Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 58–A River Of Wind

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Atop her vantage point, Faline watched the fireball’s devastating impact, her green eyes narrowing to slits. The Shatain around her shifted nervously as the distant screams of burning men carried across the battlefield. The magical flames cast an orange glow across the landscape, illuminating her features in flickering light.

“Gall,” she whispered, the name leaving her lips like a curse. There you are. A memory flashed—Gall standing beside Kerighan at the Mordwahl just before they imprisoned her in the Void. Gall, who laughed as the Grail of Culloden stripped away her dark arts ability, then nearly killed her.

Rage coursed through her veins, hot and electric, temporarily burning away the exhaustion. She pushed past the protective circle of Shatain, their armored hands reaching out as if to steady her, then falling back at the expression on her face.

“You continue to surprise me, traitor,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “If you wish to use magic, let me show you how it is done.”

With a violent motion, she threw back her cloak, letting it fall forgotten to the ground. The moonlight bathed her in its cold glow, revealing intricate tattoos that spiraled across her exposed arms—remnants of a power she had once commanded entirely, now reduced to mere shadows of their former glory.

Despite her weakened state, Faline felt something ancient stirring in response to her fury. The ground beneath her feet trembled. The air grew heavy, charged with potential.

She thrust both hands skyward, fingers splayed wide, tendons standing out like cords. Her voice, when it came, was not entirely her own, layered with harmonics that seemed to vibrate from some otherworldly source.

“Flumen venti [River of wind]!”

The stars above dimmed as clouds swirled into existence in a night sky that had been clear moments before. A low moan built to a howl, then to a shriek that seemed to tear at the fabric of reality itself. The very air condensed, becoming almost visible as currents and eddies formed above the battlefield.

The Shatain cringed, pressing armored fists against the sides of their hoods. Birds erupted from distant trees, fleeing in panic. Horses screamed and broke free of their tethers.

The heavens themselves seemed to split open.

A roar like a thousand thunderclaps deafened all who heard it. A solid wall of wind—not merely a gust but a tangible, almost liquid force—cascaded from the sky tearing across the field with impossible speed, flattening grass and uprooting small trees in its path. The atmospheric river gained momentum as it approached the city walls, picking up debris and swirling it into its furious current.

When it struck the North Gate, the collision was not merely physical but metaphysical—magic against matter, chaos against order. The ancient structure held for a heartbeat, straining against forces it was never designed to withstand.

Then, with a sound like the end of the world, the gate exploded.

Massive oak beams, iron bands, and stone archways disintegrated under the impact. Chunks of debris the size of wagons were hurled inward, crushing defenders who had no time to flee. The nearby wall sections buckled and cracked, mortar dust billowing outward in a choking cloud. Men were lifted from their feet and thrown like dolls. Their screams lost in the cacophony of destruction.

As suddenly as it had manifested, the wind died. A deafening silence fell across the battlefield, broken only by the patter of falling stones and the distant moans of the injured.

Where the North Gate had stood for centuries, there was now only a jagged wound in the city’s defenses. A gaping maw that led directly into the heart of Landros.

Faline dropped to one knee, her body betraying her once again. Blood trickled from her nose and ears. Far beyond what her diminished powers should have allowed, the spell had taken a terrible toll. Blackness encroached at the edges of her vision. Her heartbeat fluttered erratically in her chest.

But her lips curved into a smile of savage triumph as she fought to remain conscious.

She fixed her gaze on the Inner Keep, where the would-be Queen of Bretagne would be cowering. But somewhere in the city was Gall.

“Now,” she rasped to the Shatain, who rushed forward to support her trembling form. “We reclaim what is mine, but first … we destroy Gall.”

* * *

The concussive force of Faline’s spell hurled Gall through the air off the ramparts like a discarded toy. The world spun wildly around him—stone, sky, flame, smoke—before he slammed into the cobblestone street below. The impact drove the air from his lungs and sent shockwaves of agony through his body. Something cracked in his chest. His vision swam with bursts of white light.

For several heartbeats, he could do nothing but lie there, struggling to draw breath into his battered lungs. The sounds of battle seemed distant, muffled, as though reaching him through water. Dust and debris continued to rain down from the shattered gate.

He tried to push himself upright, but his body refused to cooperate. Excruciating pain lanced through his ribs and shoulder. A warm wetness trickled down his temple—blood from a gash he couldn’t remember receiving.

Suddenly, two hands gripped him under the arms, lifting him to his feet. The movement pierced his body with fresh waves of torment. Gall bit down hard on his lower lip to keep from crying out, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth.

