Spell Fade (34 page)

“I’ll take care of the guards,” she said, sword in hand. “You deal with Jarel.” Before Dartan could argue, or even blink, Aliet charged through the open doors. In the narrow hall their superior numbers would mean nothing, and Aliet was quickly dispatching those who had not yet regained their feet. The door then slammed shut again, separating them from one another.

“There now,” Jarel said. “It’s just the two of us.” Dartan turned back and saw Jarel touch his wand to a blood red stone he had placed on the arm of the throne. Jarel’s spellstone. “Just something to make sure we aren’t disturbed,” he explained.

Dartan felt for the doors and found Jarel’s spell surrounding them. It didn’t feel like a particularly strong spell, but he couldn’t spend any will on breaking it just yet. Jarel was pointing the wand at him now.

The air around Dartan suddenly grew colder, as if a breeze from the mountain was passing. It took him only a moment to realize the source was Jarel’s wand, and the blast of ice meant to imprison him was met instead by his own fireballs. The two opposing elements met in the middle of the room, destroying one another in a flash of hissing steam.

“Roal told me you were strong,” Jarel smiled. “Said you single-handedly defeated the mountain troll without wand or word. I wasn’t sure if I believed him until now.”

“And did he tell you about our own duel?” Dartan asked absently. He was feeling again for the door, thinking of Aliet.

“He told me how it ended.”

Dartan’s eyes widened as he realized his mistake. He reached for the fire, searching for anything to distract Jarel. It was too late. The tooth was already in his hand, and Dartan was trapped in a cocoon of nothingness.

“Don’t feel too bad,” Jarel consoled a frozen Dartan as he drew close. “Even Alain had to use dragon artifacts to defend against dragon magic.” Dartan struggled, but found the only thing he could move was his eyes. He watched, helpless, as Jarel approached with the dragon claw, then drug it across his wrist, sending a shooting pain up his arm.

“Just a few drops is all I need,” he said, smearing the blood onto the claw. “It would be a shame for you to miss everything you’ve made possible – the release of the exiled dragon army, the fall of Pavlora, and the dawn of a new age for man and dragon.” He placed the claw with the other two parts, his collection now complete. “Of course, you’ll probably only be remembered as the king with the shortest reign in the history of Pavlora, but I suppose that’s something, at least.” He shrugged, then turned back, ready to begin the spell.

Jarel raised the dragon eye to his forehead and held the tongue next to his ear, while Dartan could do nothing but watch. After a moment, the tongue began moving, flexing up and down in Jarel’s hand, and the room was filled with a low murmur, like a hundred voices speaking at once. When it stopped, Jarel opened his mouth, echoing the same sounds. Then the cycle repeated. Dartan had no idea how much time he had left, but he knew it was quickly running out.

How could he fight this? Sights, sounds, smells, and even physical feeling all functioned, but the spell immobilizing him had blocked his sense of magical touch. It had swallowed him, keeping him from feeling anything outside of itself. It was the same feeling he had watching that dragon fly across the sky with Logan on its back. Nothing.

There had to be something he could use. His eyes drifted from the dragon skin case to the throne, where he spotted the spellstone and stopped. It was the same feeling of emptiness he had experienced with a spellstone.

“I believe they eat the stones,” Alain’s voice echoed in his head.

“They eat them,” Jarel’s voice followed.

“They eat spellstones,” Dartan would have said aloud, if he could move his lips. Perhaps there was a way out of this after all.

Jarel, oblivious to Dartan’s epiphany, repeated the final phrase the tongue whispered into his ear, and waited. In the stone wall facing him a dark portal inscribed with glowing blue sigils began to appear. “I can see the spell!” he exclaimed, dropping the tongue and reaching for the bloody claw.

Dartan needed a spell, any spell at all, but how could he cast anything? He could see his target, the tooth, hanging from Jarel’s neck, swinging back and forth from its metal chain against his fur-lined cloak, but he couldn’t touch it. Wait. Cool, dry air, and all that fur clothing – a static charge was all but inevitable. Releasing it would take almost no power at all, but could he manage it without feeling it?

