Pieces on a Board

Calen groaned. Not at one thing in particular, but at everything. A drum pounded on the inside of his skull, his throat was raw and dry, and his lips were so cracked and broken that the coppery taste of blood was a permanent fixture in his mouth. Bruises and cuts marked his wrists where the manacles dug into his skin. Even opening his eyes for longer than five or six seconds at a time felt as though it took every ounce of his energy. He had no idea how long he'd been in that cell. He wasn't even sure when he'd last eaten. He knew it had been so long that his stomach no longer rumbled – it just hurt. Yet still, in all that pain, he was hollow. Numb. Without the touch of Valerys's mind, Calen was alone. Truly alone.

"You're awake."

Calen had grown to hate High Mage Artim Valdock's insidious voice; it slithered, and crawled from the man's mouth, trying desperately to drag the thoughts from Calen's head. He was a parasite.

Wincing, Calen curled up in a fit of coughs, shivering.

"You really are a wretch, aren't you? You will soon be gone from this place, and at the very least, I shall reap the rewards of your capture. I have only come to ask you one question. Why?"

With his lungs feeling as though they were on the verge of collapse, Calen pushed through the pain and emptiness, dragging himself to a semi-upright position, resting his shoulder on the solid stone wall of the cell, his eyes meeting Artim Valdock's inquisitive stare.

In the villages, the High Mage probably would have been considered a handsome man, with his sharp face, tanned skin, and blonde hair. But as he stood there outside the cell, looming over Calen, his black, silver-trimmed robes draped around his shoulders, he looked like nothing more than a viper.

"Let me clarify," Artim said. "Why do you put yourself through this for people who only seek to control you?" The High Mage lowered his head, ensuring his eyes were locked on Calen's. "The men and women you protect would see this continent burn, so long as they have their revenge. And they would use you as a puppet to achieve this. They are not your allies or your kin. They are your puppet masters. The Dragonguard are your only true kin."

Calen gritted his teeth as he stared at the man. He knew what the High Mage was doing. He was trying to get inside Calen's head again. Trying to plant the seeds of doubt. The only problem was that some of his words rang true. It had been Aeson Virandr who brought the empire to the villages. It was Aeson Virandr who brought the men who killed Calen's family and likely many others in The Glade. Faces flashed through Calen's mind: Tach Edwin, Jorvil Ehrnin, Mara Styr… Anya. Aeson Virandr would not know any of their names, yet he might have caused their deaths. And it was Aeson Virandr and Therin who brought Calen to Belduar, where the empire followed them. So many dead. Calen's heart would have sunk into the depths of his stomach if it had not already been swallowed whole by the void left by Valerys's consciousness.

But even considering everything, Aeson Virandr was the person who had brought Valerys to Epheria. And as Calen lay in that cell, the only thing he cared about was getting those manacles off and feeling the touch of Valerys's mind once more. Without it, everything was meaningless. It was not a feeling Calen thought he could ever explain to another person. It gave him great sympathy for Aeson, and an understanding as to what it meant to be Rakina. To be Broken.

Calen could still feel the slightest lingering of Valerys in his mind, just a sensation, an inexplicable spark that let him know Valerys was still alive. It was all that kept him sane. Aeson's dragon, Lyara, had died centuries ago. Yet still the man persevered. Pushing through all the pain, the loss, the anguish. What Calen was experiencing barely scratched the tip of what it was to be Rakina.

Artim Valdock stood completely still, the silver trim on his robes glimmering in the light of the sconces set into the walls. His eyes were fixed on Calen as though expecting an answer.

Calen did his best to hold the man's gaze, straining to keep his eyes open.

"Just something to think on." A slow grin spread across the man's face, his eyes unyielding. "When they come for y—"

The door to the room burst open, followed by a blur of motion that Calen could barely comprehend. Shadows flickered around the room, men charging. The High Mage screamed.

Calen grunted, pulling himself forward, clasping his hand around the iron bar of the cell door, dragging himself so he could better see what was going on. Calen's eyes strained in the dim light as he tried to make out faces, but he could feel his consciousness slipping, his vision growing darker.

Tarmon drew in a deep breath, his heart thumping as he stood beside the heavy wooden door, readying himself. He squeezed his fingers on the hilt of his sword and lifted his left hand up, gauging the weight of the heavy, rune-crafted manacles. Exhaling, he turned to the others, who all nodded.

