Black Dawn - Chapter 23: The Battle of Black Dawn

Turim and his allies defend Grendelock Keep against an immeasurable force of dragonriders of the Black Division. Who will survive?

Armageddon TM and its characters and story are copyright Terry Tibke. All rights reserved.

Music & SFX

[Unfolding Revelation] by David Fesliyan, [Brothers in Arms] by Alexander Nakarada, [Novus Initium] by Alexander Nakarada, [Buzzkiller] by Alexander Nakarada, [For the Last Time] by Alexander Nakarada, [The Awakening] by Patrick Patrikios, [Documentary] by Royalty Free Music, [Ultimate Pressure] by Raffael Gruber and Matthias Ullrich, [Fallout] by Alexander Nakarada, [Prepare for War] by Alexander Nakarada, [Aggression] by David Fesliyan, [Chase Scene Music] by David Fesliyan, [Powerful Epic Copyright Free Music] via Tunetank, [Enemy Approaching] by XX, [Aeon - Flux & Fox Mix] by Avanar, [Discovery] by Alexander Nakarada, [Cockroaches] by Alexander Nakarada, [The Devil’s Cell] by XX, [The Brotherhood] by XX, [Sad Winds] by David Fesliyan, [Various] via Storyblocks Audio

Towel Flutter.wav by C_J, Wind Houling 1 .wav by Bosk1, Crowd in Anticipation of Show.wav by soundslikewillem, arrow_clatter.ogg by smcameron, Knife being sharpened (minus background noise).m4a, Scraping Stone by dslrguid, animals stag roaring multiple times with saw and dogs in background stereoXY.wav by Soundholder, Sleeping Monster Reverb by szegvari, 06186 mutant short pain roar.WAV by Robinhood76, Cthulhu growl.wav by cylon8472, 00890 men huge crowd 1.wav by Robinhood76, Ambient battle noise: swords and shouting by pfranzen, [See Previous Episodes for all other effects]

Jake Utter [Voice Actor] - Voices Turim Gliderlance

Andrew Embers [Voice Actor] - Voices Sand Rocketblade

Demetrius Hazel [Voice Actor] - Voices Lasertooth, Bartlett, and Darf Bloodshedder

Kobe Markworth [Voice Actor] - Voices Grandmaster Strongthorn, Thunderclap, Breed, and Gulanis

Sean Valley [Voice Actor] - Voices Strevan Pickaxe and Dithkanir

Hayley Craig [Voice Actress] - Voices Jaffrine Maplebow

Morgana LeFaye [Voice Actress]- Voices Tartara Silverwing

Tallent [Voice Actor] - Voices General Panthis Obsidianfist 

JJtheJetvox [Voice Actor] - Voices Meineken Shadowstar and Aruthil

Brittanie Arwen [Voice Actor] - Voices Sinfa Songbird

The Worlds Okayest DM [Voice Actor] - Voices Pond Grimslug

Ben Habel [Voice Actor] – Voices Lakalith Paledust

Maia Harlap [Voice Actor] – Voices Lala Truffleroot, Kithria Wraithchasm, and Ryuki Purplefist

Aaron Anderson [Voice Actor] – Voices Aldor Steelaxe and Dark Elves

Chris Bellinger [Voice Actor] – Voices Gundak, Percin and Dwarf extras

Alexander Doddy [Voice Actor] – Voices Rail Markrune

Cal

Transcript

Chapter 23—The Battle of Black Dawn

Darf stood looking out across the waves of grass that swept eastward beneath the Golden Ridge. Darkness shrouded most of the grassland’s detail and splendor. Still, the sight somehow brought him some peace.

He’d fought plenty. Little scuffles. One on one in the arena. The Hells, most of his life he’d been fighting. But nothing had ever felt like this. He’d never experienced a full-scale assault. And while the ogre blood in him felt eager, his human half made him a little nervous. He didn’t particularly like it.

He strode past the rangers, Strevan, Jaffrine and Tartara among them. Their leader was crouched, giving them a bunch of pointers. Darf walked a little slower, but couldn’t hear much, and as he started down the stone steps from the battlements, he quickly dismissed them.

A whole day of preparations had gone on, and still, the Knights of the Hawk readied themselves. “Never would’ve taken to being a knight,” he thought. “Too much order. Too many words and rules.”

He’d gone back and forth to check the wall himself several times, and now the crickets of night called to him as he returned to Turim’s Dragon Stables.

