Chapter Four, The Wake

Elderath valley, 20th of Vintersfal, 1329 CE

The morning sun beat down upon the dead film across the breadth of Elderath. To Mordaunt the silvery brightness brought mourning in its rays. For the scene it illumed was a gruesome one. The sky no longer wept, the clouds sent off, and with them the bulk of the Serpent’s Head brigade had perished from the earth. Lives innumerable, drowned & and floated as flotsam in the muck. Chill slinked through his soles and the frost of the wind whipped sodden cloak.

Though he trudged through the wreckage without chains on his hands, Mordaunt’s sword was tethered tightly to its sheath as compromise that he could not turn on those he now professed to serve. It irked him that this mire of Vizzari defeat did not grant him the sense of hope & purpose he’d expected. For even though many of those dead drudges were long his captors, many he recognized among the corpse piles and sunken craters with regret; men he knew to be honorable & who were merely at the mercy of their slaver’s whim. Alas, Drakkon’s men had seen no such familiar humanity in them. Their slaughter, a bloody and indiscriminate one which left but a hundred breathing hostages.

The middle of prior night brought the annihilation to the Vizzari encampment. Despite their great numbers they stood no chance against the Drakoni ambush. Ba’al in his brazen arrogance had bid them partake in the ravishing liquors he’d ‘procured’ from the port towns in celebratory expectation of victory. They’d drunk beyond their wits or else into fast, fat, and final sleep. Culling hail battered them through the witching hour. Those who resisted, on ready watch, were too burdened by their scale armor. Fallen into the thick arctic sludge, they fell to hunter’s volley.

Those who were not so loyal to their late commander tried to flee the valley or else dropped their trembling arms to submit to mercy. But in the eyes of most Drakoni corps this proved cowardice deserving of butchery. From all sides of the valley the tribesmen rolled as avalanche. Their jaws pincered any push out. Their horns of hunt echoed loudly in Mordaunt’s skull. Sulking nearby, he recounted how it blew no valiant sound of honorable rally but screamed for rolling murder. Nothing of their number remained but a putrid mass stinking in the sun. Razed tents besides fallen horses submerged in the filth of valley’s damp. Nothing like the sun of valor he’d envisioned of Drakkon’s mythic charge. Only ghastly ruin. Only imprint of death’s opportunistic hand.

He lumbered along, encased by Heron and his spears, behind Drakkon & Baron. The leading pair engaged in dialogue, trailed by the famed Mother Azarra, who carefully lifted her skirts enough to avoid contamination from the field, tilted in conversation with red cloaked mystic.

To this quasi-hostage who’d dreamt of heroism this valley, Elderath, christened after that bountiful Goddess of earth & fruitful life, had become an altar to her dark sister, Malderath. The mistress of gray lands spirited off the lost souls. Mordaunt’s thoughts were suppressed by the searing migraine all this baleful confusion churned. Had his malice for that magister allowed this to happen easier, he wondered? After all he’d pushed the early celebration that their drunken deeds would be a distraction for his play. But surely, he would have perished by that brutal hammering from caves & crests the Drakoni gave the camp. He certainly did not feel clean of cloth and straight of spine in crossing into serving the victorious cult, though they’d let him live.

“Once our victory over Vizzari is mounted on firm progress, should we not raise monument here? To mark the turning of history’s course. Mark you this, Baron?” asked Drakkon seemingly unperturbed by the aspect of entropy about which he walked.

“Justly so,” remarked the bard, dispassionately, “although I wouldst offer a word of cordial advice that we keep fixed on the target ahead. As to properly draw the string and let fly the arrow through the Dread Serpent’s skull. Lest we risk sinking into the steeps of dreamland before we can truly ascend to glory in your Light, Lord. This was but one head - a massive one, but still only one - of a hydra. Who knows how many more battalions lurk beyond the valley or what their ships number in the great river?”

A terse sigh from Drakkon, vexed by Baron’s dilution of their triumph. “Perhaps our veteran volunteer, Mordaunt, could enlighten us as to their current magnitude?”

“Speak thee, fellow,” he tilted his head back towards their civil detainee, “wouldst thou tell us of thy former masters and what range they possess? It remains yet to be seen if thou art but a fearful deserter of the dark or an ally of the Light. So, I trust thou shall speak without trace of obfuscation or artifice.”

