantered off to alert his superiors what he was doing. He was, after all, a man under the loyalty of the Dragon Slayer King, and did not have to be present for the forthcoming siege. One way or the other he was certain that the siege would find him.

***

            While its sister city rejoiced with the return of their champions, Cantlin did not fare so well. South Deep threw open its arms and welcomed Uriel Ravenlore back from the dead, and then Lord Revnas along with his brave escort from the wild lands of the far west, in deep and shadowed forests where hunters feared to roam. Cantlin slowly closed its gates in defeat, mourning the death of hope. The banners of the conquering Phoenix were cast down, and every peasant bore the drab gray that was once customary for the mourning rituals when a great king, hero or noble had died before his time. All shops and guilds had closed to observe the day the Dragon Slayer was revealed to them.

            Justias Eventine lay in a coffin of plated stone upon a dais of carved marble in the central plaza of the city. He was clad in raiment of fine olive green and earthen brown, with a tunic, vest and supple leggings of doe-skin as would befit a hunter. His hands were folded against his strong chest, and in his cold dead grasp sat the slender and elegant crown of the king, newly established. He was peaceful in death, cold in pallor, calm at last from life’s travails. Four oblong, tall blackened iron braziers were erected at the corners of the dais, which had been pulled into the city plaza by draft horses so the king might receive a funeral befitting his majesty. All around him were a sea of saddened, darkened faces. Where there had been the hope of freedom alight on the wings of this young conqueror’s dreams, there was the sword as the Priesthood closed its steel jaws on South Deep. Who now would lead them in such disorder?

            Kit Orbard stood beside Dezra Bludfayne, both women wrought with grief that failed description. Kit hadn’t been there to aid him. In fact, she had sent him to the castle chambers where a cunning killer waited to take his life. Now what would she tell Kendra? First Barlow was slain, and then Justias fell, both in the same bloody city! She hung her head and cried tears of anguish, the bitter taste of failure poisoning her thoughts.

            Dezra stood in dejected misery beside both the former mariner and Marek Wargard’s parents, Kas and Meghan. They too learned of their son’s tragic death on the face of the mountain, and their daring escape from it. She heard Kit letting them know how bravely Marek fought. Kit told them how courageously he faced death to keep his company alive no matter the cost. She didn’t know if she would have liked Kit to blame her for the tragedy or not. Justias saved her and lost hold of Marek. To keep the thief alive he sacrificed his closest friend. Now both men, highly noble in her own lowly eyes, were gone the way of all flesh and not a soul spoke of Marek’s valiant demise. In her ears, above the din of chants, prayers and soft whispers of lament Dezra Bludfayne heard the piercing wail of Meghan Wargard as she leaned into her husband’s breast and grieved over the loss of her final child.

            There was a wide berth before the coffin and the dais. Poised before it facing the south street knelt Pontius Garand and his House guard. The nobleman was regent in his king’s absence, which in turn made him lord of Cantlin in Justias’ place. But that was no consolation for his stark failure to protect the king. The blow stung him and numbed him. Justias had only just been slain when Pontius heard word through panicked servants and guards. The king had been slain! What a stir of wonderment and terror it brought on! Pontius himself felt such dread invoked within him that he was literally ill as he commanded his soldiers to tear apart the castle halls and chambers to find the scoundrel who might have done this; if they might catch him before he affected an escape. But alas, it was too late. Heated whispers and gossip placed his name in connection with the incident, for many knew Pontius would have much to gain from his elevated position. But the nobleman had suspicions all his own, and it involved a trio of snide and arrogant gentlemen that counseled together and now stood slightly behind him, mourning as well.

Morgeth Tyrane, Azarel Anifal and Zerus Manifus were lords of high (or higher) esteem than himself. They were cunning, clever, wealthy and daring, especially when pushed into a corner. Justias’ bold endeavors seemed to press everyone to the pinch, and someone birthed the foul idea of pinching back. He simply failed to perceive how he might live so long as to discern the truth of the matter. Lynch mobs were not an entirely unheard of event in the southlands. Truth be told they were rampant in the years following the razing of the southern kingdom, when the nobles who did not cow-tow to the wyrms were mobbed and beaten to death by their peasantry for not according them the same safety other Houses provided in their covenant. Now the fruit of that covenant had gone sour, and everyone was sampling its bitterness.