The dwarf sat with his back against the big doors, reminding Darf of a box or a doorstop—compact and squared off. Aldor’s pick rested against his shoulder, and he smoked his pipe, his fingers running through his reddish beard. He seemed calm enough.

Aldor turned, threw up a wave, and let out a grunt.

Darf tromped past a few Knights of the Hawk crossing the road towards the wall. His moonlit shadow covered their smaller forms completely as he passed, like an eclipsing cloud. Some of them looked afraid as they took notice of him, but they didn’t say anything—at least, not while he was within earshot.

He’d been getting looks like that his whole life. When he’d lived amongst the ogres as a child, they’d stared. When he left to become a gladiator amongst the other folk of the world, they gaped. “Always the same,” Darf told himself. “I’m always different.”

“Well my friend,” Aldor grunted at him. “What news? Any word from the hawkeyes?”

“No one has told me anything,” Darf replied, walking into a puff of wispy, gray smoke. “But didn’t see anything from the wall, myself.”

Darf looked over the fence to the take-off field where Turim and the rest of his Wing looked bored out of their skulls a ways off. At this point, they all sat in their riding shields.

“This is big,” He kept his voice low.

Aldor looked up to his friend and puffed his pipe again. “Bigger than you and me both.”

“Then why’d you do it?” said Darf, still genuinely curious.

“What?,” replied Aldor with a hearty grin. “Come along?”

Darf grunted with a nod.

“I told ye’ I didn’t want to sit around and do nothing. But more than that, look at all the suffering my people in Daropel have dealt with. Many have scattered all over the place, lost or divided from families. So a little vengeance… if I’m honest about it.”

Darf wasn’t used to Aldor’s sentimentality. It must’ve been something he’d grown in the past thirty years.

Aldor kept on. “But if we make it through this alive.” He paused, knocking his pipe against the ground to clean it. “I think I can rouse King Wardforge to start pulling together Pebak’ Din’s knights, and probably Ruma ‘Din’s and a few others.”

Darf felt warm familiarity. “Aha.” That was the Aldor he knew.

Not far off, Darf noticed the red cap of Sinfa in the torchlit path. She’d been making sure the airship was settled, but she’d been gone since last light fell. A few of the bowmen stopped her to talk.

“What is that device?” Darf overheard the archer ask her.

“Aye,” said another, “I haven’t seen anything like it before.”

Sinfa held out something she’d apparently stowed on The Cloudracer—either that or she’d just built it. Darf couldn’t hold in a smile. She was so smart.

“I call this an auto-crossbow,” answered Sinfa. “It uses these levers I designed, and a fast winding drawstring that repeatedly pulls back on its own.”

The pair of bowmen stared blank-faced at her. “Oh.”

Darf felt the same.

“See, there’s a swiveling clip of bolts that—” Sinfa frowned as the two slowly walked away. “Ah. Never mind.”

Darf held back the need to slap them around with his club. She was going to do great things. She already had. He was going to smash foes, and she was going to make the world better.”And people still look at Red, same as me. Different. Odd,” He thought.

Aldor chuckled, as he stood. That seemed to draw Sinfa’s attention, and from inside the stable, Lala came out.

Sinfa had a look on her face as she approached, slinging the ‘auto-crossbow’ over her shoulder. “What’s so funny?”

She wore light plate mail that draped down the front of her legs. It looked like it would protect her body also. She carried it well too, despite its weight. As for Lala, she’d been armored up too. She wore a similar set to Sinfa’s, but made of leather. “She probably can’t carry much more than that,” Darf stifled a snicker.

Aldor wiped his gloved hands. “See. Stick to bridges and such. Those are solid and trusty. That thing, and the airship? Just too unpredictable.”

Sinfa’s eyes looked up. The whole keep was lit with torchlight now. “Who wants to be predictable,” she said slowly, distracted. “They’ve begun sliding up steel spikes along the inner wall. Look.” She pointed up to the battlements along the western edge of the keep.

Along the top of the inner partition, the holes they’d seen during The Cloudracer’s landing were being filled from beneath by lengths of long, sharp spikes, angled outward a bit.

Darf watched Sinfa as another slid up through its hole and clanked into place. Her face brightened. She loved this sort of thing. “Clever,” he rumbled.

“It would’ve been far wiser,” said Aldor, “to simply build underground. No air assault could take Dunarg.”

Lala piped up. “Hiding in a hole doesn’t make for good protection of the rest of the country then, does it now, Mister Steelaxe?”