Mordaunt dared meet his inquisitor’s gaze when speaking confidence. “I am ever willing to prove myself a worthy champion of the Light. I did not leave their ranks out of craven motive. What cowering worm would be willful enough in his aim to strike down the Magistrate who enslaved him? Alas if it should aid your cause, Lord, I will reveal what is known to me, though I was but a conscript in that crimson band.”

“The Serpent’s Head,” he persisted, undeterred by the distrustful glances around him, “arrived on your shores with a fleet of carracks and the late Ba’aal’s flagship. I suspect it stays docked in Windirin with a skeleton crew. Half our armada sailed south to scourge more ports before hailing their plunder home, how’ere were followed by two War Barques our way here. Between them holding a host of around two to three hundred more men. Thousands more dither across the Ruun. But while the armada of Vizzari is a force to be reckoned with, long bent on crippling the industry & travel of your seafaring tribes, I doubt they rallied further warships. Given the harsh conditions of the rising winter storms and their over confidence in the former Magister of Fury. If none escaped the crimson night then the wyrms will suspect nothing, save assumption of their victory.”

With this Drakkon swiftly steered their company towards the remaining prisoners. They knelt, defeated & drained upon stiff plank platform beneath makeshift watchtower. Mordaunt winced with revulsion to see some of the only comrades he’d respected within the Vizzar bound and collared by deprecating humiliation.

Drakkon waved Heron & his men to the post and bid him to speak his mind as to the fate of these hostages. With halberd in hand the Ferali chieftain stepped up and studied the conquered men. “These captives were pawns of the Vizzar. Whether by cowardice or malice these puppets would’ve scoured the lands of innocent folk or else fetter them to the Serpent. They surrendered, yes, but out of fear. They would prove too weak or vindictive to aid us and should be executed. I can see no other course, my Lord.”

“Very well, Heron. I find this assessment astute and grant my blessing in putting force of blade behind thy claim.” Drakkon appeared thoroughly impressed by the brotherly man’s vigor. Pleased that his understanding aligned with his own.

“WAIT!” interjected Mordaunt with frantic rush. He threw himself into the steepened pit and bowed in desperate supplication. “I beg you, Lord, please! Do not sentence all these good men to so shallow a grave. I know some well and know they are worth more than sharpened axe can grant them! If I might implore your consideration: Many of these men did not submit for fear, as awesome as you are, but due to lack of fervency to the Vizzari realm’s evil. When most in our camp were playing the drunken fool and sedating themselves to oblivion these few remained sober and kept enough calm of wits to actively give themselves unto your mercy, Lord!”

Two sentinels pointed spears but Mordaunt refused to fear their posture of intimidation. Instead, he addressed the circle surrounding him once more. “That man there,” he pointed to one of the condemned, a man only a few years his elder with beaten & worn brow, “Saatharus! Served beside me as fellow slave-soldier. Fought for many cycles and never did either of us find pleasure in the atrocities we were forced into at the tip of State spears! He is a good man and a fellow with whom I shared many a night contemplating our forlorn fate and postulating possibilities of liberating ourselves and our comrades! I beg you grant him and all who never truly loved the work of the Vizzar a sliver of chance!”

Mordaunt’s manner slipped into ardor. He shined passionate plea for salvation for his former comrades. Baron caught this sudden shift in character and from the bard’s perspective Mordaunt had shed the snake’s skin. Appeared a new man with fiery soul unadorned with any duplicitous frill. This genuine plea plucked at Baron’s heartstrings. Compelled to avail his tongue to petition Drakkon for more forgiving judgement.

“My wise & eminent Lord, I implore you to consider this captain’s tale. I hath long been student of truth & feeling through art, history & people. I can tell a song of deceit from one of sincere belief. Mordaunt’s words hath reached me like the urgent laments of a mother wolf crying out for the life of her pups. I second his motion for reconsideration for the lives of these men. After all who among ye would hath been bold enough to challenge so dreadful a foe when most of fled from Kassan’s horned shadow?!”

Drakkon sent the spearmen from Mordaunt. “Then what would thou suggest? Let more than just compassion guide thy thought.”

