Return of the Dragon (The Dragon's Champion Book 6) (18 page)

Aparen sat at a small, rectangular table staring at
the pile of grapes next to the pair of rolls on his plate. He hadn’t touched
them. He just looked at them. He wasn’t hungry, hadn’t been all day, or the day
before for that matter. Njar had shown him so much over the last several months
and it was only just now beginning to sink in.

All of his fantasies of being some great warlock
seemed so laughable now. Nothing he could ever do would change the course of
events in the realm half as much as one satyr had done. More than that, he
could feel
his
insignificance as well. Whether he lived twenty, one
hundred, or even a thousand years, nothing he did would ultimately matter. He
would die sooner or later, and the world would go on without him just the same
as if he had never been.

The only thing that seemed to make any sense at all
anymore was the idea of balance that Njar was showing him.

He reached for the glass of wine in front of him and
took a drink. He hadn’t been hungry, but he
had
been thirsty, especially for wine. He rose from the
table and started to move to the cot he had been given when a knock sounded at
the door. Aparen waved his hand and the door opened.

He stiffened when he saw Silvi standing there. He
hadn’t seen her for a long time. In fact, not at least for a couple of months,
and the last time he had seen her was only in passing.

“May I come in?” Silvi asked.

Aparen looked at her raven black hair and her supple
features,
then
he nodded as he took another drink of
his wine.

“I don’t suppose there is an apology I can make that
will help things between us,” she started. “But I wondered if we could start
over?”

“Start over?” Aparen asked.

Silvi walked into the room, her hips swaying slightly
under her form-fitting dress. She closed the door behind her and moved to sit
upon the table. “I have been watching you,” she said.

“I know,” Aparen said. “Njar has told me.”

Silvi nodded and smoothed a lock of hair back over her
ear. “Are you still interested?”

Aparen pulled his brow together and looked at her.
“Are you here to charm me again?” he asked.

Silvi shook her head. “No, I promised I would never
try that again.”

“How can I be sure?” Aparen asked.

Silvi shrugged. “I would imagine you would be able to
detect a charm spell if I tried,” she pointed out. “You have progressed along
extremely quickly, and with the additional power given to you, I don’t see how
I could be much of a threat to you anymore.”

“What do you propose?” Aparen asked.

Silvi smiled and bit her lower lip before answering.
“I want to know if the man who fought a vampire for me still lives, and if he
does, I want to ask if he still wishes my hand. I did promise it to him some
time ago.”

Aparen set the goblet down and moved toward her. “You
also told me that you had to be sure I was thinking above the belt.”

Silvi blushed and nodded. She folded her hands into
her lap and took in a breath. “I would understand, especially with all that you
now know, if that man has changed his mind.”

Aparen moved in close enough to smell the perfume she
wore. He couldn’t deny she was beautiful. His heart thumped within his chest as
he took it all in. “I am still interested,” he said in a whisper.

Silvi’s eyes darted down to Aparen’s lips and then
back up to his eyes. She started to lean in. They both began taking shallow,
quick breaths as their faces neared each other. Silvi’s lips parted slightly
and her eyes closed.

At the last moment Aparen slid a firm finger up to
press against Silvi’s lips, stopping her instantly. “First I will have to see
that you want me for more than just my power,” he said.

Silvi blinked and grinned, narrowing her eyes on him
playfully. Aparen stood stoic, his face expressionless. Silvi blushed and
turned away. She pulled at her dress when it snagged on a bit of wood from the
table and made quickly for the door. She paused only when her hand touched the
knob.

“I am still interested,” Aparen said again. “But the
moment may have passed.”

Silvi turned her head slightly to talk over her
shoulder. “It isn’t too late now,” she said.

“You wanted to make me a powerful warlock, and now I
am,” Aparen said. “The only trouble is now I have something I must do. My focus
needs to be solely upon my task. If I complete it, and live through it, then
perhaps we can resume this conversation.”