Aldor shrugged. “You’re one to speak of hiding in holes, halfling.”

Lala folded her arms defiantly. “We should all be hiding now. But none of us are. So I say that puts us in the same wagon.. as they say.”

Aldor nodded, conceding. “That it does, M’am.”

# # #

Across the keep, Turim still heard squires and stable boys preparing dragons for flight.

To keep active, many of the knights towards the center and the west of the keep had joined in the activity. Turim’s Wing was situated just below the eastern wall though, and they had to remain ready for the first wave. They’d even slept on the landing field.

He’d already gone over several aerial maneuvers and strategies that would be used to combat the enemy. His allies had all come by and gone, and came again and returned to the wall multiple times.

Dawn light broke through the heavy, dark clouds.

“… Turim?” said Sand, breaking his thoughts. “Look.”

He already heard the sound of hooves coming from the gates. They got louder, and in moments word was spreading. The hawkeyes had returned from the Plains of Sirik. The first of the scouts had spotted dragons. The Black Division was in the air. They’d passed the Corleus River.

After that news, Turim sat with hands clenched around his lance. He tried to appear to his Wing as cool as fall air, though he felt the churn of anticipation like everyone else. He wished he was more kithkin than man-elf, and that only made him wonder how Meineken was faring.

Turim realized Sand had been trying to talk to him. He turned in his saddlemount, glad for the distraction. “What?”

Sand’s face beamed. “I’ve been waiting for a long time for the day we give a sound thrashing to the Dragon Army. You ready?”

Turim’s heart went out to his friend. “You’re acting like this is some simple skirmish, Sand. It’s not.”

Sand smirked. “The Knights of the Hawk will stand victorious in the end. You worry too much.”

“Sand, the Black Division has planned for years for this. We’ve prepared for two chill nights.” Turim lowered his voice. “Look around you. Look at your Wingmates. Look at the rest of our Company. Chances are good that someone’s going to die—that all of us might die.”

Sand’s face fell. “Don’t you dare. Pull your head out of that dark hole right now. The men need us.”

They’d been sitting in that field for way too long. It had gotten to him. Turim took a deep breath, letting the tension flow out. “Apologies,” he said quietly. It was time to focus—time to do his duty as a knight. Duty to his country. Like his father.

The elven hawkeye from the easternmost tower sounded the horn to announce the last Knight of the Hawk Wing’s return from skywatch.

Sand looked over at him shrugging. “Yeah, I get it. They’re here, just like you said they’d be. That didn’t take long.”

There were a few anxious moments, then the horn sounded again. The first sighting from the wall. The Black Division had come in the dawn.

Turim turned in his seat to look at his riders one last time. They were a proud bunch, sitting tall in their saddlemounts, ready to lift at a moment’s notice.

“Sir Lionpath, Sir Brawnram, Sir Houndcryer, Sir Hollowstale,” he said to them. “I want you to know I’m proud of you. Stick together up there. Remember everything you’ve been taught, because it’s all about to come into play. Pierce deep.”

A chorus of “Yes, sir,” came back.

Then Turim looked up to the eastern wall where he awaited the squire’s signal from the tower. He waited. Flags were already waving. Several other Wings had begun their ascent, the dragons so close to each other that their shadows blocked out the hazy light of dawn briefly as they rose.

“I’m at your side, Commander,” said Sand.

Turim looked back. “And I yours. Be careful, my friend.”

Then their flag finally flourished.

His Wing, along with the rest of Commander Wrengaze’s Company, lifted with a gust of wind like a hurricane. The dragon’s wings beat all at once. As they rose into the dark morning sky they saw them—the enemy.

Far off, the dragons looked like a swarm of black, angry insects.

The horns sounded again, and the Chromabacks and Shiningscales sped towards each other.

And so it was, they met in the skies above the Plains of Sirik.

The first wave of attackers struck hard. The lust for battle seemed strong in the Dark Knights. And in the opening hours, their lances and dragons’ breath drove back the Knights of the Hawk nearly to the walls of the keep itself.

Turim’s Wing fought valiantly, but was forced to fall back with the rest of their fellow Wings. Even so, many Knights of the Hawk were slain in the air and fell crashing to the earth like rain that made thunder without clouds.

Words were useless. The sound of screeching dragons and clashing lances filled the air. The Wing finally must understand all of their communication training,” he thought. The physical signals he gave his men probably felt like speech itself to them now.