            Justias Eventine had now been dead for four days, the fourth day not yet finished. Soon there would be decomposition and uncleanliness with the body, and the grave diggers would have to put him away before disease was risked for the populace’ sake. Already an unwholesome smell was beginning, perceived by those who strayed too near. Only the cold weather from the early spring and chill confines of the mountainous city permitted them to wait this long to convene with a service. But it took so long to gather Cantlin as one body, so great had the shock of the event been. The burning lights of the braziers began to ebb, mirroring the sense of wrenching loss every citizen of the city felt. They looked on past the kneeling form of Pontius Garand to the still, stone crypt of the fallen hero. Again the question loomed large upon the horizon with no notable answer: who was there to lead them now?

            All at once the braziers leapt and danced with a torrent of wind as the heavens began to stir overhead. The people murmured and then cried out when an aerial body descended into the mouth of the ancient volcano, wings spread in metallic luminescence. So striking was the mighty creature that more than one among the mourners actually believed one of the Eldritch of the One God came down out of the Heavens to fetch Justias’ body and speed this brave martyr off into a better land for a proper burial. The press of the crowd grew into a swell of fear as men and women surged against one another to escape the being that was falling upon them, gleaming with life and color. Soldiers raised sword and shield, driven out of their mourning daze as they fancied the Dragons had come to plunder Cantlin for slaying Jaerzahad, or to utterly annihilate the body of Justias Eventine. But it was neither Eldritch nor Dragon that came down to them from the skies overhead, sweeping out of the fading sweet blue of the canvas painted from one horizon to the next. It was a Phoenix.

            Valiant Sun, steed and friend of Justias, dropped gracefully into the open plaza and folded his wings against his sides, then lowered at once to permit the pair of men riding him to slip off without bother. The crowd of onlookers were once again overcome at the sudden arrival and fear melted into a burning curiosity, even as the braziers of the ceremony rekindled and burned brightly anew. William Eventine and Mathias walked away from Valiant Sun, but the Phoenix did not take wing again. He remained bent, as if bowing, to the stone monument that filled the center of the plaza and all of William’s swiftly tearing vision. His son? Did he see Justias’ cold white face in a mask of solemn death within? Valiant Sun had sped the elder Eventine off to partake in the burial of his own blood. A wrenching sob of sorrow escaped his lips, and it might have torn a man’s heart in twain to hear it; but William himself was beyond hearing. His son lay dead before him.

            “William!” Kit exclaimed when her own shock ebbed, and the former mariner jolted to join him when she saw that his legs were failing, and that the poor man would simply collapse right where he stood if someone did not catch him. Dezra slunk back into the crowds behind Kas and Meghan Wargard, fresh guilt staining her thoughts. She cupped her hand to her mouth as hot tears spilled down her cheeks, flowing freely. All at once she understood the dangers of the Dragon curse. Had it not been her doing, after all?

            “William!” Kit cried again, embracing the man as he sagged fully, clutching to Kit as a young boy might cling to his mother’s skirts when strangers were near. She held him and said nothing; indeed there was nothing to be said to a man who had lost his only son. She was simply his strength while he sobbed the hopeless tears of a father’s love.

            “It is yet a good day,” Mathias answered aloud, and Kit paused from her own lamentation. She didn’t rightly trust the Valar over much, but at this point he was the only man among the whole congregation that was not rooted in mourning. He was stoic, solemn; and he calmly approached where Pontius Garand and his House guard stood. The soldiers with their long swords and crested shields fell away on account of him granting a wide berth, and this only made the crowd more intensely curious what was going to happen next. Mathias patted Pontius on the shoulder, and the nobleman grasped Mathias’ hand fervently, like it were his only support to life.

            “Do not grieve,” Mathias informed him with a strong and even tone, “For the day is not yet spent. In the night there is deceit and treachery, but while it is daylight there is life and hope abroad.”

            “What hope is there, my lord?” Pontius bothered to ask, enfeebled, “Our king is slain, and every eye turns in suspicion to me. I know that when I have finished grieving for him that I will share his fate, though I am innocent.”

            “I am no man’s lord,” Mathias replied plainly, “And if you are under the sentence of death, Lord Garand, then my God shall deliver you from its bondage as well.”

            “How do you mean?” Pontius asked dubiously, “Do you know the men who sought our king’s death?”

            “I do not,” Mathias confessed, “But I am intimate with the God who seeks your king’s life. He will restore it unto him, that you and everyone present may have faith in Him.”

            “I don’t understand,” Pontius conceded, catching the pronunciation of the Valar’s words, but not their heart, “King Eventine is dead, my lord. The Mentora of Cantlin have declared as much nigh onto four days prior. The wound was fatal.”

            “The One is a jealous God,” Mathias told him flatly, “And from this point, after He has walked among you, no longer will you confuse your strength for His providence. Now stand back and behold His power.”

