Something hard and cold knocked the back of Audric’s head. He fell, his vision spinning black. He tried to stand but was pushed flat to the ground. A plated boot on his chest pinned him in the mud. He looked up, blinking hard, and saw the shape of an armored angel framed by radiant white wings.
A blade touched his throat. His skin gave beneath it, a needle-sharp prick of pain.
Then the air bloomed with sound. Rich and warm, like voices raised in song.
The pressure on Audric’s chest lessened. He surged upward, Illumenor blazing, and sliced the angel’s torso in two. The body fell, its two halves smoking, and did not rise again. Whatever angel had lived inside it had fled, and Audric could see why at once.
Across the Flats, great winged shapes were dropping out of the sky. The spinning light of casted magic illuminated them as they hurtled into battle. They swept fast through the fight and knocked scores of angels to the ground.
Audric stared in wonder at their mighty furred bodies, their huge hooked wings that boomed like drums as they flapped.
They were dragons. Dragons, which no one had seen for an age. Dozens of them, some skinny and lean, the size of horses, others broad and muscled, large as warships. Figures rode atop them carrying staffs and swords, cloaks flying like dark wings behind them.
A passage from one of Audric’s favorite stories flashed through his mind. At the dawn of the Second Age, with the angels banished to the Deep, the saints began carving new cities out of the war-ravaged ground, and during these first years of peace, the godsbeasts fled the human cities. Where they went, it is not known, but some believe the ice dragons, the bestial champions of Saint Grimvald, retreated to the far north. They allowed only their chosen companions, the Kammerat, or dragon-speakers, to join them in those frozen reaches. Any others who have dared seek them have perished, their bodies returned home in the night, wrapped in the dark hooded plaincloth the Kammerat favor.
Audric watched in awe as the Kammerat raised polished horns of bone to their lips. They rode the dragons as easily as if they had born atop them. It was they who filled the air with song, the cascading calls of their horns ringing through the night.
The beasts tormenting the archers at the wall dropped their prey and shot back across the lake to meet the new arrivals, their shrieking calls piercing the air. Two winged battalions raced toward each other through a sky of smoke and sparks. For a brief moment, the sight rendered both armies dumb. Angels and humans alike cowered in fear.
Then came a thunderous clamor from the pass between Mount Taléa and Mount Sorenne. Audric squinted through the smoke, and a chill passed over him. His pounding heart flew to his throat.
For there, spilling down the pass, the earth rearranging itself neatly to provide a safe path, was a sea of flashing blades. Huge silver-dappled warhorses with streaming white tails, and rippling banners showing the colors of Saint Grimvald and House Lysleva—fiery orange, deep blue, and lavender soft as sunset, all snapping on a field of charcoal.
The Borsvallic army, three thousand strong, roared down from the mountains. Their fresh castings flashed; their horns blasted high, sharp battle cries.
Cheers erupted across the Flats. Celdarian and Mazabatian thrust their swords into the air.
Relief burned through Audric’s body, leaving him lightheaded. He had not let himself hope for their arrival, but now the sight of them thundering into battle lit a fresh fire in his heart.
He heard a clatter behind him, spun around, and cut three angels in two with three swift strikes, his arms blazing with power. They dropped, their ruined bodies hissing like wood afire.
He whistled for Atheria. She came to him at once, her nostrils flaring wide, her coat spotted with blood. He hesitated at the sight of her wounds, but she snapped at him, impatient; her wings trembled to fly. He swung atop her, and then they were in the air, racing to meet Borsvall’s army in the foothills. Illumenor lit the way, and he knew that across the Flats and in the city, his people would be watching him. They would see the light of Illumenor streaking toward the mountains, see the warriors of Borsvall riding to their aid, and they would stand taller and dare to think of tomorrow.
Atheria swooped low, brought Audric level with the leader of Borsvall’s troops—a rider on a white warhorse, fearless and fast. Two bannermen followed her, flying the colors of her house. It was Ingrid Lysleva, commander of the Borsvallic army and regent in her brother’s absence. She had not taken the throne, Audric had heard, even at the urging of her magisters and advisers.
Ingrid glanced up as Atheria began to fly beside her, matching the pace of her horse. She wore a silver helmet crested with horns, and when she met Audric’s eyes, it was with a fierce, wild grin.
Beyond her, one of the dragons spun down from the sky to fly alongside them. A smaller dragon, lean but ferocious, with snapping teeth, clever gold eyes, and a crest of patchy white fur. Her rider lay low against her neck. He was a fair-skinned man with dark hair whose face Audric did not recognize. He was dressed in a long loose coat and cloak sewn from dark plaincloth. One of the Kammerat, then, Audric thought. Behind him, clinging to his waist, was another man, similarly garbed, bearded and blond and thinner than Audric remembered.
Their eyes met across the wild space between them. Ilmaire raised a hand in greeting, and Audric’s heart lifted to see his friend. He had never believed the rumors that Ilmaire was dead. To see him alive and well, riding a dragon alongside his sister, as all three of them flew into battle, brought new strength to Audric’s tired limbs. Illumenor crackled to brilliant life.
Hundreds of angels had turned to face the charging Borsvallic army, their pikes at the ready. The sky rained black arrows. Audric heard horses cry out behind him, heard soldier after soldier fall. But still they charged, Ingrid’s shrill war cries piercing the air, and just before they met the angelic ranks, Audric reached out with his power, gathered every speck of casted light sunspinners across the battlefield had managed to summon, and thrust it all in one fell blow toward the enemy.
Light detonated across the Flats, knocking half the angels to their knees. The rest staggered, shooting without aim. The Borsvallic army tore through the enemy lines like fire through a forest. Battle sounds swallowed Audric whole. He glimpsed the flash of swords, the white of snapped bone. The mottled gray of a beastly hide, a dragon’s clever furred head. Angelic breastplates marked with that proud crest of wings.
Audric drove Atheria through the fray. He cast light left and right, throwing angels from their mounts, knocking swarming beasts away from their kill. The Borsvallic army churned behind him, following the path he blazed.
Then the air tightened, prickling Audric’s skin. A voice drifted toward him as if carried on the wind, only he knew at once that no one else could hear it.
Audric, it whispered.
Sweating, breathless from the use of his power, Audric shivered on Atheria’s back, for it was her voice calling to him, and it trembled with something he could not name.