As they reached the wall, Turim raised his arm and signaled to Sand, who in turn repeated it. Their Wingmates should see at least one of them.

“Phoenix formation!” cried Turim.

As they passed above the wall, the Wing flew vertically into the sky and wheeled to return for another attack. Though he saw several Wings set down in the landing fields, he didn't intend to return just yet.

Dragon Army Wings followed. He’d hoped they would. Below his eye caught Sinfa with her red cap, standing amidst the bowmen and rangers. A hail of arrows greeted the Chromabacks as she and the archers let loose at their enormous targets. Many an arrow found its mark in the exposed parts of the enemy dragons: the eyes, mouths, armpits, and between the scaled plates that ran from the bottom of their tail to their necks.

“Turn! We’re not done yet!” shouted Turim, extending his arm in command. “We’ve rallied the other Wings!”

Thunderclap gave a snarling roar of assent.

They turned high in the sky, and together with a large portion of their Company, they drove a spear of Shiningscale dragons deep into the enemy’s ranks.

Bolts of lightning and flickering flame lit the air. Chilling blasts of frosty ice, poisonous clouds of gas, and burning waves of acid were thrown at the enemy. But Dragon Army’s numbers seemed endless. When the Knights of the Hawk were driven back again, a great many of their first wave had been slain at the hands of the Dark Knights.

Turim looked back. Black Division riders were on their tails. Just as they passed inside the inner wall on their return, they dove down towards the landing fields. The enemy was drawn in. Many of the Black Division’s dragons were impaled or fell crashing into the courtyards and stables. The sound of breaking stone, and splintering and cracking wood filled their ears.

“No,” Turim whispered to himself, realizing what had happened.

Several of the Knights of the Hawk were still inside the stables. A few of the Shiningscales came crawling out with cuts and bloody patches. But very few men.

“Damn!” Sand cursed, apparently having spotted the same.

Turim, heart angry and tired, set his Wing down.

He shifted in his saddlemount, his hips sore and knees raw from riding. He looked up. A second wave of dragonriders flew roaring into the strangely colored morning, its purple skies taking them in, turning them to silhouettes as they flew high over the eastern wall and met with the widely spread enemy.

“How are we?” called Turim.

“My lance is all busted up,” said Sand, dropping its shattered fragments to the ground. “Other than that I’m fine.”

There was already a halfling squire bustling into the yard. In a few moments, Sand had a fresh lance, polished and ready.

Breed was another story. His breastplate had been battered and had a sizable dent. Turim winced, imagining how deep the bruising underneath might be.

“What happened?” asked Bartlett.

Breed practically crawled from behind his riding shield and slid to the ground. “A lance caught me. One of the Dark Knights’. Get this, they dropped it. Someone above must’ve knocked it out of their hand and it smacked me good.”

In a few more minutes, two clergy from the chappels at Grendelock Keep strode into their field. “The God be upon you all,” said the taller of the two.

“Over there,” said Turim, pointing to Breed.

Strangely, one remained behind with an inquisitive eye on Turim. “Commander Gliderlance,” he said with an inclination of his head.

 “Wait for me,” Breed looked up to Turim from his place on the grass. The priest’s hands were laid upon his chest, and his eyes closed.

Turim nodded, just glad he was okay. “There’s time. The next wave is away.”

He looked up to the skies, praying to The God he was right.

# # #

Strevan felt the familiar weight of Tartara as she landed on his shoulder.

“The scouts are back!” she shouted. “It looks like we’ve got dragonites coming, most of them raptor riders.”

Strevan put his gloved finger in his ear. Tartara’s voice had clearly been meant for more than just him. He looked down the battlements on his right to see Rail carefully watching the path that led up the ridge to the gate.

“Notch your bows,” commanded Rail. “But don’t take shot yet. Wait.”

Strevan looked down to the arrow he held. He didn't intend to do so until it was time. They’d done their best to help against the dragon attacks on the east side, but their main job would be at the southern wall protecting the gate. They’d come south after hearing of the enemies' approach, and now it looked like they were about to do just that.

The dragonites could come up the Golden Ridge, but the ridge on the east was sheer. Strevan bet it prevented most land-bound attackers from going that way unless they wanted a long, hard climb in the open where they could be pocked with a rain of arrows.

Tartara flitted past the two Knights of the Hawk on Strevan’s left and stood on Jaffrine’s staff. “Not long now,” she said, her usual enthusiasm punctuating her words.