With one last deep breath, Tarmon dropped his shoulder and slammed it into the door, flinging it open with brute force. The door crashed off the wall as Tarmon bounded across the threshold.

Tarmon knew he needed to close the distance between himself and the High Mage as quickly as he could. It was his only chance. The High Mage stood only a few feet away, staring at something in one of the cells, his black robes rippling in the back flow of air that had flushed through the room when Tarmon had opened the door.

By the time Tarmon was within striking distance, the man had only just begun to turn his head. I need to take him down before he has a chance to think. Before he can use his magic. Reaching deep into the pit of his stomach, Tarmon summoned all the strength he could find, channelling it into an almighty swing of his left arm. The heavy steel manacles in his left hand crashed into the High Mage's face. Tarmon could hear the crunch of bone as the man's nose gave way in a thick spray of blood. Before the High Mage could react, Tarmon drove down with his right hand, plunging his sword into the man's torso, just below his ribs.

The High Mage screamed, howling in pain. Tarmon pressed. He left his sword buried in the mage's torso, pulled his fingers into a fist and punched the High Mage square in the face, sending him stumbling backwards, collapsing to the ground. Diving after him, Tarmon grabbed hold of the manacles and clicked them into place around the man's wrists.

As soon as the manacles locked, the High Mage's eyes widened, bulging. "No, no, no—"

Tarmon punched the man again, blood spraying from his already shattered nose, his head bouncing off the stone floor. Waiting for a moment to see if he was still conscious, Tarmon punched the High Mage once more for good measure. If he died, he died.

Once he was sure the High Mage was unconscious, Tarmon pulled himself to his feet, his muscles screaming in protest. The torture and the weeks in the cell had left his body in a constant state of aching and groaning. But there was nothing he could do about it now but grit his teeth and keep going.

"Is he alive?" Alleron asked, walking through the doorway, Baird and Vaeril at his side.

Tarmon nodded. "For now. If he doesn't get a healer, he will die from blood loss. The manacles should keep him subdued until then."

"Move," Baird said, pushing past Tarmon, standing over the unconscious mage. "No sense in leaving him alive. He needs to die."

"There is no honour in that." Vaeril's tone was flat and straightforward as he spoke, as though it were a simple fact of life.

Baird raised an eyebrow, the one over his good eye, half chuckling. "Honour? We're going to war here, elf. Honour is not on my mind."

"It is a hollow victory if you win a war but lose who you are."

"Does he always speak like this?" Baird asked, his mouth drawn up in a disbelieving smile.

"Most of the time," Erik answered, half hobbling into the room, a weak smile on his face. He turned to Tarmon. "I say we kill him. He would do the same to us."

"But we are not him," Tarmon said, turning to Erik. "Leave him be. If he dies, good. If he doesn't, he'll wish he had. I've heard the Circle aren't very tolerant of failures."

"I'd rather kill him now and be done with—"

"By the gods, is that Calen?" Erik gasped, cutting across Baird. He dropped to his knees beside the cell the High Mage had been staring into.

The crumpled heap in the cell truly was Calen, stripped down to nothing but his smallclothes and those glowing manacles. He looked fragile, as though he might break at the slightest touch. He had not lost all his muscle, but he was certainly a lot skinnier than when Tarmon had seen him last. His ribs were only just visible, and his cheeks were sunken and gaunt. His body was covered from head to toe in welts, cuts, and bruises, a blend of all the colours one's skin should never be.

"Keys," Baird called, tossing a set of iron keys bound to a ring towards Tarmon.

Tarmon snatched the keys out of the air, taking a moment to select the correct one before slotting it into the lock and clicking it into place. The iron slatted door creaked open at Tarmon's push, and Erik hobbled over to Calen.

"Calen, Calen." Erik shook the young man, not too strongly, but enough that it should have woken him. Erik turned back to the others, one hand behind Calen's head and the other on his chest. "He's still breathing, but his heartbeat is weak."

"We need to get the Draleid out of here. Now." Vaeril stood at the door to the room, his ear facing outward as though he were listening to the wind. "There's more coming. They must have found the bodies."

"How many?" Baird asked.

"Too many, but if we move now, we can go around them. They don't know where we are, yet."

Tarmon knelt beside Calen. "I'll carry him."

"Are you sure you have the strength?" Baird asked, more than a touch of scepticism in his voice.

"If I can't carry him, I'll die with him. Do you know where we're going?"