            Mathias ushered the nobleman and his guard away, so that they fled from the dais beyond the radius of the braziers, swords returning to their sheaths and shields slung over their backs as open wonder gripped them. Every soldier within earshot had heard the words shared between Lord Garand and Mathias, and now they spread like a fire among dry twigs as the soldiers merged with the peasant folk. Even the conspiring lords caught word of what was spoken, but were rooted to the spot, convicted in their actions by a hand higher than their own. With widening eyes and stark faces the wizened and learned noblemen gawked at the singular form of the Valar as he strode up the few small steps of stone between the surface of the street and the casket atop. Therein lay Justias, hands still neatly folded and face ashen from lack of blood. His lips were blue-ish in pallor and his hair clung tightly to his head like a helm. Mathias paused as he beheld the young man, so drastically different from the vital, living hunter that he last saw before he joined with Lord Revnas to march into the Nightshade. Sighing, Mathias lowered himself so that he knelt in reverence beside the stone coffin, hands clutching the lip while his head bowed low. He closed his eyes and lifted word and heart in prayer, beseeching his God.

            “Oh Flame, our God who is true and just and mighty! Breathe now upon this man and return to him his life, that Thou might have glory and honor through him, and that many will believe on Your name! For Your name and Your goodness have too long been forgotten and denied by this, Your people! Work Your glory and Your wonders that all present will bear witness, to stand or fall condemned!”

“What the devil does this bloody fool think he’s doing?” one of the merchant lords beside Dezra and Marek’s parents retorted cynically, jerking a thumb and rasping a whisper at his neighbor standing beside him, “Does he expect to be the next king over us? It was better when there was peace, even if it was through Draconic rule.” The other man nodded assent, and Dezra flushed with anger toward them. Belief welled in her heart, and she knelt to the ground. She fell convicted. Many joined her. Almost every soul in Cantlin suddenly dropped to their knees as the oncoming presence overpowered them with a feeling of awe, alien and yet altogether familiar to them, the very footprints of their Creator walking among them. Nothing changed and no one stirred to mark something as extraordinary as transpiring, but every believing heart and trusting soul knelt in reverent love before the invisible presence manifested within and around them.

At last the grudging and the faithless, moved by shame and embarrassment, also knelt to the ground beside their fellows so as to appear as pious as their neighbors, though they were stricken only with cold fear and confused wonderment. There was nothing stirring in their heart, and they perceived no presence that compelled them to kneel like their brethren did. Last to kneel were Lords Tyrane and Anifal. Lord Manifus, much to their amusement and chagrin, was almost the first to bend knee and droop his head, almost as if the man were stricken dead before their very eyes. Morgeth scoffed at Zerus’ cowardice concerning Mathias’ words; until everyone else save him was prostrate before the dais and the Valar. Reluctantly, begrudged that he might bow before anyone, Morgeth knelt low beside Azarel.

            Even William, Kit and Valiant Sun were wonderfully moved by Mathias’ words. William forgot his sorrow. Kit forgot her pains from the mountain and found herself beside the old hunter, eyes cast to the cobblestones that comprised the avenue which led straight through the plaza. Even the majestic Phoenix stooped low, as to form the closest bow he knew how to make, mimicking the Human customs.

            “Oh One God! Maker of all that is; bring Your mercy to us in this hour, and let not one stroke of the pen be forgotten concerning the deliverance of this, Your people, or how You deign to deliver them from their enemies!” Mathias’ voice was almost the only sound that could then be heard amidst the expansive chasm of men and women and shops and guild houses. Even the stray animals or small children coddled to their mother’s breast were silent, expectant.

            The braziers congealed into columns of furnace like flame all at once, leaping and roaring with vivid color as they pressed upward with a fire that could not have been fed with logs or oil. It heaved toward Heaven, then spun in a spiraling arc until the pillars of solid flame converged and met, joining with one another and growing titanic in nature. The whole of the inner city of Cantlin and every adjoining hall or tunnel leading to the exterior districts were alight with this flame, yet it did not sear the eyes or the flesh. The flames were simply drunk straight out of the braziers that initially held them, and were promptly absorbed by the vortex of fire directly over the crypt and dais. The column hung unnaturally suspended in midair for a span of seconds, and then roared out of the opening of the city’s mouth above where once magma and ash flowed in ancient times. The column of fire was thick and broad, so much so that it brushed the edges of the crater where the lip of the mountain was long ago split asunder. The living fire scorched the stone and seared it so badly that it became glass-like during the fire’s passage and clung around the crown of the mountain like a circle of encrusted diamond; though more than one hundred yards apart was the opening of the crater over their heads. The pillar ascended into the heavens, leaving the mountain of its origin and scorching the skies and clouds until the entire expanse seemed to kindle and glow with a reddish-scarlet burning. The length of the column was immense; at least a quarter mile in total before it expired abruptly, all at once, in the highest reaches of the heavens. For many miles that flame bathed the land of Kallendaros in its brilliant glow.

