Marshal Berman gazed to his left and observed the long line of Khadoran horsemen. A rainbow of uniforms extended far beyond the limitations of his eyesight. He nodded with pride and swiveled his head to the right. A mirror image presented itself; only the clan colors were different. Next he glanced over his shoulder at the horde of the Aritor clan, which was slightly in front of the rest of the line. The morning sun was just breaking the horizon, and the Vandegar Temple was visible far in the distance. As the first rays of the sun swept over the vast plain, the ground sparkled with a thousand pinpricks of reflected light.
“What the devil is that?” asked Lord Faliman. “Something is reflecting the light.”
Lord Marshal Stanton rose up in his stirrups and gazed over the wasteland. For several moments his eyes tried to decipher what lay before him. Finally he nodded to himself and sat down with a sigh of relief.
“It is an old battlefield,” he announced. “Thousands must have died here ages ago.”
“Ages ago?” questioned the Aritor lord. “What do you see?”
“Nothing but a bunch of fallen skeletons on the ground,” answered Lord Marshal Stanton. “The sun is reflecting off of their old swords.”
“I do not recall hearing about any old battles here,” frowned Lord Faliman.
“This used to be the home of the Jiadin warriors,” explained Lord Marshal Stanton. “The temple at Vandegar was the center of their war of destruction. One can assume that many battles took place in this wasteland.”
The vanguard had reached the edge of the ancient battlefield, and the Aritor clan rode onward, the hooves of the horses making a loud racket as they trampled the long deceased warriors and bones snapped beneath the weight.
“Why are the swords still shiny?” Marshal Berman muttered aloud.
“Not much rusts in the desert,” shrugged Lord Marshal Stanton, “but the glare is blinding.”
Marshal Berman grew increasingly nervous as the Aritor clan moved further into the old battlefield. He rose up and turned to look behind him. The entire group of Aritor horsemen was riding over the skeletons, and the main line of the other Khadora clans was about to begin crunching bones as well. As he turned forward once again, his brow began sweating profusely, although the heat of the day had not yet begun.
“Something is not right here,” Marshal Berman declared. “The Jiadin were horsemen as were all Fakaran warriors. Where are the horse skeletons? All we are seeing are the remains of men.”
“You are right,” frowned Lord Faliman. “Is it not also curious that each warrior died with his weapon in hand? Usually warriors lose their weapons in death, but not a one of these fallen soldiers is without his.”
Marshal Berman held up his hand to halt the column.
“We are turning back,” he stated.
“Because of this cemetery?” balked Lord Marshal Stanton.
“Because this is not natural,” snapped Marshal Berman. “We will take the time to learn the true significance of this battlefield before we continue. Turn the men around Lord Marshal.”
Lord Marshal Stanton hesitated a moment and then finally shouted the order to retreat. A horn blared the retreat, and the Aritor horsemen began to turn around. Unexpectedly, the field of skeletons rose as one and began slashing at the Khadorans.
“We are under attack!” shouted Marshal Berman as a dozen skeleton warriors surged towards his point position. “Keep sounding the retreat so that the other clans will hear it,” he yelled to the hornsman.
Marshal Berman drew his sword and slashed at the skeletons trying to encircle him, but there was nothing to sink his blade into. There were no screams from the victims of his swings, and his steel neither sank into flesh, nor caused blood to flow onto the barren soil.
The Balomar marshal’s eyes flicked in every direction as he parried blows from the swords of the dead. He saw thousands of skeletons racing towards the still advancing line of Khadorans, and he caught sight of Lord Marshal Stanton trying his best to keep Lord Faliman safe so that he could retreat. Berman cursed as he realized that all was lost for the vanguard. He wheeled his horse and raced towards the hornsman.
“Stanton,” shouted Marshal Berman, “leave Faliman and rally to the hornsman. We must stop the Khadoran advance.”
“I cannot leave my lord,” refused the lord marshal.