Baird gave Tarmon a gruff nod. "I do. There's a sally port not far from here. If we go that way, we'll have a free run to the city gates, which will hopefully be open."

"Hopefully?" Erik's eyes widened.

"There is more than one piece moving on this board," Baird replied. "We just need to hope the other pieces complete their moves."

"Enough talk." Tarmon lifted himself to his feet, then pulled the black cloak from around the High Mage's shoulders. He draped the cloak around Calen, tying the drawstring, then, his muscles aching, he lifted Calen upright before draping the young man over his shoulder. Even in his half-starved state, Calen was not light. Tarmon wasn't sure how long he could carry him, but he would carry him as far as he could. He gritted his teeth. "Lead the way."

Tarmon followed the others as they made their way through the corridors of the castle, shifting Calen on his shoulder as he moved, his muscles groaning. Two left turns, a flight of stairs down, a long corridor, then another flight of stairs back up. His shoulder burned with a fury, his back ached, and his legs were near collapse.

A woman's voice echoed down the hall. "Alleron?"

Alleron, who was running just behind Baird, stopped in his tracks, turning to look down another corridor that ran perpendicular to their own. A woman stood in a long, red velvet dress; raven hair cascading over her shoulders. "Mother."

"Alleron, we don't have time for this," Baird said, grabbing Alleron by the shoulder.

Alleron shrugged him off. "Mother, I—"

"Go," the woman said, nodding slightly. "Get him to safety. I will create a distraction."

Before Alleron could respond, his mother was gone, flitting back down the corridor she had been standing in.

"Let's go," Baird called, tugging Alleron into motion by the shoulder.

Alleron hesitated a moment, but acquiesced, his face twisting into a frown.

Within minutes, the smell of smoke and char began to drift through the hallways, light at first, but growing heavier. Shouts and cries followed the smoke, echoing through the night. Tarmon saw Vaeril tilt his head slightly, as though listening for something.

"The gardens are on fire?" Vaeril said, more a question than a statement, as though he weren't entirely sure what that meant.

"My mother's gardens," Alleron whispered. "She must have done it."

"We can thank her later," Baird called back, ducking down another stairwell. "We're almost there."

Tarmon let out an audible groan at the idea of climbing down another stairwell with Calen on his back. He grunted, shifting Calen to a better position as he took the stairs one step at a time. It was a long, winding staircase that seemed to go on for eternity. At the bottom, Tarmon emerged into a dimly lit room that looked like a completely undecorated antechamber. It was large and rectangular, smooth stone on all sides, lit only by a single oil lamp set into the wall on the right-hand side. A large door of latticed iron was set into the far wall, leading into another corridor.

Tarmon dropped to one knee, lowering Calen to the ground, sighing in relief as he did. The muscles in his back and shoulders knotted and bunched, burning from over-exertion. "What's the plan from here?"

"At the end of this corridor," Baird said, "is another door, one that leads to the outer walls of the castle. Once we're out there, we're going to have to move quickly to get to the gates. There are horses tied up about two hundred paces from the gates. Any closer would have been suspicious. If we can get to the horses, we will get a riverboat to Straga and take a ship from there."

"There is a lot that can go wrong with that plan," Tarmon said, grimacing as he pulled himself to his feet.

"Do you have a better one?"

"I don't," Tarmon admitted.

"Well, then, onward we go."

"Wait," Erik said, an urgency in his voice.

"What is it?" Alleron turned to Erik, looking him over. "Are you hurt?"

"My swords. I can't leave here without them."

"For fuck's sake!" Baird barely held his voice to a whisper. "Steel is steel. We don't have time for this. We'll get you more swords."

"My mother forged those swords. I'm not leaving them here."

"They are safe and waiting for you," Alleron said, stepping between Baird and Alleron. "I had your things taken from the keep this morning. You are lucky the armoury guards are loyal to me, not my father. Now, can we go?"

After a moment's hesitation, Erik nodded.

Tarmon let out a sigh, dropped to one knee, and once again tossed Calen's dead weight over his shoulder.

Once through the long corridor, the group emerged through the outer door of the sally port. As the castle itself was already situated within the city walls, there was not much rough terrain to navigate before they found themselves stepping onto the city streets, for which Tarmon was very thankful.

Their pace did not slow as they moved through the streets, a thin blanket of snow falling around them. The ragtag group got a few sideways looks, but they ignored them and just kept moving. There had been no sight of any soldiers yet, but they were not going to wait around for them to show up.