“All that remains is to tear the bind,” Jarel said. His hand neared the claw, and Dartan focused all of his will on it. He blindly forced power into the air around it, and then pushed the spell onto Jarel’s dragon tooth, hoping he was right. The resulting bright white spark that arced between Jarel’s hand and the decorative metal clasp on the end of the claw knocked Jarel off his feet, and nearly two meters across the room.

Moaning as he sat back up, Jarel cradled his aching hand. His fingertips were blackened and burned where they had contacted the metal. He shook his head to clear it, then remembering what he was doing, looked for the portal. It was nowhere to be seen. It had not been the ending he expected, but he had done it! He got to his knees and shuffled towards the claw, reaching for it with his other hand.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Dartan warned. “The spell I cast on it is permanent, for now.”

“It’s not possible,” Jarel stammered, as he stood to face an advancing Dartan. “You’ve no defense against dragon magic,” he insisted, grasping the tooth and raising it against Dartan. It didn’t even slow him down.

“You’ll find that tooth about as useful as Alain’s spellstone was,” he said, forcing Jarel against the wall. Shackles built of Dartan’s will pinned Jarel’s arms and legs to the wall, which proved easier than he imagined, owing to Jarel’s practice of relying on dragon magic for the past several decades.

“How?” a beaten Jarel asked.

“I used this,” Dartan said, snatching the tooth from around Jarel’s neck. “Like you said,” Dartan continued, “dragons eat spellstones.” He moved towards the throne and picked up Jarel’s stone, admiring the empty feel of it for a moment. “But it’s not for nourishment. The stones give them their magic.” Jarel raised his head, watching Dartan closely now, wondering what the boy had figured out. “When a dragon dies that magic remains in its parts, but,” he held the stone up for Jarel to see, “it remembers from where it came.”

Dartan placed the stone back on the arm of the throne and held the tooth up again. “You’ve been using this to cast spells, but I used it like a stone. I used it to hold a spell.”

“Making you its owner,” Jarel concluded, a weak, whimsical smile on his bowed head.

“And dissolving the spell you cast with it,” Dartan added. “Which leaves just one more thing.” Jarel looked up and saw Dartan now had the tooth poised above his spellstone. “Releasing the rest of your spells.” There was no resistance until the tooth contacted the arm of the throne, but Dartan barely noticed among the shower of stone fragments. The tooth stood upright, buried in Jarel’s throne, and Dartan lowered his head. Finished.

A large boom echoed across the room, and Dartan’s head shot back up. The doors flew open, crashing into the walls, and Aliet charged through, blood-stained sword over her head. Dartan felt the strength drain from his legs, dropping him to his knees in relief as Aliet rushed over and fell into his outstretched arms. They alternated between kissing and making sure the other wasn’t injured. Satisfied there were no mortal wounds, they held each other in silence, feeling safe in their embrace, until that silence was broken.

“It’s not over,” a rasping voice from the wall beside them punctuated with a laughing cough. It was the now skeletal figure of Jarel that taunted them. He continued to age rapidly as they crossed the distance to where he hung. His eyes covered over in white cataracts, then began to sink into his head, his hair turned white then fell out, and his skin became thin enough to see veins and bone beneath. It was hard to tell if he was smiling now, or if his lips were simply disintegrating around his teeth.

“What do you mean?” Dartan asked the decomposing Jarel.

“I broke the bond,” he said, again with a laugh like rustling dead leaves. “The portal disappeared. It is open, and dragons will pour through to join my army in wiping Pavlora from the map. The world Alain worked so hard for is now undone. I’ve won.” His jaw moved a few more times, but he lacked the faculties necessary to produce sound. After a few more minutes his body was reduced to nothing more than a fine pile of dust at their feet.

“Is that true?” Aliet asked. “Did he open the portal?”

“I have no idea,” Dartan admitted.

“What about Alain?”

Dartan looked at the pile of dust and thought of Alain. Every spell he had ever cast suddenly pushed back onto him at once? It would have been too much for any wizard, let alone one as weak as Alain had become. There was no doubt now. When the dam broke, Alain had drowned. It raised a question even more important than the portal. How long did they have before the world beneath Alain’s spell began to bleed through this one?

Chapter Thirty-five

The royal guards and city militia had fared better than he expected. They didn’t stand a chance of beating him, but they certainly had tried. With the city’s magical defense gone, he thought they would simply lay down their arms and surrender. Instead they returned fire.