“Your lord is dead,” snapped Berman as he raced past. “We are all dead. Make our lives worth something. We must protect the hornsman as long as we can.”
Marshal Berman reached the retreating hornsman and took up his right flank. Ahead of him he saw the army of skeletons closing off the path of retreat.
“Blow, son,” encouraged the Balomar marshal. “Blow as long and as hard as you can. Give your countrymen a chance to live.”
Lord Marshal Stanton pulled up on the hornsman’s left flank and began slicing into the skeletons. Berman saw Lord Faliman race by, but the path was already blocked. All around the hornsman, Aritor soldiers cried out in pain as they toppled from their horses. Berman swung his blade hard, and his victims’ bones cracked in response, but the dead warriors did not fall. The skeletons continued attacking, switching the hands that wielded their weapons if they needed to.
“I got one to fall,” Stanton shouted in triumph.
“How?” yelled Berman as the hornsman continued to blare the retreat.
“Break their necks,” shouted Stanton.
Marshal Berman nodded in understanding and extended his reach on the next swing. His sword slammed into a skeleton’s neck and its head lopped off. The skeleton collapsed in a pile of bones, but the swing cost Berman dearly. Two swords sliced into his leg, and he yelped in pain as blood gushed out of his wounds. Marshal Berman gritted his teeth and struck out again. He scored another blow to the neck of a skeleton and watched the bones fall to the ground, but his joy was short-lived. He watched in amazement as his hand and sword fell to the ground. For a moment he felt no pain from his severed hand, as if it was all a dream, but reality returned all too soon. Blood spewed from the stump of his arm, and he closed his eyes for a final prayer to Kaltara. Seconds later the marshal’s body was struck in several places at once. He tumbled from his horse, and his world grew black.
* * *
Emperor Marak was in the forest south of Lake Jabul. He stood with Lyra, Ukaro, King Avalar, and Princess Alastasia. As the sun broke the horizon he could just make out the long line of Khadorans advancing eastward.
“So it begins,” he said softly.
“Should we be advancing as well?” asked Princess Alastasia.
“No,” the Torak shook his head. “The Khadoran army is enough of a threat to make Vand show his hand. Let’s wait and see what surprises he has in store for us.”
“What is out there?” Lyra asked with a puzzled expression. “Thousands of flickers are reflecting the sun.”
“I see that, too,” nodded King Avalar. “Something is out there.”
The Torak’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the thousands of tiny flashes. It was as if the entire ground was littered with pieces of metal. The reflections appeared on both sides of the lake and stretched out far to both the east and the west. The only area that did not have any reflections was right around the distant temple.
“I have to go look,” declared the Torak.
“On Myka?” asked the Star of Sakova. “I thought you said you would not be riding her into battle?”
“I must know what is out there,” replied Marak. “There is nothing natural about those reflections. They are Vand’s surprise.”
The Torak turned and ran through the woods to the clearing where Myka rested. He raced right up onto her back with impatience.
“Going somewhere?” quipped the dragon.
“I have no time for humor,” replied the Torak. “Get me over the battlefield quickly. Something is wrong.”
Myka wasted no words in reply. She rose up and leaped into the sky.
“Head towards the Khadorans,” instructed Marak, “but keep low enough for me to see what we are traveling over.”
Myka skimmed over the trees of the forest and was soon flying over the baked soil of the wasteland. Marak looked down with a puzzled expression on his face. Thousands of skeletons littered the ground and it soon became obvious that the sun was reflecting off the swords that they held.
“An old battlefield?” questioned the dragon.
“I don’t think so,” mused the Torak. “Do you see any of the bones crushed? Each skeleton is fully formed. How could anyone ride or march to Vandegar without crushing some of the bones?”
“Maybe no one has ever approached the temple from this direction?” posed the dragon.
“Possible,” admitted the Torak, “but I will not accept that just yet. We have been expecting some surprise from Vand, and this is surprising.”
“We will know soon enough,” declared the dragon. “Your Khadorans are about to start crunching bones.”