"Are you all right?" Vaeril's face looked almost as gaunt as Calen's as the elf strode beside Tarmon, his eyes flitting between Tarmon and the unconscious man draped over his shoulder.

"I'm fine," Tarmon grunted, lying. "Keep moving."

Barely a handful of minutes had passed before the sonorous bellow of horns droned through the night, repeating itself, louder and louder.

"Pick it up," Baird called back, not even caring to hide his sword as he ran.

Each step sent vibrations shuddering up Tarmon's legs. The layer of snow that coated the ground softened the impact of each footstep, but it also sapped the energy from Tarmon's legs as he heaved his feet in and out, up and down. Even in the bitter cold, sweat dripped from his skin, and his chest burned.

"Almost there," Alleron shouted, before turning the corner ahead to Tarmon's left.

Stumbling over something hard hidden beneath the snow, Tarmon dropped to one knee, only just managing to keep from dropping Calen to the ground. Keep going. Clenching the muscles in his jaw, Tarmon pushed himself to his feet, the muscles in his leg feeling as though they were on the verge of catching fire. Just put one foot in front of the next. Left, right, left, right.

A chorus of shouts erupted from a side street, and three soldiers in Lorian leathers came charging at them. Vaeril split one of them across the navel, the man's guts spilling into the snow, steam wafting into the air. Alleron caught the second one with a strike through the neck, blood spilling down over the man's chest. The third soldier, however, passed through the others, heading straight for Tarmon.

"Fuck it," Tarmon muttered. Grinding his teeth, he pulled on his last vestiges of strength and swung his leg up, catching the charging soldier square in the jaw with a vicious thump. The man dropped to the ground in a heap, his helmet knocked clean from his head.

Tarmon stumbled, the momentum of the kick carrying him forward. The man groaned, pulling himself to his feet as he shook his head from side to side.

"Sorry, Calen," Tarmon said to the unconscious young man on his shoulder before dumping him unceremoniously in the snow. Moving with a speed his muscles made him regret, Tarmon snatched up the man's fallen helmet, gripping it as tightly as he could, then slammed it full force into the rising soldier's face. The blow produced an audible crack from the man's eye socket, and the soldier fell back down into the snow. Tarmon dropped his knees onto the soldier's chest and beat him across the face with the helmet until he stopped moving, blood and bits of skin dappling the snow around them.

When he was satisfied the man would not be moving again, Tarmon, chest heaving and heart thumping, dropped the helmet in the snow and dragged himself to his feet. With a sigh, he grabbed Calen and tossed him over his shoulder once more, grimacing as the young man's full weight came down on him.

By the time the group reached the city gates, Tarmon was all but certain his legs and back were on the verge of giving way.

"The gates," Alleron said, turning to Baird. "They're still closed."

"Patience," Baird whispered, his eyes fixed on the gatehouse. Moments later, a scream rang out from the battlements above the gate and a body plummeted to the ground. The blanket of snow did little to soften the soldier's fall, his body shattering in a burst of blood and bone. Then a creaking noise resounded from the gates, and they began to shudder open. "Move!"

As the group drew nearer to the gates, a group of Lorian soldiers formed a line across the threshold – six wide, two deep, spaced about a foot and a half apart and covering the entire gateway.

"There are too many," Vaeril called out, panting.

"We don't have any other options," Alleron shouted back.

Tarmon winced, his leg trembling slightly. There was no way they would be able to fight their way through that many armed men, especially not in the state most of them were in. Alleron and his companion, Baird, were all right, but Tarmon, Vaeril, and Erik were all barely managing to keep up, and Calen was unconscious. If Calen had been conscious, that would have been a different story entirely. Tarmon had seen what the young man could do – it was incredible. But Calen wasn't conscious, and this snow-covered shithole was where they would all likely die.

Either way, Alleron was right. They didn't have any other options. So Tarmon rolled his shoulders and marched forward. He would put Calen on the ground before he charged, but he would try his best to keep him close.

"If it comes to it," Vaeril said, stepping closer to Tarmon. "Take him and run. I'll do what I can."

Tarmon sighed, but gave a nod. The thought of running while those around him stayed and fought didn't sit well with him, but the elf was right; with the dragon behind him, Calen was worth more than a hundred of any of them.