            August Ravenlore heard word of it from his tower in the heights of South Deep and pondered the meaning of it. Surely no wyrm had flown the skies of the land and sought to raze Cantlin once more? The sea faring folk of Eastport saw the spire, and the mariners aboard the Sea Spray. Captain Vinguard commanded his men to remove their bandanas and hats to hold over their chests, instinctively knowing that the fire and the lights were providence displayed. The Sea Spray observed a moment of silence off of the docks of the coastal city. The rascals and cutthroats of Lockeen afar north spied the glow of the fire and bade it an ill omen. The rogues of the township and along the River Jebrahl near the Deborah Cliff feared the fire, for they deemed the end was upon them. Even distant Bukerest caught sight of that glorious outpouring. Jenneba watched the dazzling spray of power and majestic fire from the heights of her bedchambers in the lord’s manse, while she pined for her missing father and young lover, Phillip. She did not know quite why, but it moved her to tears, and she cried with joy while those sweet lights burned the whole of the Kallendarian sky.

            “Name of the Oath!” Kit breathed in near-silence as she jerked her head up. In fact, every head rose to witness the solidified flames ascending of their own volition into the arid heights over Cantlin City. Then her voice failed, and her eyes grew to the size of golden coins. All of her amazement at the show of glory from the devouring flames suddenly paled in comparison to the simple sight of quiet testimony sitting before the entire city. As Mathias still knelt in humble worship of the One, Justias Eventine was aright, sitting in the vestment of his death, one hand lightly resting on the cold stone lip atop the Valar’s. Though the young hunter and northron king was no longer cold and pale in pallor. He was vigorous and strong, healed and returned to strength as though no harm had ever befallen him. Breathing out, Justias stepped out of the coffin in plain sight of all the witnesses, numerous as an army. In one hand he gently held the crown of his kingship, but he did not seek to don it. Mathias stood beside him and removed the crown while the entire crowd looked on, replacing it atop the young man’s head so its splendor was plain to all. Justias smiled slightly at Mathias, a peace alight in him that no earthly trial could provide.

            “You were once anointed by Agaen, Ricard and I with sacred oils,” Mathias explained to him softly, “Now indeed have you been anointed with the Flame.”

            “I will rely only upon my Lord. I have heard His name with my ear, but now my eyes have seen Him,” Justias answered solemnly.

            Suddenly there were cries of alarm from the crowd. Many of those who were spellbound by what had occurred took note of their neighbors beside them, and were appalled to find them dead, eyes wide and hands clasped, at their feet. Many recoiled and there was discord among them. The common folk discerned that there were many among them that lay dead; there was not a single group within the mass that converged at the central plaza who did not have someone slain amidst their party, save for Simon and his cohorts from the small fishing village in the southern lands. His joy had been immense when he beheld his king alive again, restored to them. Only the constraint of his fellows kept this humble, simple peasant from running forth to greet his returned king.

            Matthias turned from the king, hands upraised as he sought to address the startled and frightened gathering. “Those that are slain have been taken from your midst because they did not believe in the miracle that has occurred among you this day, and they have blasphemed the One in their heart. The unbelieving have been removed from among you; save for those who have plotted ill against King Eventine. They have been spared so the king may decide their fate, lest they fail to come forward at once, and be struck down as the dead around them lay.”

            Morgeth Tyrane was aghast. He and Azarel shared a look of contempt and unbridled hatred toward the Valarym. But what were they to do? If they kept silent the Valar warned them that they too would fall at the hands of this peculiar plague that smote so many of the common folk. Or perhaps they had been overlooked. Morgeth considered this notion, and his cunning thoughts turned to Zerus and Azarel, how he might give them over to Justias without losing face. But in that hesitation the matter was settled for them all. Millicent, Morgeth’s young wife, came forth. She was clad in black, including a laced bonnet, and was demurely composed as she stood poised before her husband with hands clasped at her waist. Ah, what a good wife! Morgeth commended silently as he watched her. Was she going to bear blame and punishment for him? That would leave him to bear the weight of child rearing for his striplings, but there were concubines if needs be.

            “I confess to you, my lords, who has done this hideous thing against our king,” Millicent explained as all eyes focused on her. Pontius and William were extremely attentive as she spoke. Justias remained standing where he was, but Mathias strode down the dais onto the city street and approached her quietly.

            “Who has done this, my lady?” the Valar inquired.