Marak strained his eyes trying to see the progress of the Khadoran clansmen, but they were still too far away to make out the details. His eyes drifted downward and scanned the skeleton bodies.
“Did you hear that?” asked Myka.
“Hear what?” asked Emperor Marak.
“A horn,” answered the dragon. “It came from the Khadorans.”
Suddenly, the skeletons below came to life and rose to their feet, their bony hands brandishing swords.
“Mercy!” swore the Torak. “There are thousands upon thousands of them.”
“And not enough flesh on all of them put together for even a decent snack,” the dragon said dryly.
Marak dragged his eyes away from the skeletons below and focused on the blur of Khadorans in the distance.
“What can you see?” he asked the dragon as they sped across the wasteland.
“The vanguard is being encircled,” Myka reported. “The rest of the Khadorans are still moving forward as if unaware of the danger, but the horn is still blowing.”
“I can hear it now,” nodded Marak.
“The blue and green ones are falling from their horses,” the dragon continued. “They have turned around to flee, but there is nowhere for them to go.”
“Is Marshal Berman with them?” asked Marak.
“There is one in orange and yellow among them,” replied the dragon. “He fights valiantly, but his blows are wasted. The creatures do not fall down when struck.”
Emperor Marak turned his head to survey the rest of the area around the temple. He saw a large mass of red uniforms around the temple, but they were making no move to join the battle. Suddenly, swift movement caught his eye near the roof of the temple. He squinted into the rising sun and saw a large black shape leap off the roof. Its wings spread out, and it flapped hard as it headed straight towards Marak and Myka.
“We have a visitor coming,” the Torak said nervously. “I think it might be a demon.”
Flames shot out of the dragon’s mouth as her head turned towards the temple.
“Barrok,” spat the dragon. “Use your knife, Torak. This will be the type of ride you never wished for.”
“Perhaps you should put me down?” questioned the Torak. “I do not want to hinder your fighting.”
“I wish there was time to do just that,” replied Myka, “but there is not. I cannot afford to let the demon get above me. I would also lose too much speed by letting you off. Use your knife and hang on.”
Emperor Marak shoved his knife into the scale of the dragon. He wedged it in strong and gripped it with both hands. As Myka turned to face the approaching demon, Marak’s eyes returned to the battle below. They had covered enough ground so that Marak was now able to see clearly. What he saw was disturbing.
The Khadoran Emperor watched as Marshal Berman fell to the ground, his body cut and bleeding. The hornsman was the next to go, but the most interesting sight was that of Lord Marshal Stanton breaking the neck of one of the skeletons. The creature immediately crumpled into a pile of bones and did not get up again. He also saw Lord Faliman sliced open and realized that none of the vanguard would live. He hastily wove an air tunnel to the Khadoran mages behind the line of horsemen.
“You need to hang onto your knife,” warned the dragon. “I will not be able to stop you from falling.”
“In a minute,” replied the Torak.
An air mage picked up his air tunnel, and the Torak wasted no words.
“Tell Lord Marshal Yenga to assume command of the army,” ordered the Emperor. “Tell everyone that the creatures need to be decapitated. Order the cavalry to fall back and use the mages to blast the skeletons in any way they can to aid in the retreat.”
“Retreat?” asked the air mage.
“Yes,” snapped the Torak. “Get our people away from the skeletons. Notify King Avalar about everything I have said and try to contact the Fakarans.”
“Using air tunnels?” questioned the mage.
“The time for secrecy is over,” replied the Torak. “Vand knows that we have arrived. Our forces need to coordinate.”
“The knife, Torak!” shouted Myka. “Now!”
Marak dropped the air tunnel and quickly grabbed the knife. He looked up to see the grotesque creature streaking towards them. Its fangs were bared and long, sharp talons were stretched out before it. The two powerful creatures were on a collision course at a speed that the Torak could only imagine. He gripped the knife firmly with both hands and waited for the crash that was to come.