 “No,” answered Jaffrine, leaning on her staff. “Not long.”

“Are you alright?” asked Tartara.

Strevan nodded towards her. Tartara was right, she still didn’t look like her usual self.

“How’s the headache?” asked Tartara.

“Certainly better,” nodded Jaffrine. She narrowed her eyes at Strevan. “Not that I will be letting a spell forth. She paused, looking over the wall. “As much as it may be needed.”

Strevan had told her what Turim warned him of. He’d been on the lookout for their clerics, who wandered mostly down by the dragon stables.

“In truth,” said Jaffrine, “I’m not okay. But then, this is far from Ys, and quite out of my comforts.”

Tartara frowned a moment, but leapt down to Jaffrine’s shoulder and patted her head. “No time for thoughts like that now. At least you’re not in cages facing these lizards again.”

Strevan looked down in front of the gate again, trying to hide his worry. What he saw there triggered memories of being face down in his cage. Dragonites were crawling all over the stony hillside and up the path.

“Rangers, give them a taste!” shouted Rail, suddenly.

The Knights of the Hawk’s bowmen joined in. The twang of bows repeated across the length of the southern wall. Strevan raised his own, took aim, and joined them.

Dragonites died in droves. Their raptors crashed to the earth or skittered away senselessly while riders fell from their backs, pierced by many arrows. Still, the wave of raptor riders surged.

Behind them, the first return fire came from the dragonites’ wicked longbows.

Strevan caught sight of Tartara beside him, avoiding arrows as they streaked past. He let another shot go. When he looked back, Tartara had chosen to duck behind the battlements. Jaffrine was crouching there too, though she was helping one of the knights’ bowmen who’d already been stuck.

For what seemed like hours, arrows filled the air, dropping rangers, knights, and dragonites alike. Strevan, hot with exertion, felt his quiver to find he was down to his last handful.

“Their ladders will come shortly!” shouted Rail to the rangers. “Spend your final shots and take up your arms. If we can keep them from the wall, the squires will have time to bring us more arrows… Tartara!”

The fairy darted past Strevan’s hair and went to Rail’s side. He saw them exchange brief words, then Tartara flew off, disappearing beyond the inner wall. He hoped it was to get help.

Strevan looked down again to see the first of the siege ladders creeping their way up to the edge of the battlements. He and another shoved the ladders off, but the dragonites pushed back twice as hard, those on the ladder using their wings to fly it toward the wall again.

Resigned to the fact that the siege ladders were coming, Strevan slung his bow over his shoulder and loosed the blade in his hawk-adorned scabbard. With a pop, he drew the blade and it gleamed in the sun of midday. Not for the first time, the clean steel reminded him of Duragil on that fated day.

The first of the dragonites came over the wall. Strevan moved in beside Rail.

Strevan fought hard, trying to ignore his hunger. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. The next stab of his blade felt strange. When he looked up, Jaffrine stood nearby.

She had several defenders around her, and her staff whirled and struck. He wouldn’t have to worry about her just yet. He struck out again, sinking his blade into black scale.

“The gates are weakening!” came a cry from one of the bowmen.

Strevan gasped—some in exhaustion, some in shock. He chanced a look down again.

The dragonites below stood like a sea of black ichor, swirling and bubbling. He couldn’t count how many raptors had gathered outside the gates. They rammed the doors hard with their thick skulls and a newly crafted battering ram. As he watched, a knight fell to the ground from the wall. They immediately pounced on the body, hewing it apart.

He swallowed, steeling his nerves.

Eventually, the ladders were pushed down and the dragonites were driven from the wall only to rally and return to it several times over. The gates below were splintered and cracked; they’d been struck hundreds of times.

Another crash.

“Focus fire on those at the gate!” growled Rail.

Another ram felt like it shook the wall.

Then Strevan heard a shout from the Knights of the Hawk around them. It took a moment, and then he understood the cry.

“Pierce like the talon of the hawk!”

Strevan glanced over to Jaffrine. She was looking up. As his eyes followed, he caught a welcome sight.

It was Turim’s Wing!

The blue dragon in the lead, the dragons went over the wall and down across the sea of dragonites, spitting lightning and poison gas across the enemy. Many were slain in their wake.

With a familiar buzzing, Tartara zipped back into view in front of Strevan and Rail. “They’re coming along the wall with the stockpile of arrows now,” she said, breathing hard.