            “My husband,” she answered sternly. “He and Lord Anifal and Lord Manifus, along with conspirators from the city of South Deep conspired to slay our king because they feared the sphere of influence and strength he possessed.”

            “You harlot!” Morgeth raged, and the aged nobleman stormed for her with fists clenched, death aglow in his eyes. “The woman is a temptress and murderess! She speaks only what she knows, but she projects it onto others to preserve herself! Even at the cost of letting her own husband die, and impugning my honor!”

            “You now speak of what you know, my husband,” Millicent replied tacitly, “The whole city knows of your ill nature and vengeful spirit. You fool no one but yourself when you speak.”

            “I shall kill you with my own two hands!” Morgeth screamed, leaping for her, but a mob of peasant folk stayed him from laying hold of her. Zerus and Azarel were also snatched by the people as the heat of their anger intensified. Morgeth struggled like a wildcat, but it did not help him as the mob used their fists and feet to pummel him until he lay in a heap upon the ground, under the barrage of their assault. Azarel and Zerus alike suffered a similar fate, but Justias called out for them to halt. The teeming crowd could not hear the command of their king however, but Pontius Garand did and he ordered his House guard to wade into the citizenry and relinquish the nobles from their grip. The soldiers formed ranks and linked shields, pushing through the crowds and using the defensive tools as battering rams to prod the rage-filled mob apart until they found the men they sought.

            The three noblemen were dragged to the very step of the dais beside Mathias, Pontius and William, rent and bleeding and tattered. Morgeth stared defiantly into Justias’ eyes, all pretense of loyalty now surrendered. Only the black abyss of pride and ambition lingered, perhaps the only items fueling the old man’s ability to stand before his accusers. The young Dragon Slayer simply stood fast before them until the bedlam invoked by the mob subsided when it became clear that Pontius’ men were not going to allow them to apprehend the nobles and execute judgment. The soldiers formed a half-circle of linked shields before the dais between the swell of peasants and the accused. Millicent had utterly vanished amidst the turmoil, swallowed by the wave-like breaking of the crowd against the shores of steel. William, Kit and Valiant Sun were on the other side of the ring of steel, regarding this entire incident with almost dream-like wonder.

            “What have you to say in your defense, Lord Tyrane?” Justias questioned.

            “I have nothing to defend,” Morgeth answered, trying very hard to stand on his feet despite the beating he just incurred. He swayed and almost fell, but caught himself. “I am attempting to preserve peace for my people here in Cantlin. Your dreams of a monarchy are grand, young king, but even if you live to see their fruition you will be afar north, in a land where there is no hope for us to benefit from your rulership. The Houses of the Old Nobility have endured two centuries by the creation and implication of feudalism; who are you, then to change so much alone?”

            “Has this day taught you nothing at all, Lord Tyrane?” Justias said with an air of disappointment marring his tone, “All you see before your eyes is a man like yourself, vying to make his ambition prosper at the risk of all else. It is the One God who is at work in Kallendaros this day. It is His machination that you try without success to foil. Can a mere man, lord or peasant, debate what is right with God?”

            “The Dragon Clerics argued that same rhetoric two hundred years ago, when our first ancestors entered into covenant with the wyrms who razed Telaine, boy,” Morgeth retorted, completely forgetting himself, “They were, and yet are, the avatars and mouth pieces of the gods they serve in the flesh. Those gods swept down from the mountains, both south and west, to reduce our race to petty barbarism! Now comes another tyrant who claims to be the voice of a god!”

            “I am not the One’s avatar,” Justias answered in simple tones, “The Order of the Valar was long ago set apart for that reason and that reason alone. No, I am only a servant that He has deemed to use for a time, that He might win glory for Himself against His enemies. You are electing to be an enemy of the One, Lord Tyrane.”

            “The kings of Telaine long believed that their monarchy would endure the ages, when the old lands of Eltresse across the oceans failed. Look at their ruined state now!”

            “The kings of Telaine were warned of the fate that would overtake them if they did not repent of their evil deeds,” Mathias returned resolutely, “That was why Immanuel was sent to warn them, and why he spent so many years tutoring and teaching kings and princes. Though it was those self-same kings and princes, your ancestors, who paid brigands to do away with him.”

            There was a harsh gasp from many in the crowd from the proclamation, and none were more stunned than Morgeth himself. He knew, of course, about the plot that took the life of that meddling prophet. He smoothed the shock of that blow from his features quickly, knowing that he gave away his knowledge with a mere look.

            “What shall be done with these men, my king?” Pontius asked.

            “Place them under house arrest within their manses until such time that this war has ended and peace is brought about,” Justias answered diplomatically. “I do not want any man harming them; lest they be put in the dungeons until the war is ended. If any man kills one of the nobles, they shall also be killed and share their fate. Heed my command.”