The sounds of screaming, snarling, and crashing steel pulled Tarmon's attention back towards the soldiers at the gate. Where the soldiers had stood, all that remained was a mound of shredded, bloody armour and flesh. In the place of the soldiers stood the wolf Tarmon had seen in the forest outside Kallingat, its black-grey fur matted with dark blood, its lips pulled back in a snarl. The thing was enormous.

A shiver ran the length of Tarmon's spine. That wolf had just torn through twelve armoured men as if they were nothing but rag dolls, and now its eyes were fixed on his group.

"Go, now!" Baird roared.

"I'm not going anywhere near that thing, not while I can barely walk," Erik called back. "Did you see what it just did to those soldiers? We need to find a way around."

"Aneera is a friend." Baird turned to look at Erik, Tarmon, and Vaeril. "I don't have time to explain right now, but she is on our side. Now, I need you to move."

"She is an Angan," Vaeril whispered, just loud enough for everyone to hear. Tarmon might have been mistaken, but he thought he heard a touch of reverence in the elf's voice. "Of clan Fenryr."

"That she is, elf. We need to go." Baird didn't wait for a response from the others, turning on his heels and darting towards the gates, straight towards the enormous wolf, Alleron hot on his heels.

Both Tarmon and Erik looked to Vaeril, who pulled himself from his sense of awe to give a slight nod. And with that, they ran.

As Tarmon neared the gates, the wolf turned its head, staring straight at him, recognition in its eyes. Then it did one of the most unexpected things Tarmon could have imagined. It reached its right paw forward, stretching it out, and gave a slight bow of its head as though recognising a familiar.

With a slight, almost subconscious nod, Tarmon passed the wolf, eyeing it askance as he did. Then they were through the gates, the bellow of the horns still ringing through the night.

"The horses are just up ahead," Baird shouted back, his outline only visible thanks to the moonlight reflected by the blanket of snow that covered the ground and coated the trees.

Behind them, the sound of screams and ringing steel rose from the city. Tarmon looked back through the gate to see flashes of bright red light arcing through the air, cleaving soldiers in half. The other 'pieces on the board' that Baird had mentioned.

"Just stay with us," Tarmon whispered to Calen, who still hung motionless across his shoulders. If they didn't reach the horses soon, Tarmon knew he would collapse. His legs shook with each step, and a fire burned through the muscles in his back; it would not be long before he gave way. But he could hear the horses whinnying; they couldn't be far.

But something seemed strange. The sound of the horses was growing closer far too fast, and it was coming from the wrong direction, from the city. Tarmon turned his head once more, just in time to see a group of riders dashing through the city gates, throwing up clumps of snow and sod in their wake, horses snorting and neighing. Another flash of red light cut some of the horses' legs from under them, but even more kept coming.

"Riders!" Tarmon called out, pushing himself forward as fast as his legs could carry him, but he knew it wouldn't be fast enough. There was no way he was going to outrun those horses, especially not in the snow with Calen draped over his shoulders. His heart pounded, shivering the blood through his veins, urging him forward. But it was not enough. A cramp set into Tarmon's left thigh and his leg gave way. He crashed into the snow, dropping Calen.

"Ahh!" He tried to force himself to his feet, but the pain in his leg was excruciating, and his muscle spasmed out of control.

"Baird!" Vaeril shouted, only just rising above the drumming pain in Tarmon's head. "The key. We need to unlock the manacles. We're not going to make it!"

Tarmon looked up to see the uncertainty on Baird's face. He and Alleron could probably make it if they took off into the forest on their own, and the man was considering it.

With a deep frown, Baird stopped running, then turned and started sprinting back towards Tarmon and Calen, Vaeril and Erik now at their side. Rummaging in his pocket, Baird produced the small, rune-marked steel rod and flung it to Vaeril.

The elf snatched the rod from the air.

"Come on, come on!" Erik shouted, dragging Vaeril by the shirtsleeve. The man and the elf scrambled to the ground beside Tarmon and Calen. Tarmon risked a glance over his shoulder. The riders weren't far. They would be on them in moments.

Just as Baird had done for him earlier in the night, Vaeril held up Calen's hands and touched the steel rod to the glowing manacles, eliciting a click. As soon as the manacles opened, a gasp escaped Calen's throat, and his eyes shot open, glowing with a deep purple light.

Tarmon stumbled backward into the snow, his eyes wide, fear in his chest. "What is—"

A monstrous roar ripped through the night, tearing across the sky like rolling thunder.