He attempted to twist his head to identify his rescuers, but his neck locked in protest, muscles spasming.

“To the keep,” he managed to rasp, the words scraping his dust-filled throat.

“We’re headed that way,” came a familiar voice to his right—firm, commanding, yet tinged with an edge of breathlessness that betrayed her composure.

Queen Britta of Bretagne, her clothing torn and smeared with soot, supported Gall’s right side. Strands of her distinctive red hair unraveled from her battle braid, framing a face streaked with grime and blood, some of her own.

“Not a moment too soon,” growled Katun from Gall’s left side. The Duke looked as though he’d been dragged through the underworld. His bushy beard was singed on one side, his left eye swollen shut. Yet his grip remained iron strong as he helped bear Gall’s weight.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gall glimpsed what remained of the North Gate—a yawning wound in the city’s once-formidable defenses. The ancient stonework, which had withstood centuries of sieges and storms, lay pulverized, reduced to rubble and dust. Through this breach poured a howling mob of Drachnorian soldiers, their steel gleaming in the light of burning buildings, their faces twisted with bloodlust.

And some distance behind them—Gall’s heart clenched—he caught a glimpse of dark figures moving with unnatural grace. The Shatain. Faline’s executioners.

“Faster,” he urged, finding strength born of desperation.

Together, the three of them hobbled through the streets toward the Inner Keep, the last bastion of defense within Landros. Behind them, the sound of pursuit grew louder—boots pounding on cobblestones, war cries echoing between buildings. The Drachnorians were closing the distance with alarming speed.

Ahead loomed the Inner Keep’s massive gates, still standing open to offer the last defenders and civilians a chance of refuge. Guards waved them forward urgently, shouting encouragement. A handful of archers on the wall above loosed arrows over their heads, buying precious seconds.

With a final burst of effort that sent daggers of pain through Gall’s broken ribs, they staggered through the portal. The moment they cleared the threshold, commands were bellowed. The massive iron portcullis clattered down with a reverberating boom that shook dust from the archway. Reinforced with hardened bands of dwarven steel, the great oaken doors swung shut behind them.

Not a moment too soon. Thuds and enraged shouts carried through the barrier as the first wave of Drachnorians slammed against the closed gate. Metal clanged on metal as spears and swords struck the portcullis in impotent fury.

Inside the Inner Keep’s bailey, organized chaos reigned. Soldiers rushed to reinforce defensive positions. Healers tended to the wounded in makeshift field stations. Civilians huddled in fearful clusters, clutching the few possessions they’d saved.

Riasean raced down the inner ramparts and slid to a stop in front of Britta. Between gasps for air, he spoke, “Your Majesty, I’ve worked it out with the city ingeniare. If the valves are opened, the reservoir will flood the sewers and streets.”

Britta nodded grimly as she helped ease Gall onto a stone step before straightening to her full height. “We will hold the Inner Keep for as long as we can,” she declared, her voice carrying to the nearest soldiers, who straightened at her words. “If we can’t, we’ll open the reservoir and attempt to fight our way out of the city to the south.”

She looked at Gall, her expression softening. “Do you agree?”

Gall looked up at the Queen—a woman he had watched grow from a precocious child into a formidable ruler. He saw in her face the ghosts of those who had come before: her father’s determination, her mother’s compassion. The weight of their shared history pressed upon him like a physical force.

“I see no other option,” he admitted, drawing deep breaths as the initial shock of his injuries began to fade, replaced by a persistent, throbbing ache.

Britta nodded once, sharply, then moved off toward the eastern Inner Keep gate, issuing commands as she went. Her red hair streamed behind her like a battle standard—like a candle flame in the growing darkness. Men and women stepped aside respectfully as she passed, drawing courage from her resolute bearing.

 Gall watched her go, pride mixing with a deep, gnawing guilt. She was indeed much like her father, King Alric—pragmatic, courageous, willing to make difficult choices for the greater good. Facing impossible odds with unflinching resolve.

Yet Gall couldn’t help wondering if history was repeating itself in the cruelest way possible. Was he leading her into an unwinnable situation, just as he had led her mother, Queen Aurea? The parallels were too painful to ignore—another desperate last stand, another impossible choice. Larah had paid the ultimate price for his strategic miscalculations.

This time, he could influence events, perhaps alter the outcome. His hand rested once more on the hilt of the Mordblade. The ancient entity inside stirred at his touch, its slimy presence a reminder that all decisions had consequences. At least Larah was no longer here to witness the continued slaughter—and his greatest failure—the inability to protect her from his legacy.