For the most part, the wall had cleared of dragonites. Strevan stared in wonder at the destruction Turim had wrought. But as they came back for another pass, the dragonites didn’t sit idly. Arrows sprang from their bows and Turim’s Wing scattered to avoid them, breaking their formation and flying high into the skies.

Now that they’d ascended towards the clouds, Turim’s Wing drew Dark Knight dragonriders to them like beetliths to dung. They were soon scattered and divided.

Strevan knew Turim’s Wing was in trouble. Where was Rail? Why hadn’t he commanded the rangers to shoot? He looked behind him. Rail was still fighting hard against two large dragonites. If he didn’t do something about it himself, Turim wasn’t going to make it.

Strevan gathered his courage. He swallowed and took a deep breath, and shouted out to his fellow archers. “We must make our shots true and straight! My friend’s Wing is in trouble. Let forth. We’ve got to give them room for breath!”

Now rearmed, arrows shot from the wall. Though Strevan thought he was a decent shot, he admired several of the other rangers’ marksmanship even more. Quite a few shafts picked Chromaback dragons from the skies without endangering Turim or his Wingmates. Arrows pierced eyes and ripped through wing and rider alike. Black Division dragons fell one by one, crushing the dragonites that scurried below.

Turim’s Wing regrouped, and at last, they were free of enemy dragonriders for a time.

Strevan’s heart rallied itself as he watched the Wing head back northward. He was grateful for the help.

At length, the raptors striking the gates were slain and driven off, their corpses piled against the wall. The remaining dragonites were driven away, and a shout went up from the knights and rangers there.

“The attack’s been turned!” shouted Tartara nearby.

Jaffrine came to stand next to Strevan. “Well done, my friend,” she said quietly. “Let’s hope our part helped. There’s still thousands out there.”

# # #

Dusk came, and the sky still held a swarm of warring dragon tribes. Neither side seemed more victorious than the other, though the Dragon Army still clearly had the numerical advantage. It seemed to Turim as though the battle would last until the final days of the world, an Armageddon that would end all who dwelt on Caball. The Plains of Sirik had been darkened with carrion of either side. He guessed its grasses would be forever after stained golden-red—no rain, nor snow, nor hail would truly wash it away.

Turim had returned to Grendelock Keep; his Wing was alive and well. Still, each time he returned he saw far fewer of their own dragonriders there.

“Word’s probably spread by now,” said Sand, standing up in his riding shield to stretch. “I don’t think we’ll catch many more on the barbs, but they sure did the trick.”

Turim looked up to the eastern wall. Countless slain dragons and their riders hung limply from the steel spikes.

“I’m proud of you,” said Sand with a smile. “You broke standard formation.”

Turim wasn’t sure exactly why he’d done it. “When we rose with the third wave, I just… I saw the rangers in trouble on the south wall. That was all I needed. My duty to my friends somehow outweighed my duties as a knight this time.”

There might’ve been a time when he’d have focused on the greater good—uncertain of what was important. Now he didn’t feel bad. Helping his friends meant just as much as defending his country. Maybe more. What’s the use of fighting for a country if there’s no one here to enjoy it? he thought.

“It’s getting darker,” said Sand, changing the subject for him. “Do you think they’ll halt for the night?

“I’m sure even the Black Division is aware of how dangerous it is,” said Turim, who only just realized the light was that dim.

“It is nigh time for the last wave of the day,” came Lasertooth’s voice from beneath Sand.

Thunderclap stirred beneath Turim, restless to go. “It won’t stop them. They won’t risk a mid-air collision, but they’ll find another way to keep up the attack. They’ll probably skim the plains, then march the rest of the way to the walls, even on dragon-back.”

“Well that’s not encouraging,” said Bartlett from over Turim’s shoulder.

Turim gave a last survey of his Wingmates and their dragons. A horn was blown. Their company’s flag was waved, and the dragons leapt to the skies again.

# # #

General Obsidianfist rose into the air, his swamp wyvern, Gorelust, beneath him. But off to his left flew Gewurmarch Rottbone.

“Let them fall like a precipitation of ink and wine!” cried Gewurmarch Rottbone. His voice boomed loud over even the sound of their dragons.

General Obsidianfist believed in Gewurmarch Redblade’s ideals. The peace and order he sought for all mankind was something Panthis supported; it was what had drawn him to the Dragon Army in the first place. As he gazed on Gewurmarch Rottbone, he considered just what Gewurmarch Rottbone would do once they’d gained control of Grendelock Keep. He’d seen the man commit some cruel atrocities, all in the name of progress. He understood. It was a necessary part of war. But if he was true to himself, Panthis wished Gewurmarch Redblade was leading this all-important maneuver toward the council.