            “As you wish, my king,” Pontius responded. He turned to the crowd and commanded his soldiers to form a line through the onlookers so they might bear the lords of Cantlin back to their estates, where they would remain until the war had ended. Soon the traitorous lords were forgotten, and the great swell of the crowd pressed near to Justias. They bowed before their king and raised their voices in salutation and rejoicing.

            “Hail to the king of the northlands!” they cried in joy.

            “Glory to the One God, who has returned our king from death!”

            “Hail to the Dragon Slayer, chosen of the One God!”

            Justias raised his hands, palms outstretched to silence the crowd, and they stopped to heed his proclamation. “Hear my words!” he called out over the excited din of the people gathered before him, “For a day and a night shall we pray and commit ourselves to the One! Then come the following morning shall we make ready for war!”

            “But there were nobles of South Deep allied to slay you, my king!” Simon yelled from the crowd, somewhere near the middle of the congregation. “They do not deserve the mercy you wish to accord them!”

            “Aye,” Justias replied, both strong arms still lingering in the air as he stood at the peak of the dais before the rest of the folk gathered around him, “They may not at that, dear Simon; for I surely recognize your voice! But there are many who do not deserve mercy that attain it, and I have come to the epiphany that I am one of those. We do not play the role of judge, my friend! For there is a better Judge that lives eternally, and He will assume that mantle for us! What we do now is play the role He is given to us. I say that South Deep, and Uriel Ravenlore are in jeopardy of destruction, and we ride to their aid! Then I sail afar north back to the land of my birth, for I have learned that is both where Gildaryss has fled to spawn her heir, and where the kingdom of Titan shall be erected. It is the kingdom the One God revealed to me in a vision, and it shall be built on the soil of my ancestry.”

            He paused, and then addressed the crowd again, “If there are those among you that fear death in battle when the morning of our march commences then stay behind and do not ride with us, for I would not have you face peril with a divided heart, and risk you being severed from the One’s glory. But for those who deem to ride with me into the fray and confront the Priesthood of the Dragon I issue this decree first of all: I am loathe to shed the blood of Humans, our own people! If you cannot abide in this command then turn back, or remain in Cantlin and defend its walls against forthcoming trials. I command that if our enemy begs for quarter it shall be granted him. The bane of our race are the wyrms, not the Humans; Cleric, Zealot or Magistrate, that serve them. When South Deep’s survival is assured I depart for the north and seek to put an end to this war!”

            “Long live our wise and merciful king!” one of the folk within the crowd proclaimed, shooting a fist into the air in salute. Others felt the force of that cheer, and joined with a mantra that thundered through the hollow mountain, until it seemed that Cantlin might erupt anew from the rekindled hope budding within. The Dragon Slayer King was returned from the dead.

Thusly, the sages and merchant lords and nobles agreed that the day, April the seventh, would be a holiday and festival of jubilation for the people of Cantlin and all the southlands. So the sages and ministers of the One God decreed that it would be named Returner’s Day; for as their king was returned to them by the providence of the One, so too should all debtors forgive the debts owed to them by their neighbors or brothers. Personal debts were to be relinquished, and every seventh year even professional lenders from guilds were to cancel the debts owed them by the common folk.

***

Night fell over Cantlin City. There were speckles of stars alight in the tapestry of the night sky, glittering here and there playfully, while a stoic quiet cloaked the countryside. It was the calm before the storm, many fancied. The army of the Dragon launched out from the Kanaron Mountains and emptied every stronghold and bastion they possessed from the Thistlebrush Wastes through Myrodia and clear into the Green Hold. An innumerable force sought to lay siege, and in fact it was likely they encamped around the circumference of South Deep even now. But the roles were quickly reversed for the sister cities. While South Deep was to sleep ill at ease for wonder of how and when, and with what tactic the Priesthood would fling itself at the nigh-impregnable walls of that eldred city, Cantlin rested with sure and certain knowledge that they had just been visited by the One God, Creator of all Andurun.

That evening, after Justias Eventine dismissed his subjects (for that was surely what they were to him now) Pontius Garand went about assigning burial detail for the men and women struck dead during the wondrous moments in the city plaza. The grave diggers and undertakers were too few to oversee the whole of the task, and soon the wagons and carts were laden with the dead that men heaved onto them, piled one atop another in so unseemly a fashion. The bodies were already hardened with rigor mortis; it seemed that the poses in which they fell dead in, they remained in, and instantly stiffened with death’s embrace. To the awe of everyone present, about one tenth of the city had been slain by this bizarre plague.