“Allow me, liege, to choose those who may yet be friends of Light. Let them have swords to raise for your great hand. Serve that which shakes them free.”

Drakkon faced Mordaunt, unsheathing a glimmering dagger. The small yet deadly crafted blade slashed with swift motion. No fatal blow came upon the prisoner. His liege severed the peace-bindings about his sword’s sheathe, breaking the last chain. He then spun the dagger back so that the handle would be flipped to the freed man, offering it. “Choose those whose hearts may yet choose me. Kill the rest. Those worth pledging shall serve your test to take Windrin with the aid of my lieutenant & this skald who vouched for you.”

Mordaunt grasped the blade & its choice. Obeyed. Freed his fellows from noose. Shackled them to grim service of aiding his task. Freed those whose faces he knew not from life, let fresh blood drizzle the valley floor once more. Yet he imprisoned the inkling of tears in himself. When it was done the Lord pronounced him. “The Light of fortune casts thee in its sight this day. This I grant upon thee: the forging flame of rebirth, should thou prove brave & able enough to seize this blessed gift. Should thy quest & character be true to the Thunder of higher course that relic shall serve in reaping success for thyself & thy cause in the Drakoni.”

Drakkon concluded his proclamation. Sending his flock off to their tasks he went over to his mother who hadn’t dispersed with the crowd. He paid little attention to the so-called “Druid” who’d manifested by Azarra’s side from thin air. As he knew her to oft host menagerie of eccentric figures orbiting her steps. Now that the wheels of war pushed past the trenches of Elderath he had a wish for his mother to hear.

“Dear mother, I am grateful for your guidance & grace which helped lead us to victory here. But I must now insist that you do not pursue our campaign through to the coast. We may hold a hidden hand of surprise against our foes, but they will be draconic in their fight against us. May resort to any foul tactics. As we cannot yet concede the truth of the words spoken by our guest, the captain, it will be a dangerous march into the unknown and the snakes could lunge from anywhere. I do not wish you to risk anything & everything by being so close to the chaos. Instead, please humor me here, and return to the Temple for a time. Fear not for my health but do honor this plea for your own.”

Azarra’s face furrowed in a meteoric burst only barely repressed. Still, she hailed her son in acknowledgement, knowing she had to accept her place for now. I bet he’s going to beg that blaspheming witch, Corinna, to stay behind as well. Which means I’ll bloody be stuck with that thieving wench! Unless... what if he does just the opposite and pines like a love afflicted boy stricken dumb by ‘beauty’ – though in her I see none! What if he brings her along? Whispering sweet hexes into my son’s ear every forsaken night?!

The High Mother retreated from her son, withdrawing to her camp quarters. She stepped as a brooding storm, frightening and heavy in its front. She wanted in that moment to blot out the sun with her hatred for Corinna. To spurn those doubts as to what could happen to Drakkon. With her darkening looks none dared break her trance with idle speech or dim requests. She floated the way out from the valley. With long sigh Azarra re-dressed her regal mask and elegant poise. But inwardly wild turbulence and a carnal need to fly from anchor of thought sinking her. Flirted with disappearing into one or two of those ‘liberated’ wine bottles.

Spectators of the Sport of War

Dirgenval 2nd, 1329 CE, seaside encampment

Surf smacked the cliffside below as Sunset’s last embers sank into the sea. Here by the northernmost Drakoni basecamp, sitting in the shadow of the Temple a way’s up, salt & shimmering uncertainty slurped of the air. It lapped the brine coat Azarra’s throat with vinegar. This supposed ‘headquarters’ of operation was but a shoddy camp constructed for those rejected from the real circle of power.

Tucked far her son and his movers. A fortnight had crept by in that time since she had last seen him, ordered to stay behind to wallow in constant worry with no availing the campaign’s course.

Azarra drove the nails of isolation and inadequacy into her neck. How she loathed this feeling of weakness! Begot inside her, it tore open an old wound. Weakness reminiscent of when she lay in the dark alone & abused. But she refused to simply pace about in idle madness. She knew herself deserving of that wellspring of Dream to wash off impotence, & that it could only be attained by kinetic ambition. And so, she walked along the precipice overlooking the straight which stretched out into the sea. She honed hawklike eyes upon her mark, who lounged ahead.