With camp behind them, lines of tents faded into the grasslands as they soared away. This was their final wave before darkness would fall. Victory was close at hand now. He could see it. He could feel it.

He looked over his shoulder to fifty of his own wyvern riders. In the golden dusk, they had no details—only black shapes like snakes with wings. Amid the bulky dragons, the wyverns looked almost withered. But they were swifter, and he enjoyed the speed they could achieve. The speed at which they could strike.

He turned his gaze on Grendelock Keep. Knights of the Hawk and their metal dragons already took to the air, rising above the wall in a wave.

The Gewurmarch raised his dark and burning Black Blade aloft. “Glory!”

General Obsidianfist took the signal and repeated it. And with a wild surge of speed, he shot forward, his wyvern riders at Gorelust’s tail. Their immediate task was to cut a path for Gewurmarch Rottbone and keep the enemy at bay. With all the sorcery the Gewurmarch was supposed to have, he wondered why he didn’t use it more often. Not that I have any notion of the arts of magic, he thought.

The Dragon Army pushed onward, their wings an undulating wave of streaming darkness. The Shiningscales and Chromabacks roared toward each other. At last, they met.

The General’s wyverns flew in and out like mosquitoes, biting and tearing at their enemies. Their teeth were razors through scale and flesh.

He pulled his reins, tearing Gorelust away from a steel dragon’s throat she’d set into. “Sweep around the flanks!”

“Yes, General!” she spat and cried back.

They kept moving. The wind bit at Panthis’ face.

Gorelust screeched. Without command, she gave a beat of her feathered wings and slithered out of the way just in time. A rider upon a great copper dragon soared upward past them into the clouds. But not before Gorelust lashed her tail, glancing the knight, knocking his helmet from his head.

“I saw a sharp lance I did not want to taste!” screamed the wyvern.

“Nor I, my dear!” shouted General Obsidianfist into the wind. “My thanks are with you!”

He looked out to find the copper dragon, but clusters of silver, bronze, brass; green, white, brown, and black obscured his view. The two ancient tribes a swirling of color. The attacker had drawn off. But General Obsidianfist gained focus.

“We’ve been issued a challenge!” It was more to himself now. “One I don’t intend to put aside.” He tapped Gorelust on the neck with his lance. “Keep your eye out for that copper, Gorelust!”

Gorelust pulled them in an arc, back towards Gewurmarch Rottbone. “As you wish, General!”

She gave her wings a great whip, and then another. She streaked through the air like a winding snake. All the while, General Obsidianfist watched carefully. Before the morning came, he was going to kill that dragon and its blue-haired rider.

* * *

Turim rose into the air, ready to fight with all the forces that could be mustered. But what was the point of it all? How long would this go on? Was it a game of numbers—whoever was left with the most knights and dragons at the end, won? He knew it was his duty as a knight to stop them, but what would happen if the Dragon Army did invade Daltaria? Sure, it was the most powerful city on Cornerius—maybe in the world. But what would it accomplish to have the city? Were they simply going to execute all the members of the Council and start governing in their place? Probably. But Turim still wasn’t sure—about any of it. All he knew right now: his duty was to keep fighting—to protect his friends and his family, to protect his country.

Vigilant of his surroundings, he caught a valiant sight. “Look over there!” he pointed to Sand.

Off left, beyond Artho and Kairn, Grandmaster Strongthorn himself had taken to the skies. He was armored in his gold and blue plate, and rode his enormous gold-scaled dragon, Smokewind. The dragon’s burnished scales stood out, glinting like a shining light in the dusk.

Turim shook his head—a little dismayed, and a little proud.

“The old man hasn’t flown in—” Sand paused, “I can’t remember seeing him fly, not since we were teenagers.”

Turim nodded. Not since Daynard had become the Grandmaster. He felt compelled to watch out for him, then realized the irony of that thought.

Turim took his Wing closer and raised his lance into the air as a sign. A call to arms. Grandmaster Strongthorn repeated the gesture, then all those who saw him did likewise, a sea of spears ready to defend Genova with their final breath.

The first Chromaback ahead of Thunderclap passed into view—a brown dragon, he had to avoid its thorny mud breath. He lowered his lance. The Dark Knight did likewise. Thunderclap’s mighty wings beat, and they shot forward. There it was, an opening in the brown reptile’s defense. Turim drove his lance through its wing as Thunderclap wheeled him away from the Dark Knight’s blows.