That had been almost an hour ago, and now he could see their resolve weakening. At first, they had scurried around like good little soldier ants, moving with purpose from one place to the next. With hit after hit coming over every side of the city wall though, that soon changed. Now they roamed aimlessly, stopping at one place to help before deciding it was a lost cause, and staggering on to the next. Some had already given up, stopping and refusing to move on or help any more. They stopped seeing any reason to continue. That’s what made Roal smile.

The only thing souring his mood was recalling Jarel’s orders. He had already broken them, but in the chaos that was certainly on its way by now, his actions would likely go unnoticed. Surely he couldn’t be blamed for throwing a fireball or two, just to keep the flames burning.

He was looking for the next place to deliver another flaming setback when his attention was drawn away from the city. A rhythmic throbbing in the air, like hearing your heartbeat in your ears after a battle, but this he could feel through his entire body. He had never experienced anything like it before, but immediately knew what it signaled. The rest of his army had arrived.

He looked towards the horizon, easily spotting the large black shapes in the sky. Dragons. It was enough to make him forget any fears he had of incurring Jarel’s wrath. How could anyone be angry when they commanded such a formidable force?

“You certainly seem pleased with yourself,” said a voice so close, he almost lost his footing. After regaining his balance, he turned, scale in hand, ready to strike. What he faced though, was a dead man. His eyes widened, and Logan smiled. “I mean, you’d think those were your dragons with the way you’re acting.”

“They are mine to command, slayer,” Roal countered with a sneer. Logan shrugged, and Roal’s smile returned. “I don’t know how you survived that fall, but I’m glad you’re here. One dragon against one slayer might be a fight, but against fifty it will be a massacre.”

“Fifty-seven.”

“What?”

“Fifty-seven. That’s how many there are,” Logan clarified. “And that’s just the first batch. There will be more behind those.”

What kind of game was he playing? Roal looked back and forth between the oncoming swarm of dragons and Logan, but he couldn’t figure out why the slayer was so calm. It was his death approaching.

Logan could see the struggle Roal was having. He saw ‘how’, ‘what’, and ‘why’ all trying to force themselves out at once, so he made a simple suggestion. “Look closer.”

Roal narrowed his eyes at Logan, then turned to inspect his army. He had no idea what he was supposed to be looking for, and saw nothing other than a pathetic attempt at some desperate plan of misdirection. The spell that would shred Logan into tiny pieces was on his lips when he finally saw it. He blinked several times, then rubbed his eyes, but the image wouldn’t disappear – a figure sitting on the back of each dragon.

“Behold!” Logan proclaimed. “The Riders of Kinsley.”

Roal’s face turned crimson from holding back a scream, and his fingers gripped the dragon scale so tightly its ridges began cutting in to his skin.

“Whether you call yourself slayer or rider makes no difference to me,” he growled. “Either way, you’ll be dead!” He shouted the spell, putting all of his power into it, and cast it.

Logan didn’t even flinch. Roal stood frozen for a moment. Had he somehow misspoken?

“Want to give it another try?” Logan taunted. Roal’s anger renewed, calling the spell out again, though not quite as loud this time. The power surged through his arm, passed through the scale, and then fizzled before even getting close to Logan. The red in his face slowly drained, leaving him pale and unsure.

“Maybe you should leave dragon magic to dragons,” Logan suggested.

“I don’t understand,” Roal panted, weakened from the power he had put into the spells. “You’re not a wizard. You don’t have any magical ability.”

“You’re right,” Logan said, then hitched a thumb up over his shoulder. “But she does.”

Roal looked up and from behind Logan the long neck and thick head of a dragon rose into the air. She placed her head in between the two men, and stared with black-slit pupils into Roal’s widening eyes.

Logan peered out from around her head, remarking on the wet spot forming in Roal’s crotch. “Well, I’m sure that just completely ruins the taste.” She growled, and ruffled Roal’s clothes with a blast of hot air. “Oh, well if you’re just going to eat the head, then I guess it doesn’t matter.” Roal raised his hands in protest, and started scurrying backwards, but head and body only made it one step together. His body managed two more steps on its own before tumbling off the wall.