It was debated among the grave diggers and peasant folk what manner of burial suited this sort of demise. Some suggested that they were burned in a pyre outside the walls of the city in the case that there was disease lingering in them, and it might fester and befall the healthy still within. The citizenry whose family had been killed in this way demanded that proper burial service be observed for their sakes if nothing else and that the plots of the necropolis that lay on the heights of the city provide their resting place as was the fashion of any citizen born of Cantlin.

            While burial detail was being overseen Justias held council with his company which comprised Mathias, his father William, Kit Orbard, Dezra and Pontius Garand. As esteemed guests both Kas and Meghan Wargard were present, as well as Simon. They gathered around a heavy oaken table while discussing matters of the battle to come and sharing a meal in fellowship, none of them ate or drank with more zeal than Justias himself. A number of those with him as well as servants and soldiers all eyed him cautiously, awed by the working of the One God who restored life to the dead.

            At the far end of the table Dezra extricated herself from the war campaign and spoke in hushed tones with Marek’s parents. The elder Wargards were saddened still by their son’s end, but filled at the same time with a paradoxical hope. Dezra apologized to both in turn, feeling that the young rogue could no longer hide the truth from either of them about Marek’s end, and how she had been its catalyst.

            “I have seen miraculous things this day,” Meghan answered plainly, moved to pity by Dezra’s wretched confession. “I have seen the dead restored, my dear. I will hold fast to hope that my son, my last child, lives somewhere still.”

            “I pray that you don’t foster that hope too closely,” Dezra replied with the flat sense of realism. “Marek plunged into the avalanche when it came down beneath us, as Valiant Sun was endeavoring to bear us away from danger. I would not have needed to be handled by Justias like a sickened pup if I had just kept my head and lent them aid instead of going off greedily to find my fortune in Dragon plunder.”

            “You live as you have been taught to live, my lady,” Kas interjected thoughtfully, “And my son died as he lived; a warrior. But does it hurt my wife if she nurtures hope? I cannot say I would not like to share in that hope.”

            “I know I am not your child, and I have heard some small measure of the grief afflicted upon you over the years, but I offer myself to you to repay what was taken from you. I have not had a father or a mother for a good many years. Companionship and familiarity with people who actually value love is…new to me.”

            “Were you orphaned?” Meghan asked sympathetically.

            “My parents abandoned me by the time I was a young girl. My father is in a prison still I wager: Grey Walk. I know not what became of my mother. The guild masters of the Black Hand found me young and reared me in their ways. I learned to pilfer and pick-pocket before I properly knew how to count what it was that I was stealing.”

            “Why do you not go back to them?”

            “I have been severed by fate,” Dezra answered, “A man named Cray Valest stole me from Eastport City, where my guild has holdings, and forced me to hunt down your son with him. He was a lunatic, I assure you. But Marek bested him and I escaped with Justias out of the Temple of Red Glass. I can’t go back, or the guild masters will certainly kill me for straying twice.” She thought for a moment and marveled at the second half of her answer before speaking, “Besides that, I no longer desire to go back.”

            “That being the case,” Kas told her politely, “I would be delighted to adopt another daughter. Lest my wife decline.”

            “If it be my husband’s will,” Meghan added, putting her hand on his, which he promptly squeezed. “But we do not accept you because your guilt compels you to make amends, Dezra Bludfayne. It’s our habit to pick up strays and orphans and the destitute and care for them. The need for it is truly great these days.”

            “What then?” Dezra stammered, bewildered and unsettled by the changing of her circumstance. “What must I do now?”

            “Well,” Meghan told her with a slight smile, “We empty a room in the house for you so you can live there with us, as is proper for any young woman who is unmarried. When the time comes that you are betrothed, then we shall make ready to give you away to your husband.”

            “My husband?” Dezra gasped, completely floored.

            “A woman who has roguish skills should not have so hard a time stealing one of those,” Kas explained as he grasped with his other hand and found hers. Intimate Human contact that did not lead to some drunken or depraved man attempting to force himself upon her was entirely unknown to Dezra. She savored it more than she fancied she would have.

            “I believe I can find that rather pleasant,” Dezra told them for lack of anything better to say. She knew that she was going to follow Justias to whatever end that he journeyed now. But there was more at stake then when she was forced into the scenario Cray Valest led her along. Now, without warning, there was family to protect and friends to watch after. It took the death of Marek Wargard to teach her this hard lesson.