The brown dragon fell, and again Thunderclap spun around as Lasertooth darted past them with a white Chromaback in pursuit. Without hesitation, Thunderclap let forth with lightning that lit the evening sky. The bolts hit their mark, and the white dragon and rider fell smoking and sparking to the plains below.

Grandmaster Strongthorn and Smokewind soared over Turim, the gold’s claws tore through an enemy black dragon and ignited. It was so close, Turim smelled and felt the heat of the beast’s breath.

Turim yanked the reins left, and Thunderclap barely dodged aside to avoid the falling dragon as it tumbled past them. “Filthy droppings!” growled Thunderclap.

After that, Sand came up alongside them. Lasertooth and Thunderclap together, tackled another black from the sky. Blood-soaked and roaring, it thrashed into the growing gloom below.

“Good work, Lieutenant!” shouted Turim to Sand. He reached, palm outward, a signal to emphasize his words.

Strangely, in return, Sand’s eyes seemed to fill with dread. His mouth opened, but Turim didn’t hear what came out.

Suddenly, darkness fell on Turim—a shadow that felt like doom shot through with evil. He had half a moment to turn his eyes upwards before a dark blade struck him hard. The shadow passed as suddenly as it had appeared.

He cried out in pain.

Looking down through wet eyes, he saw his arm. It was there, but it was unrecognizable. He couldn’t feel it. The only reason he still had an arm at all was the fastening of his armor. His vision darkened, but he held to consciousness. He had to see who’d smote him.

Roaring away flew a dragon, blacker than any he’d seen. Upon it rode Gewurmarch Gorrick Rottbone—the stories told of him, slayer of thousands, rider of Runamuck the Black. They didn’t heed Turim. He was certainly one of many they’d hurt today. "Probably," thought Turim, "one of many they’d killed today."

Turim’s vision faltered. But he slowly regained focus as Thunderclap dove after the shrieking black dragon.

“Commander!” called Thunderclap. “Are you alright?”

Turim couldn’t answer. He couldn’t tell Thunderclap to slow down, not to rush, that their Wing wasn’t following through the throng of Dark Knights and their dragons. Instead, he tapped the blue dragon on his shoulderplate with his lance. The taps meant he was conscious and unharmed. But he didn’t feel that way.

Gewurmarch Rottbone and Runamuck tore through many Knights of the Hawk as they flew low above the plains. In his wake fell Shiningscales in droves, smote down by the black blade he bore, and hewn apart by his ferocious midnight colored dragon.

But Thunderclap gained on Runamuck. His wings folded. He wove through enemy riders. Turim held on, trying to catch his breath at the breakneck dive they were making. The wind stung his eyes. He struggled to keep them open. It seemed that his armor was holding him together; blood flowed crimson on his breastplate and down his gauntlets, droplets caught in the wind.

He gripped his lance with his left hand, letting his stronger right arm hang limp in his lap. What would he do if he was able to catch the Gewurmarch? He could barely move. But he knew he had to stop him. Maybe, just maybe, it would turn the tide of battle—at least for a few hours.

Gewurmarch Rottbone must’ve spotted him then because he stopped his wave of slashing. There was a faint shout on the wind, and an astonishing somersault and flap of wings, and Runamuck turned sharply, mere feet above the grass. With another beat of his wings, he came back hard.

Thunderclap didn’t yield.

For Turim, time stood still. Thunderclap and Runamuck screamed closer. Roars of anger erupted from their throats and filled the shadowy void. They drew within feet of each other. Then twisting and extending his foreleg, Runamuck rushed above Thunderclap. Turim saw those black claws for only a moment before they raked through him as the black dragon passed.

He wasn’t hewn in two. But most of his body was now torn. Worse yet, he felt himself ripped from the leather straps that held him secure, yanked up and over his riding shield.

And then he knew he was falling.

Swirling, he caught glimpses of Thunderclap above him. Further off, amidst the bedlam, he saw Lasertooth. Guileeye and Sleekscale were there too. And tangled in a pair of white Chromabacks was Grandmaster Strongthorn on Smokewind, unable to break free.

Turim lost consciousness before his body struck the ground, tumbling over and over across the Plains of Sirik. As life left him, all was dark. Endless. Noiseless. Motionless. Lifeless. Hopeless.