Silvi turned all the way around to face him. “You have
matured much these last few months. In part that makes me proud of you, but I
have to wonder if your ego hasn’t grown too large for you.” she commented. “I
won’t promise to be here if you take too long.”

Silvi then left and slammed the door behind her.

Aparen smiled and nodded. “One should always be
careful what they wish for,” he said at the door. “You may not like it in the
end.” Aparen recalled the lessons about the many Cursed Races. Never had the
age-old saying had more impact or meaning for him than it had when he had
learned of Khullan’s failings after creating the Cursed Races.

He wondered if Silvi would come to regret helping him
achieve his great powers. Or perhaps she would wish to have the younger Aparen
back, the one that, as she put it, couldn’t think fully above the belt. He
smirked to himself and turned away from the door. He moved toward his cot and
decided that he no longer cared what Silvi thought. If she was around when he
returned, then perhaps they would pair off and continue on some other
adventure. As he dropped down onto the cot and stared up at the ceiling he
thought of Erik Lokton.

With all that he had learned over the course of many
months while under Njar’s tutelage, he still couldn’t shake his hatred of that
boy. True, Njar had shown Aparen the meddling witches and their roles in his
life, but it was still Erik who broke Timon’s hand. It was still Erik who took
the horse from his family. Now it seemed as though Erik was about to take a
heroic destiny that had been meant for him as well.

The witches may have set the course, but Erik had
never been bound by a charm spell.

Aparen knew that Njar would be displeased, but he was
happy that Erik’s real father was a shadowfiend. A grin of sick, twisted
satisfaction stretched his lips as he thought about how fitting it was that
Dremathor’s powers would soon be given to him. He would honor his word to the
shadowfiend, but he would also relish the knowledge that he had gained
something of far more value than a simple coven hiding in an underground cavern.

Now he had the power to create his own destiny.
Perhaps he could even use it to shape future generations of Erik’s own family.
After all, he never promised not to interfere with Erik’s descendants, and a
shadowfiend can live for a very long time.

*****

Grand Master Penthal of the Lievonian Order looked out
across the field. The defenses had fallen, and the pass had been claimed in
whole by the Tarthuns. Their horses now spilled into the snow-covered valley
like wine spilled over a stone floor. Their organization was messy. There
appeared to be no order whatsoever. The mounted idiots whooped and hollered as
their horses galloped down toward Master Penthal’s men.

Master Penthal surveyed his own men. Neat, orderly
rows and columns of pikemen hemmed in the valley. Archers stood at each flank,
and in two rows behind the main formation of footmen. Swordsmen stood behind
the archers, ready to rush in should the Tarthuns blast through the pikemen and
get to the archers. The Lievonian knights sat upon their armored horses behind
Penthal, waiting for his command. If the battle tipped in their favor, then
Penthal would lead the knights personally in an assault as a terrible force.
If, on the other hand, the Tarthuns appeared strong, then Penthal would dismiss
the knights to lead each of their own men. This type of autonomy had its risks,
but the Lievonian Order consisted of the keenest minds, and their ability to
quickly respond on the field without waiting for Penthal’s own analysis followed
by a delayed relay of orders outweighed the risks.

Penthal also had another surprise waiting for the
Tarthuns.

Up until this day, the Tarthuns had only faced men
conscripted by the Lievonian Order. Despite the fact that Penthal had lost
several battles, notably along the walls and towers built in the mountain pass
itself
, each victory brought only a false confidence to the
Tarthuns that would hopefully goad them into making a dire mistake.

Just below the hill less than a quarter mile behind
the very spot where Master Penthal sat stood a fierce army sent by King
Mathias. There were thousands of soldiers.
Pikemen, swordmen,
archers, cavalry, and even a few berserker units.
If this wasn’t enough
to send the Tarthuns running, then the several hundred dwarves would be.
Unfortunately, their cavedogs would be of no use in this bitterly cold
environment, but the dwarves themselves would still send a crushing blow
through the Tarthuns’ ranks.