Corinna sat on flat stone seat by curve in the cliff, staring out into the splashing foam. Her hair & fashion were not done up for any presentation. Looking as though she could be confused with any common maid. Look at her, Azarra thought as she slid beside Corinna, she has no true grace nor Will to earn her standing as I did. She is but a leech, latching on to Drakkon. With pretty face hiding her hooks. But now I know even that is a lie. To see her as the common dirt she was born from and will return to.

Her hostility remained hidden as Azarra smoothly slid out her personal pouch of wine and offered it to Corinna in cordial manner. “Care for a sip of the old devil’s drought? ‘tis exquisite in taste & and I dare say we are all deserving of a little indulgence.”

“To what do I owe the honor of your company for?” Corinna did not turn her face from the thrashing currents, still lost in the dance of sunlight drowning in the spray. She refused the wine for now but did not bristle with nervousness or irritation in her conduct. “I am simply hoping to silence my mind with meditation here, so close to wild ocean. I was not expecting a visit from the High Mother herself. Forgive me if my look is not as complimentary”

Azarra almost scoffed at this shallow flattery while she swilled the wine. “You owe me nothing, I simply thought I could use some good company & honest conversation. Sometimes one needs a fresh pair of eyes and another tongue to exorcise worry. What afflicts your mind so that you seek its silence? We are together in the fray & the wait now, so why hold our thoughts from voice?”

The coastal swirl suppressed the sigh which escaped Corinna. The two scooted close as to hear words exchanged. “Do you bring any word of our Lord? We are together in our worry for him. Tis been many a night since last letter, when they were yet housed in the humble village, Frayle. I know they are soon to take the cove. Truly tis unbecoming of me, this fanciful fear. So much has happened in sliver of time that sense of constancy is lost to me now.”

Then her eyes turned to Azarra’s. Despite how close they were on that stone ledge an arctic gulf was between them, one not of the seaborne squalls. A wariness and subtle suspicion kept them apart. Something uncanny about her visitor’s behavior hinted at broader animosity lurking beneath the surface, like those leviathans of the depths. “Not that I am ungrateful for the miracle granted to me and all of us. Only that all this waiting & unknowing can churn such anxiety and exhaust my reserves.”

“I understand this discomfort you feel in the waiting. The shadows of inaction are wide. & deep is the gulf we fall into when forced to be idle.” Azarra imbibed again & offered the girl her pouch of wine and another of residue and pipe-hash in feigned friendship. Corinna cautiously bargained to partake of the wine, more than the weed, if only for politeness.

Such dark thoughts slithered through Azarra’s synapses, flaring temptation. But she retained her demeanor and kept to casual interrogation. “But wherefore is this doubt & worry for my son, for the Living Lord? Do you hold heresy within you that would cast shade over Drakkon’s divinity?”

Even though her accuser’s tone dipped into threatening undertones Corinna did not shrink away from this turn. She sipped the wine, daring try it, and savored the nectar on her tongue. “There is no doubt as to Divinity’s flame burning there in his chest. ‘Tis that very radiant spark which drew my eye to his solar spirit. Even now I feel it light embers in mine, that connection deep enough to go beyond the many miles between us.”

Corinna pulled the strands of windblown hair from her face to taste of offered elixir once more, welcoming the subtle yet splendid shift in her mind’s state, before handing the container back. She spoke honestly. “If you ask of me if I believe he is that same avatar of the Lord of the astral pantheon I confess I cannot say. You were once an oracle, Azarra, you understand how it is to scry shards of Sight and see only shades of the sphere. The tides are oft obscured, fullness of fate lost to gullies. Even we are nearsighted to the dike.”

Azarra became bitter at this comparison, her grip tightening around the wine pouch. Scattered streaks burst out like a pierced vein. “How bold & boastful it is of you to compare the two of us. You think you know at all the depth of my experience?”

“You cannot claim to know the suffering I endured. The trials I faced to earn my station. Mayhap we were both forced into apostasy, sure. But the scars marking my bareness go far beneath what you can know. You drink not a drip from the well of my pain.” An oceanic gust accented her blackened mood. Numerous strands of her knot loosed by it as breeze of envy’s tyranny tussled hairs. Her azure eye splayed, pained. The emerald one glared through the straight.