Suddenly, Myka rolled to one side, her claws reaching out to rake the side of the passing demon. Marak gripped the knife harder than he had ever gripped anything in his life, and his legs tried to press against the sides of the dragon to avoid being sent to his death below. The demon screamed as it passed, and one of its wings came perilously close to Marak.
“First blood,” Myka said with satisfaction as she leveled out and swept into a sharp bank to the left.
Marak felt his body tossed about like the ear of a romping dog. He gripped the knife anew and adjusted his legs as the dragon straightened and headed towards the distant demon that had also turned around. Once again the two huge creatures raced towards one another, and once again it appeared that a collision was imminent.
Unexpectedly, the demon’s wings flared out to each side and the demon dropped rapidly. Myka screamed as she flew over the demon, as Barrok gashed her underside with its sharp claws. The dragon did not turn as quickly as the last time, but sped on straight for some time. Marak turned his head and saw the demon approaching from behind.
“It’s coming up behind you,” warned the Torak.
“I know,” answered the dragon. “You must hang on tightly just before Barrok reaches me. You will be jarred abruptly.”
Marak kept watching the approaching demon until it was too close to see without letting go of the knife. Unexpectedly, Myka’s entire body thrashed as her powerful tail whipped full out and smashed the demon in the face. The demon reacted as if it had run into a wall. Its wings flapped furiously and Barrok dropped a hundred paces in altitude. Myka had already begun her dive and spiraled around to attack the demon before it recovered. Her claws dug into the demon’s face, but Barrok was not defeated yet. The demon spun its body, and its talons tore into Myka’s left wing. The dragon broke off, large tears shredding a section of her wing. She immediately rose higher in the sky to put distance between the demon and herself.
“Can you win this fight?” asked the Torak. “This demon seems to be a formidable foe.”
“I must,” replied Myka. “This is only the first of six, and those six are the survivors of the last battle. They are all skilled and deadly. Thankfully they are attacking one at a time, or I would have no chance at all. Hold on tight, Torak, we are going in for the kill this time.”
Marak was not sure if Myka could kill the demon. The lacerations in her wing surely had to affect her ability to maneuver quickly, and the Torak could see no weakness in the demon.
Myka wobbled as she flew, and the demon cackled as it circled. On one pass the demon spit at Myka, and a large glob of acidic spittle landed near Marak. The glob smoked as it started to eat through one of Myka’s scales. Marak’s hand darted to his pack to retrieve a piece of cloth to blot the sputum, but Myka spoke sharply.
“Mind your knife, Torak,” ordered the dragon.
“Wise, Myka,” cackled Barrok. “There is no need to worry about scales when you both shall be dead soon.”
Marak’s hands immediately gripped the knife tightly. The demon darted inward towards Myka’s injured wing from the rear. Myka suddenly folded her wings inward and began to drop precipitously. The demon shouted in surprise and streaked after the falling dragon. The Torak’s body lifted off the dragon’s back, and he remained affixed only by his hands holding the knife. Without warning, Myka’s wings suddenly flared outward, and Marak’s body slammed into the dragon’s scales. The demon had been tricked into believing that Myka was heading for the ground. As the demon instantly caught up to the dragon, Myka twisted in the air and snapped her jaws tight on Barrok’s throat. The demon gagged and flailed as it tried to break free, but the dragon increased the pressure as her teeth sunk ever deeper. Acidic, black blood seeped out of the demon’s neck and flowed along its body. With a loud snap, the demon’s head lolled to one side. Myka flipped her head and discarded the creature’s body. Marak watched the demon’s carcass fall to the ground.
“You did it!” exclaimed the Torak.
“This is no time for congratulations,” sighed Myka. “Agad and Caliphia are coming out to play.”
The Torak glanced towards the temple and saw two distant black shapes winging away from the building’s roof.
* * *
“Have them blunt their arrows,” shouted King Avalar. “I want them to hit solidly when they are fired. There will be no flesh to bite into. The task is to break the spinal column supporting the head.”