            Across the table Mathias raised his cup to his lips and sipped at the contents within as he pored over an unfurled map. The Heckler Tea was steaming and aromatic, soothing to his nerves and senses. But not to all. Anyone sitting near him recoiled, a look of repugnance etched over their face. Heckler Tea was not for every man. He set the cup down and showed to Justias and William a titanic plateau within their native land. It was just scant miles from the western most fork of the River Rowan and the bay which it originated in. The enormous rock formation was unique in all that land, jutting out of the earth like a stone monolith and towering above trees and hillocks. The Valar assured them that it was likely in this place the Tyrant Wyrm would seek to make her new lair, where the spawn of Anzaryx might be born.

            “I have been there once in my youth,” William intoned as he regarded the vacant marking on the map where Mathias’ thumb was resting. The Valar had drawn in the marking to reveal the presence of that giant rock in the heart of a country where no village, tribe or clan dwelt. “It is a mighty rock formation with a very commanding view of the lay of the land. My own father brought me there while I was yet younger than Justias is now, before I had even met Sherl. He commented to me that this would be the place the Rangers would come to map and draw the terrain and fill the land with images of roads and hamlets before the building began. Alas, such building never came, for the last village to really have taken root within the land was my own, and now it is barren, populated by the dead.”

            “Be that as it may,” Mathias countered pointedly, “The time shall come when this gigantic mound will indeed be visited by Rangers who pioneer the western regions of the forest and surrounding hillocks. The wyrm has taken it for her roost I have no doubt. It is a mere two day’s march from Orizon, and a lofty perch for such a proud creature as Gildaryss is. She will want to spy on my city at all times, for long has she hated the Order of the Valar, which kept her fiery wrath from coming north in earnest. If my brothers among the Order have not yet set sail out of Aradis City, then that column of divine fire that spanned from earth to Heaven surely bade them depart. I do not know of a certainty, but I would say that the Order has opted to lend aid in this forthcoming battle.”

            “Are the Valar allowed to wage war against their own?” Kit wondered, “I was under the assumption that the Order was forbidden to combat their own people.”

            “Our race labored under the curse of the One God,” Mathias replied, “In His wrath at our disobedience for relying on the wyrms to covenant with after the fall of Telaine He commanded that we of the Order withdraw from the affairs and plots of our kinsmen. Orizon was an isolated city in an isolated land, removed from the populace massed in the southlands. Never one day did my brothers relent in praying and beseeching our God to forgive and restore us.”

            “How many of the Valar are coming?” Justias asked.

            “There must always be half of our number present within the Artisan’s Tower to govern our holdfast and safeguard the people who dwell within the limits of our province. Aside from that, half the number of Valar present in the Tower at the time of the proclamation would be sojourning southward, either as we speak or in time soon enough.”

            “Soon enough for what?” Simon declared, forgetting that he really had no business asking anyone anything. He felt greatly pleased simply to be there. Despite his misgivings Mathias gave an answer.

            “They will arrive in due time, my good man,” Mathias assured him patiently, knowing well the sudden look of anxiety on the fisherman’s face. “The One knows the affairs of His creation, and when it is best to send reinforcements.”

            “Do you suppose Agaen will return with Kendra?” Justias mouthed, rubbing his chin. There was a shadow of a full beard beginning to show, and Justias thought ruefully how Marek could no longer tease the young hunter for only having three chin hairs. But memories of the warrior were too painful to consider just then, at this crucial moment, and he thrust them out of his mind.

            “Of that I cannot say, my king. But your young lady would be better served if she remained in Orizon City, where it is by far safer than returning to this war-torn country. The Thistlebrush Wastes are truly going to have their name earned in the cruel days to come. But know this: if Gildaryss births a male heir, he will be the blood-born of Anzaryx; for I hold no doubt that a coupling between her and Jaerzahad will produce a powerful Dragon indeed. One that has not been seen since the collapse of the First Age.”

            “The lad kills the Tyrant Wyrm’s mate!” Kit snorted, shuddering, “It makes you almost feel for her.”

            “Lord Garand,” Justias declared as he turned to his regent and trusted captain, “I want you to send out conscriptions to every man sixteen years of age or older that is within three days march of this city if there is anyone at all left to heed the summons. Draft every man into effectual service for the army, either defending Cantlin while the main host is abroad or to march with us and swell our ranks, so we may hope to impact the host of the Dragon Clerics when we face them in battle. We will need every soldier we can find, but test their loyalty and be certain that they are willing to fight. I do not want cowards in our ranks, so as not to demoralize our other soldiers.”

            “It will be as you say, my king,” Pontius stood and saluted, then spun on his heel and called to two of his personal guard to escort him to the nearest courier where such notices could be written.

            “It is good to have you back, my son,” William grinned broadly and held onto Justias’ arm. The young hunter fought tears (feeling them inappropriate at the present moment) and snatched his father’s hand in his own.

            “It is good to be back with you, father. It is good to be home.”