As much as she wanted to leap far from present company, Corinna adopted graceful approach. Intuition warned of an unpleasant threat from this crazed but driven woman. “I meant no disrespect nor ill intent, High Mother. I could never so much as dream of possessing but a portion of your power & understanding. I only intended on complimenting your knowledge and admit the limits of mine. Curiosity moved my tongue ahead of my thoughts and for that I apologize. I’m at a loss for words that you should even consider my company so desirable, truly.”

Azarra hid her murderous thoughts. Fished the reins of her compulsion to strike this witch for her insolent disregard for her authority. She replaced her mask with mischievous smirk, affecting playful timbre. “Well find some words, humor my curiosity to spare a few answers, will you? I wonder as to the person you are. What is in you that is more than an oracle, a misguided girl or a true follower of good faith, dear stranger? We know little of one another though our paths interweave by threads of fate, if rarely so privately. Tell me, wherefore does my son strike you and whence? If not by glint of godhood.”

When her interrogator leaned forward to ignite her herbal pipe with little spill Corinna volunteered her hands to cup over the flame and protect it from cold breath. The aroma of churning coal & a deep elder musk borne from earthy garden encircled them in corona. Stripling cloud strained the woman’s eyes & nostrils till, fortunately, salt chuck waived Azarra’s smoke south away from her face. “This bond is one I know not from whence it bloomed. I only know its pull inside me that compels trust that he can turn more miracles of others’ misery. Through him I see the manifestation of better world to be, all which could be made more beautiful & freer. Perhaps I am an idealist or a fantasist, but to me the closer I stand to him, the stronger the sway of higher destiny; invisible to the eye but not the heart, a dream of days unscarred by senseless suffering.”

With her left hand she picked up a small, dislodged, rock and gently toss it over the edge. The fall below and the winds’ beating wings drowned any sound of the splash as the stone plunged beneath the waves forever. “What is that you smoke? It smells almost of murkroot,” Corinna asked casually, referring to a strand of the southern swamps, “hannabis? Not that I mind.”

Then she turned to Azarra with a forestalled but fatigued comment. “Just as you say I know not your suffering; I do not think it fair for you to presume mine or lack thereof. We are all of us mustering up our fronts before the wide gulf of chaos which spins our world. And none can truly tell how much another endures under the flimsy personas we must perform. We are all of us courtiers in some strange scheme when I look at it cosmically.”

“Cosmically, you say?” Azarra scoffed, saturating tongue with prolonged swig from her favored pouch. “Well then, enlighten me as to this ‘cosmic’ scheme of yours, will you? But when you speak of this grand plot in which we are all but petty pawns of distant gods or dancers for the Muses I cannot help but laugh. You ineptly grasp the core of the cosmos. Though I do not envy those Sights your spells send you, ripping from your mundane joys and offering little. Forgive me that, only, my experience awards me some suspicion...”

Corinna, undaunted by intimation looming of Azarra’s every word, kept her gaze consistent. “My faith & my spirit run a course deeper than my flesh may suggest. My youth is no marker of my skill nor talent. Age rarely implies competence, one way or another. Were you not closer to my age now than your own when you were forced by the fates’ on your ‘pilgrimage’ from Temple? That is not a journey taken lightly. And while I cannot compare to, nor fully see, what you went through, that I undertook the path of dire circumstances and survived should show at least some resilience.”

The splash in her liver bubbled broth of her spirits. “We both have our scars and gnawing holes eroding us over time. But still, I see the strength which drove you to your well-deserved standing over our blossoming hope. Tis, in a way, what rescued me from perdition’s bog. I see no reason why we should be rivals and I do not wish to challenge you, Azarra. I only ask to be granted some respect. I am not some feral hedge witch, nor scheming sorceress. Just a seeker of fortune where seeds of opportunity can grow for all of us in life’s garden. To sow seams of future as you do, in the Light.”