The Tarthuns continued to whoop and shout. Penthal
smiled at them. “They have absolutely no idea,” he reassured himself. He turned
back over his shoulder, eyes still glued to the battlefield as he shouted out
the order. “Send in the pikemen to plug the gap,” he instructed.

One of the knights pulled a horn and gave two quick
blasts.

Immediately the several hundred pikemen moved in. They
didn’t rush or charge. They moved methodically, together. It was a wall of
spears, pikes, and pole-axes closing in on the narrow neck of the valley at the
base of the pass.

“Let’s show the Tarthuns what a real bow can do,”
Penthal ordered.

Another knight pulled a horn and gave a long,
two-toned blow of the horn. Three hundred archers pulled their bows, leaned
back to get the greatest range, and then let the black arrows fly through the
wintry sky. Scores of Tarthuns fell to the ground. The horse-archers galloped
in quickly to answer with their own arrows, but the shafts fell short of the
mark.

Penthal smiled. “The horsemen may have us in agility,
but they will find our bows can reach them anywhere in the valley, and in order
to close off our archers, they will have to break through a wall of steel.”

He continued to watch as the pikemen closed in. The
galloping horde thundered toward them. Horse-archers fired arrows at the
pikemen, but their armor was so well built that only a few unfortunate souls
fell at the tip of a Tarthun arrow.

The wave of rampaging hooves crashed into the silvery
wall of armor and spikes. Horses cried out, men shouted, and the metal rang out
through the valley. Row after row of Tarthuns fell at the point of a spear or
pike. The pikemen were vigilant, turning to protect their flanks as the
Tarthuns tried to gallop around their sides. The archers continued to thin out
the Tarthun flanks, forcing them to face the pikes head-on.

The pikemen formed a perfect crescent, effectively
sealing off the narrow neck of the valley and creating a living, ferocious
fence around the Tarthuns. Master Penthal smiled. The battle was tipping in his
favor. Still, it was too early to call it for the day. He knew all too well
that the mounted warriors were not likely to lose their strength as quickly as
the pikemen might.

“Sir,” someone called from behind.

Grand Master Penthal didn’t recognize the voice. It
wasn’t one of his knights. He turned to see a man wearing a gray robe.

It was Master Cagen, one of King Mathias’ mages that
had been sent to bolster the eastern defense.

“What are you doing up here?” Penthal growled. “If the
enemy sees you, they might turn and rethink their strategy.”

“I-I-I know, sir, forgive me, but I thought you would
want to know that I have perfected the spell.”

“What spell?” Penthal hissed. Then he smiled and held
a hand up. “You have figured out the invisibility spell?” he asked
enthusiastically.

“No sir. That still eludes me. I don’t think we can
create an invisibility spell for the army. It is beyond us.”

“Well then what do you have to offer?”

“The cavedogs can ride in the snow now,” Cagen said
with a self-appreciating grin. “I fixed their blood so that they will be just
as agile and fast as if they were in a desert cave.”

Penthal cocked his head and his eyes nearly fell out
of his head. “That is impressive,” he said. “Good, have them suit up. When they
are ready, we will form a proper cavalry and we will move in to the enemy flank
upon my command.”

“The others want to know what we should do,” Cagen
pressed.

Penthal looked to the knights around him and then out
to the field. He analyzed the shifting movements of the battle. The center
line, where everything was a chaotic mash of bodies and blood, was tilting
slightly. He pointed to the point where the enemy had been pushed back the
farthest. “You will tell the others on foot to circle around there. Come up
behind the archers, then bolster our forces and push the enemy farther back.
Your goal will be to pinch the enemy force so that we can trap a significant
number of them in a vice while the rest scatter before my charge with my
knights and the cavedogs. Wait for my signal. When you hear three short
trumpets followed by one long, then you will march at full speed.”