Jermayan and Ancaladar had fought the Deathwings before, but never in such numbers, and this time their intent was clear—if they could not harm Ancaladar they would kill his Bonded, for the death of one meant the death of the other.
And they could harm Ancaladar, for the dragon, though large, and fast, and possessed of a tough armored hide, was still flesh and bone and blood.
Their fight carried them far from the mountains, far past Ysterialpoerin. For every one of the white-furred horrors slain by Ancaladar’s teeth and claws—or Jermayan’s sword and spells—two more seemed to take its place. When the creatures could find no other way to attack, they simply threw their bodies at the dragon and his rider, attempting to batter them from the sky by sheer force.
But at last the sky was clear.
“Where now?” Ancaladar asked. Jermayan could feel his Bonded’s weariness. It matched his own. But there was still work to be done; the fight was by no means over, not for them, and not for the army below and behind them.
“Back toward the battlefield. Fly below the clouds. I want to be able to let Redhelwar know how the land lies between Ysterialpoerin and the cavern.”
“Of course,” Ancaladar agreed, curving a wingtip in a gentle arcing descent.
Ysterialpoerin was quiet, as was the camp. But then, running through the snow below, Ancaladar spotted a lone horseman riding at top speed through the snow in the direction of the city.
“That’s Nironoshan. One of Kellen’s troop,” the dragon said.
“Follow his tracks,” Jermayan ordered tersely. Kellen had sent his fastest rider as a messenger to Ysterialpoerin—but why?
A few wingbeats later, he knew.
The ice-drake reared up out of the earth, spraying rock and ice about it with the force of its exit, and then lowered itself to the snow, seeking food. The creatures would eat carrion, or the frozen victims of their radiated cold, but they preferred to stun their prey with their breath and swallow their paralyzed quarry before it died.
Jermayan could see the remains of a battle on the snow below, and a handful of Elven Knights still alive.
And Kellen, directly in the ice-drake’s path.
Jermayan summoned Fire, enfolding the creature in flames. But to his dismay, it was not consumed. The flames coated it like a cloak. They annoyed it. But they did not harm it.
The ice-drake reared back, lifting half its length from the snow and looking for its tormentor.
And Ancaladar stooped upon it, seizing it behind the head, and dragged it into the sky, his mighty wings straining. The ice-drake hissed and thrashed, spewing clouds of poison vapor that were blown harmlessly away by the winds of the upper air before they reached Jermayan.
As the white worm flailed, Jermayan tried spell after spell, before realizing that all of them were useless. No spell that he knew had the slightest effect on the creature. All he could do was use his spells to constantly heal the damage it was doing to both him and Ancaladar with its radiant cold, for as long as his strength held out. Beyond that, this was Ancaladar’s fight alone.
The dragon raked the ice-drake’s body with his formidable hind talons. The ice-drake used its body like a whip, attempting to wrap itself around the dragon’s neck and break it, or strike his wings hard enough to break them.
And no matter what, Ancaladar dared not let go of his grip on the ice-drake’s head.
—«♦»—
“THEY’RE fighting,” Kellen said, in response to Isinwen’s question. His battle-sight showed him the combatants, locked in struggle above the clouds. “Ancaladar will win,” he added, with a certainty he did not feel, “and then he and Jermayan can give you all the details.” He shook his head to clear it; there was still work to do. “Come on. Half the Shadowed Elves ran off when that thing came out of the ground. We need to find out where.”
The others were as tired and nearly as battered by the cold as he was, and of the twenty who had ridden away from the main battle with him, five would never ride again.
“The snow is fresh. Let me try,” Reyezeyt said.
—«♦»—
EXHAUSTION tugged at Jermayan, but he knew he dared not fail. A moment’s inattention to his spells, and both he and his Bonded would freeze to death. It would not matter which died first, for the other’s death would follow in a heartbeat.
Ancaladar roared with pain and fury as the ice-drake slammed its muscular coils once more into his ribs. This time he was quick enough, darting his head down and to the side. His jaws sank into the ice-drake’s body with a sound like ice breaking on a frozen pond.
For just an instant, the creature went still in agony. Jermayan could taste the foulness of its blood in his own mouth as well as the acid pain of burning cold. But in that instant, Ancaladar claimed the victory.
He curled his hind talons upward, sinking them deep into the ice-drake’s body in an unbreakable grip. It was impossible for him to fly in such a contorted position, but he had flown very high during their battle; now he folded his wings back and simply fell, pulling at the struggling body in his grasp with claws and teeth.
At last, the ice-drake… tore. Jermayan felt it die, felt the ancient and inimical energies fade, and felt Ancaladar’s surge of triumph at the same moment. Ancaladar’s jaws snapped shut—he quickly opened them again, spitting out fragments of flesh—and he straightened his body with a snap, letting the wind pull his wings open.
The ground had been very close.
Relief gave Jermayan new energy, and Ancaladar’s magic was a boundless well for him to draw from. He healed the damage—the last of the damage, for with the ice-drake dead, there would be no more—and sent up a silent prayer of gratitude to Leaf and Star that they had won. He let his own joy and relief spill out to Ancaladar, and felt the dragon share his own.
Ancaladar circled low over the pit from which the ice-drake had emerged, and fastidiously dropped the pieces of the dead creature beside it. There was no blood—that had been spattered to the winds above—and the corpse was already softening in the quick dissolution of creatures of the Dark.
Ancaladar landed, and walked over to the pit, peering down into it curiously.
“I wonder where it leads?” he asked.
“Nowhere we want to go,” Jermayan said grimly. “Nor do I think our enemies should have the use of it.”
The Spell of Unmaking was one of the most complicated spells he knew— and one of the most dangerous, for it returned things to their original condition, and so must be used with great care. But Ancaladar had insisted that he practice it, over and over and over again, and now Jermayan had good reason to be grateful for his teacher’s stern determination.
He cast it now, focusing upon the pit.
Stone and earth and ice shivered; snow leaped up into the air; all caught in the dance of magic. A moment later, the pit was gone, sealed once more.
“Now we return to the fight,” Jermayan said.
“Yessss,” Ancaladar agreed, and Jermayan smiled, just a little, to feel the dragon’s strength return as they launched back into the sky.
—«♦»—
THE tracks of the Shadowed Elves led quickly into the trees and scattered, and then vanished altogether. Try as he might, Kellen could summon no vision of What-Had-Been to tell him where they’d gone, nor could Reyezeyt find any trace of them—not even the piles of ash that Shadow Mountain tended to leave of servants it was displeased with.
But it shouldn’t be displeased with these servants, should it? They and the others had done exactly what they’d meant to—unleashed another Shadow-born monster to ravage the Elven lands. If Jermayan and Ancaladar couldn’t kill it…
After at least an hour spent searching for a trail that didn’t exist, even Kellen was willing to give up.
“Come on,” he said wearily. “We’d better report to Redhelwar. But I want to take a last look at the pit, first.” He paused a moment to try and find Jermayan and the dragon with his battle-sense, but even that was weakening as exhaustion claimed him.
When they got there, Kellen received one of the few pleasant surprises of the night. The pit had been filled in—as if it had never been—and lying in the snow atop it were the two halves of the ice-drake.
Like the Deathwings, it seemed to be decomposing with supernatural swiftness, and the destriers, well-trained though they were, flatly refused to approach the stinking remains.
“At least we know who won,” Kellen said. I hope they’re both all right.