Windchill mirrored Azarra’s image. She reflected none of the sun’s falling light, so clouded by bleak feeling. No molecule of her being sought to accept the demeaning idea of being ‘equals’ with this harlot of the heath who cursed her plans by corrupting her son’s steps. As she exhaled another huff, the streams of herb’s breath split forked rivers of fog like draconic tongue. “How brazen an assumption that I do not respect you. If I did not, I would not be here, would I? I only cast doubts upon your gleaming star of ‘cosmic’ destiny with regards to my beloved son. My word is pragmatic and thoughtful. To stay away from him will save you from the solar pyre...”

“Wherefore must I forsake Sol’s light – that which saved me from a stake – for loveless dark?”

“If some delusional steer of ‘love’ or wanton lust infects your mind, plants the toxic notion that you belong by his side, then I must warn you that his destiny is greater than either of ours. Do not hurt yourself by being a fool. You know his course jolts with marriage to more regal unions. He sails northern most seas till, in his wake, the shores christen our Sight.”

Corinna was taken aback by the bluntness of these words wielded like a bludgeon. Her mouth fell agape at this seething hatred she felt simmering from Azarra’s aura. She seized another small stone and chucked it with cathartic force far over the cliffside. In a way she was truly hurt by this verbal ambush which interrupted any peace of mind found in her attempts at meditation. Her feelings towards Drakkon waxed to different stride, where this berating felled her to another’s envious volley. That she was not allowed to feel at all burst worst of all feelings. “I am sorry you feel that way, Azarra. I truly am... I do not get where it is you conjure this judgement of me as some slithering night-spouse. Survival is hard enough. More so when one struggles to awake in the daylight with a meaning – a purpose – to find for enduring all those damned wounds.”

“Yet you seek to cut deeper and split a rift between us. No ill will is in my heart. I only want to walk towards the light, my heartbeat in my steps, not be some mute and hollow shell. But if love should be the alchemy which the Fates call me towards; or should that be what the Living Lord desires of me then those strings of spirit will be pulled forward and I shall give what the world desires of me. No title nor prestige should stand to break that union if it were to be ordained by the dragon’s head of the cosmos, not even yours.”

Azarra cut in, seeding threads through verbal seams. “I seek only to call out any evil in your spirit. Dispel it, then let truth rain in. If it calls you to fly after him then damn this unquiet stillness of waiting and seek him out. Do so no matter where your feet must fly! If you are so bold & true.” She knew the daggers she drew could not be unsheathed; that mocking laughter would forever wound the trust of Corinna. Yet she reveled in the severance.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Corinna brushed her modest gown of the hefty herbal scent, “I must fly to other arrangements & responsibilities before they get away from me. I thank you for this chat, Lady of grace, and bid you good day.” She made for that austere array of tents & shoddy towers snared in salt & gloom. She felt it far preferable to Azarra’s inquisition. Eager to end the confrontation quick to not let it spiral into bitter conflict and chance of deadly consequences. She glanced past her shoulder once before ascending into the camp proper. Not to glimpse that brooding silhouette but see the sun set sail fully into the night-sea.

Setting Sail

Dirgenval 11th, Windirin Cove

When Heron mustered the force to pry his eyelids, he awakened to a timeless dawn. Knowing not where nor when was the passage of mortal time, this plane of strange sensation spun him about confusion. Barely knowing how to plant his bare feet on the floor. He pulled himself from the spindly sheets that wove their web of sleep around him. Tracing the rhythm of breath, the melted beads of frozen fever, sober understanding slowly returned with his health.

He was in a well-structured chamber, a rented room. But held no recollection of purchasing this spot nor what occurred prior to waking up from this private sickbed. Heron shuffled out the door, fumbling with the wool robe hanging beside the door hook. Dumbly he hobbled out from the toasty inn into space of a town he only vaguely recognized. He trailed heavy foot-traffic to find the fulcrum of everyone’s fixation. Heron’s eyes widened with shock of to witness the full affair atop the hill, overlooking the port town; an acclamation assembled there. Drakkon’s legendary likeness held up an obsidian blade that slowly & ceremonially fell upon the shoulder presented low before him. Christening Mordaunt as champion.