“I will see to it,” promised Galantor.
The elven king returned his attention to the duel in the sky in time to see the demon gore the underside of the dragon.
“That doesn’t look good,” commented Ukaro. “Isn’t there anything that we can do to help?”
“Not according to Myka,” Lyra shook her head. “The demons are immune to magic, and our weapons are puny in comparison to the armor of their hides.”
“Emperor Marak is being tossed around dangerously,” frowned Princess Alastasia. “If Myka dies, so does the Torak. How can he manage to hang on?”
“His life depends upon hanging on,” Ukaro said softly.
StarWind came running towards the group and halted alongside Lyra.
“We have contacted the Astor,” she reported. “We were just in time. The free tribes were just about to advance into the field of skeletons. They have halted and are awaiting instructions.”
“They will have to wait a bit,” Lyra said distractedly. “I don’t know how to continue without the Torak.”
“We must continue,” balked King Avalar. “We are all committed to destroying Vand. There is no other option for us. He will destroy our world. Surely the Star and the Astor will carry on?”
“I understand the position that we are in,” Lyra retorted tensely. “What I meant by my words is that the prophecies clearly state that the Three will battle Vand for control of the world. If the Torak dies, the Three are no longer. I do not know if just the Astor and I can fulfill the prophecy.”
“I will not accept that,” Princess Alastasia declared. “Everyone here will fight to the death to destroy Vand. I do not care what the prophecies state. We are all committed to this campaign, and we shall finish it, one way or another.”
“Well spoken, daughter,” smiled King Avalar.
“I would have it no other way,” explained Lyra. “I have no intention of backing out. I just want everyone to realize that our fight may be futile. That is not to say that we would even think of abandoning it.”
“A tail to the face!” exclaimed Ukaro. “Myka is going in for the kill.”
Everyone’s attention returned to the battle overhead as Myka’s claws ripped into the demon’s face and then the demon shredded the dragon’s wing.
“This is not going well,” StarWind remarked with nervousness. “Can’t we do something? I would rather attack than stand here watching helplessly.”
“Myka does look wounded,” sighed King Avalar, “but I would never give up on a winged warrior. They have the spirit of Kaltara abiding within them.”
“Within her,” corrected the Star of Sakova. “Myka is the last of her kind.”
The group watched as the demon circled the wounded dragon. Breaths were held and the camp fell silent as the demon spiraled closer and closer.
“She’s falling,” gasped Lyra. “Oh, Kaltara, save her.”
The demon dove after the falling dragon, and everyone held their breath again. When Myka flared her wings and struck the demon in the neck, the whole crowd cheered loudly. They watched with satisfaction as the demon’s body plummeted to the ground.
“I thought Marak would fall off when Myka began dropping,” Lyra sighed with relief. “He was barely hanging on, and a fall from such a height would surely have killed him.”
“Praise Kaltara that that is over with,” exhaled Ukaro.
“Praise him indeed,” King Avalar said softly, “but it is not over. Look towards the temple.”
The group gazed towards the towering Temple of Vandegar and saw the two black specks flying towards the dragon.
“She is in no condition to fight right now,” frowned Ukaro. “She must flee to fight another day.”
“She is trying to flee to the east,” remarked StarWind, “but her flying is erratic. I don’t think she will be able to elude them.”
The demons saw the dragon’s intended path and moved to intercept her. The two demons separated in altitude as they approached Myka, and everyone knew that the fight would commence soon. There was no way for Myka to escape. As everyone watched in horrified silence, the demons angled to get the dragon between them so that they could both attack at once. Myka tried frantically to outmaneuver the demons by twisting and turning and reversing course, but it was not to be. Another battle in the sky was about to begin, and this one was not a match of equals.
A sudden communal gasp ripped through the forest as Emperor’s Marak’s body separated from the back of the dragon and plummeted towards the ground. No sooner had he fallen than the demons swept in to strike the dragon and deal a deathblow to their mighty foe.