“Doing a good job with that sword, er ya?” Atkins asked. The big, bearded redhead crouched down between Edgar and Vargus on Falcon Ridge’s Sittin’ Log, as it was cleverly named—the bark having been worn off by the rumps of hundreds of men over the years. Brigham sat alone on his side of the campfire, perhaps due to how he held the sharp relic horizontally across his lap. Vargus had only recently established the little rock-ringed cook fire and was still cautiously adding small branches to feed the fledgling flames. The sun was going down, and the evening meal would be delayed.
The Techylors were just now returning to the Harwood after a week of beer, hot food prepared by others, and a well-needed rest. They had been waiting for Tesh to return from the swamp, using that as a valid excuse for lingering at the Dragon Camp. Tesh was only supposed to be gone for a few days, but after nearly a week, Persephone sent a troop to look. Nyphron went with them, but before setting out, the Galantian leader had ordered Tesh’s men back to the tower. No one argued with Nyphron.
With the fading light, Edgar had decided to spend the night up on Falcon Ridge. All of them were tired and in no hurry to reach the legion camp where everyone would be begging for news and handouts of whatever they had brought back with them. The other Techylors would also want to know what had happened to Tesh—their leader, the founder of their band, and the commander of the First Legion. The men from the Dragon Camp didn’t have an answer.
“You better take good care of that sword,” Edgar said. “If Tesh finds out his only inheritance has been mistreated, he’ll demand you spar with him.”
Tesh was known for being a vicious instructor. He had learned combat from Sebek, who had a reputation for cruelty. Tesh felt the only way to teach others to match his skill was to put them through the same training. Just as with Sebek, no one wanted to face off with Tesh.
“Where do you think he is?” Brigham asked.
Atkins laughed. “He’s off with his woman. If I were him, I’d be in no hurry to return to the likes of us, either. Although, Avempartha is pretty at sunset.”
Brigham looked up to make a retort, but his eye caught sight of the tower in the distance. It was always amazing at sunrise or sunset.
The others turned to look. They were still several miles away—as the bird flew—up on the ridge, looking down at the falls where the last rays of sun made the water sparkle and the tower shimmer. From up there, they could see the bulk of the legion camp—a village of white tents in a clearing—and the tower beyond. Avempartha was beautiful, but the falls were the most impressive natural wonder Brigham had ever seen. The tower was simply the snow on the mountaintop, the welcoming smile on a beautiful woman.
Vargus placed another set of sticks on the smoking fire. “Hillman was asking when he could finish his training in the Vorath Discipline. It’s all he has left, and he’s anxious to be a full Techylor.”
“Why don’t you teach him?” Edgar asked.
“Didn’t think I could,” Vargus said. “Only just got the title myself a few months ago.”
“You’re a Techylor—you can train a Techylor. That’s how it works.”
Brigham saw Vargus smile and didn’t envy Hillman.
Mopping up the excess oil that had gathered around the guard, Brigham noticed Atkins still looking at the tower. Then Edgar stood up and he, too, stared. “What the Tet is that?”
Brigham, still holding the rag and the sword, also got to his feet. Peering into the golden mists of the falls, he saw something move—something big.
“Is that . . .” Atkins stopped himself and put up a hand to shade his eyes.
Within the cloud that billowed up from the cataract, Brigham saw it swoop. Then two great dark wings flapped, and behind them, a long serpent’s tail swiped. A moment later, fire engulfed the tents. A stream of flame swept left to right, turning the riverbank into an inferno and setting the forest on fire. Massive trees cracked and split as they went up like dry blades of grass. The creature in the sky dove like a raptor, picking up men and tents. Banking, it dropped them off the cliff, where bodies tumbled through the air like chaff in a stiff wind.
Brigham hastily shifted his grip on the sword, cutting himself for the second time on the oily blade.
“Grab what you can!” Edgar ordered.
“What are we doing?” Atkins asked as he picked up his pack.
“We’re moving. Going back to the Dragon Camp.”
“What?” Brigham was shocked. “That thing is killing everyone. They need help!”
“They’re dead men!” Edgar shouted. “Nothing can kill a dragon.”
This is a dragon-slaying blade.
Brigham looked down at the sword in his hands. “With this, I might—”
“Grab your things, boys! That’s an order! We are going back to report this to the keenig.” Another wave of flame blanketed the riverbank, creating a wall of fire and a thunderhead of dark smoke that churned and rolled upward. “Persephone needs to know that the elves have dragons.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Queen of the White Tower
The most important battle of the Great War did not disturb a single blade of grass, nor spill even a drop of blood, and it did not leave any footprints on the face of Elan. The clash of legends that changed the course of human events went unnoticed far beneath the feet of those whose lives it forever altered. — The Book of Brin
Gifford didn’t know what to expect as he came up those stone steps. He was still enthralled at how he was able to trot like everyone else, as if he were dancing. Gifford had always wanted to dance. He used to have fantasies where he twirled with Roan around a moonlit clearing in the middle of the Crescent Forest. Just the two of them spinning like fireflies, summer mist shrouding them from the rest of the world. With stars overhead, bright, clear, and sparkling, he would hold her in his arms, strong and sure, and she would let him kiss her. He imagined such a moment as perfect, but there was no such thing.
Gifford had kissed Roan. He hadn’t been strong or sure, they hadn’t danced, and there were no stars or fireflies. The kiss, like all things in Gifford’s life, had been clumsy, but even with all its awkwardness, he wouldn’t have traded the moment for all the moonlit glades in the world. Still, he hoped for a chance to have that dance. Then he reached the top of the stairs.
At first, Gifford couldn’t tell what he was seeing. They were on a flinty field of chipped rock. With the snow gone, it was a sheet of gray slate. Not far to his right, the White Tower of Ferrol was close enough to be frightening. Off to his left was the castle of King Mideon, made small by its distance. Straight ahead, a great stone bridge extended over vast emptiness. The long tongue was connected to a tiny pillar of stone, a weird twig-finger of rock. On top of it was what looked to be a small cave.
All of this Gifford understood easily, which was good, as it gave him his bearings. What he didn’t understand was everything else.
The body of a long-horned bull crossed his sight as it flew through the air, tumbling as it went. Gifford couldn’t begin to guess who or what had thrown the furious animal, but it slammed into a host of charging dwarfs, knocking them down.
A dark-skinned, bald, and very husky man dressed in little more than studded straps of leather wielded a fiery sword. He used this burning blade to hew through a contingent of Fhrey who tried to scatter away from him.