That glistening steel of another’s knighting shined recall in his synapses. Heron remembered then the flashes of skirmish which sent him to steep recovery. The lull of bard’s song tucking in men of the barracks, preceding the hailstorm of fury to seize Vizzari barges. The confusion as a frightened peasant rang alarum to the sleeping ships and serpent ballistae turning dread bolts against their sisters of the sea. Then the freeze of winter waters after a plunge from a vessel, razed by fire, and the rope that wrestled him out. The hand that brought him back belonged to Mordaunt.

Heron’s heart sank into his pit, wrought with pangs of nausea. His disgust, more with himself than this hilltop initiation ritual. For it help up a mirror to his soul. Reflecting the echoed image of his own embrace into Drakkon’s fold, showing him his ugliness.

Weariness whittled away. Chipped by artisan’s critique. Half of him sought an end to his sorrow and self-loathing at the bottom of a bottle, were it not for the exhaustion and sickness pervading him. No one could fling such piercing bolts of insult as he now flung from his mind at his heart. How pathetic to not to extend that same hand of trust to Mordaunt which had been granted to him. He only saw it now when the world itself blared this truth through the cheers & cries of the crowd. But he was no stranger to this feeling of self-driven shame, for the mist of blood he once waded through at Kassan’s command became a nightmarish haze which draped over years of his life. Recognizing this, optimism edged, he could change.

Meanwhile, with the ceremony concluded the streets yawned out bustling crowds. A fresh breeze rode the atmosphere of Windirin. Now that the snakes were driven into the Ruun, relief resurrected in many folks, to no longer have their dreams trampled by crimson clad boots. But there yet dwelt a cloud of suspicion, drifting in wary glances and snide snarls. For a few locals tucked to the sidelines of the markets & makeshift pubs shared airs of fear & spite. Praying that they hadn’t been delivered from one occupation into the next. Baron understood this fissure in the town’s sentiment. Given how he aimed on quelling any discontent through his musical talents and warm words spoken over frosted ale to passing peasants.

Atop the watchtower overlooking the port Corinna replaced Mordaunt. They stood gazing tall across the great river and the wispy mists pinching the surface. Wrapped in dense wool cloak to cover them from the wreathes of arctic gales. Her concentration steeped into the small steaming cup of tea. The soothing sips curled back by crisp air and apprehension constricted her throat. Drakkon noticed the queer whimpers which escaped between their words and the distance pace. “What afflicts your mind so, my dearest flame?”

Corinna turned her grayish eyes to his and pressed her soft hand against his chest. “My heart wavers, my love, and my mind is veiled by worry. I fear that I shan’t be accompanying you on their journey across as you asked of me last eve. Not of any fault of yours but of mine own frailty.”

Drakkon cupped her chin in his hand tenderly and drew her closer. “Wherefore? What is it that conjures this fear in you, wildflower? If ‘tis concern for the roughness of the winter surf, I assure you that my Fortune shall carry you to the East shore with the faithful. For the tides that carry our ships carry the course of our truest cause, in me. More so with you there. The sea itself will submit to our wake.”

“I know I only just begged return to your side but, well, recall this ‘gift’ from the gods? My spells wrack me more & more, growing worse nearer to war. I am seized by this curse – which deemed me both an oracle and witch in transience of mortal writ – struck by the shivering trances. You hath held me before in the night as they took me and seen the panic it stirs.” Glimmers of sorrow splashed in growing gulf come between them. “I wish not to be a burden to you when there is a greater world for you to face.”

“You could never burden me!” Drakkon rested her head against his heart. “It is a blessing you exist. To know you, to be close, is to glow with breathing warmth! I know the gods do not endow their grace nor the trials which come with their favor to those who lack vigor & purity. Doth these trances not also grant you Sight of omens? I know I asked of you once to stay, in fear of your safety. But I would ask you to come along my road, though ‘tis rough. For your luster beside me shines mine. Surely there must be merit in your being there to guide me. And I can be there to calm your shivers?”

Forlorn bells rang from her tongue. Hot breath brushed against Drakkon’s breast as hers rose & fell to his rhythm. She pushed back. Protective cloak dropped from her shoulders with wintry gusts & solid thought abruptly absent. “Alas, lord, I still must protest. I cannot give proper words to what stirs inside me but know that it is not for any dearth of love. While these spells which leave me bereft of awareness and limbs do oft bring revelations from a plane beyond the space of dreams & waking light alike, of late only a darkness hath come to me in this state. Tis a terrible abyss which I am thrust into when I am stricken but sudden convulsions. And each time I wake my body feels weaker, as though the life is being drained from my frame.”

Indeed, he’d marked her voice hoarser than usual. Noticed how she’d spoken mostly in whispers since coming down. The tea she doused her throat with was for easing the gruffness of her unforeseen ailment and the fever inside. Yet it did little besides dehydrate her. Before he could offer objection Corinna persisted in her earnest confession. “A treacherous avenue extends for you abroad, my flame. And it is one I cannot abide when I am called to a different passage. I need to seek insight renewed and learn to keep the wax inside alight...”

“For now, I must tread my own route. But trust our entwined love & our future shan’t be torn asunder by this canyon betwixt us. It is but ephemeral and truly for the best.” Her clouded eyes chased the fleeing billows above. Seeking answer to his slobbering ‘why’. “I must know my own light if I am to shine it for you once this gap is surpassed, do you understand? I feel I must study from Keeper Ligeia, for means of rejuvenation. You even said that with Ligeia you can rest easy for my health. Her protection will keep me from any scornful sages, nor will the snakes you face endanger me across the great river. Nor my trembling worries.”

Dejection dented Drakkon’s spine. Half-hid tears fell, along with his hopeful mood. His breath sharpened, stilted as he suppressed the despondent tides which her refusal stirred. He knew his vision of having amorous compassion beside him during his triumph was but another wisp parting on the horizon. Low murmur left his lungs. The wind died with his immediate hopes. “I understand, Cor’. Your health & peace of mind holds far more bearing than my selfish longing for your tender love. You hath my blessing to stay at the Temple or to come. But know you mean more to me than any poet’s quill could e’er compose. I love you boundlessly. If for this affection we must away awhile, I pray we will only grow closer from this distance. Without you, even with a thousand men, I sail alone. The vast waters between us will rage in my being as they do before us, but I shall turn this to fuel focus for the front.”

“T-thank you, Lord. Know too that our love is rooted in the earth as our branches reach for the stars. My trust cannot be eroded by any tides of time, for it is eternal!” Corinna leaned in and caressed his lips with hers with ardor of grateful passion. Despite how frigid & dry the air about the tower was their mouths were wet from shed stains. “I will stay here with you until you must set sail to hateful realm.”

“Let us not be morose when this opportunity lets our passion bloom past the present.” A small kiss sealed blessing, soured by being one of departure. Then he went to bless his faithful.

At the behest of their Lord, the Drakoni made repairs and remedied the look of the captured vessels. More had been snared within days. Redressed, secured for their cause, they served as a different camouflage. Should they sail towards the shores of the crafts’ old masters as they were a Vizzari patrol might wonder why a fleet of flying their colors headed homeward without order, and their doubt might be prickling plight. But where Serpent banners were once a new flag rose. Graven shape of the snake remained, twisted as desiccated bone coil. Craftsman toiled to shape their flagship with skeletal mast, affixed skulls to the bow. Notched evil insignia round crest & stuck hapless heads along the stern. Scouts of a spectral navy they became, manned by strigoi, sorcerer & shade. Wraith-ships to carry wrathful Draugr along their way to wage war for the Waning of the World.

Longships of lost Ursinium flocked to fulfill their heir’s oath to the Lord. Bears of the waves bolstering this gambit, readied to sweep any contest from the sea serpents. One of these vessels now became an instrument of inclement fyre. Transformed by the alterations of Sage Albrecht and infused with his alchemy. A dragon’s head marbled of meteorite let the snout of this ship, the Ignis Drakonis, with its bite backed by fusion of coal tar, peat, quicklime & funnel to ignite any armada that would challenge Living Light.

When it was done, Drakkon made proclamation to them. “Hark how surf of the winter storms stills itself to grant our passage! Through that fortuitous gap we shall cross the Ruun. The treachery of those torrents we hasten betwixt shall turn back the Vizzar. Our tide shall be upon them as Divine deluge! Let us split the waves which hurry our flames or else fly above them!”