Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 62–Through Fire And Water

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Drachnorian soldiers poured through the broken eastern gate of the Inner Keep like a tide of steel and flesh, their battle cries echoing off ancient stone walls. The clash of weapons and screams of the wounded created a hellish chorus that filled Gall’s ears as he watched them pushing relentlessly up the ramps of the outer walls. The nauseating smell of smoke mixed with the scent of blood hung heavy in the air.

Gall grabbed Riasean’s arm, feeling the younger man’s muscles tense beneath his grip. The Dragon Heartstone pulsed faintly in Riasean’s tunic—their only defense against the Shatain lurking beyond the walls.

“Take command of the north wall,” Gall ordered, his voice hoarse from shouting commands over the din of battle. “Get as many of the garrison back to the western gate. We can’t hold them here for long.”

Consternation flickered in Riasean’s eyes, but determination quickly replaced it. He nodded sharply and dashed across the tops of the wall, leaping the gap where the gate had collapsed in a shower of stone and timber. The Heartstone’s faint glow trailed him like a comet.

Pain shot through Gall’s injured leg as he hobbled along to join the milling crowd of Bretagnian soldiers fighting desperately at the top of the stairs. Blood soaked through his makeshift bandage, but he couldn’t spare the time to tend it—not with Faline’s forces closing in, hungry for both his head and Queen Britta’s.

He grimly scanned their situation, wiping away sweat that stung his eyes. The defenders’ position was now fully compromised. Below in the courtyard, the released reservoir waters churned and swirled around the legs of advancing Drachnorian infantry, slowing but not stopping them. The tactical advantage they’d hoped for was already fading.

The loss of the eastern gate and the flooding in the courtyard had pushed the fighting onto the ramparts, making it nearly impossible to mass and fight cohesively. Men slipped on blood-slicked stone, falling to their deaths or into the mercy of enemy blades.

Gall’s heart sank as he counted their dwindling numbers.

We’ve lost Landros. The capital of Bretagne has fallen.

Their best hope now was a fighting retreat out the western gate. The memory of Queen Britta’s face when he’d suggested this contingency plan—her new crown abandoned to Faline’s ambitions—still haunted him. But they had no choice.

Even that desperate option presented grave dangers. The area outside the western gate was no man’s land where the Nagun warriors waited. Those non-human tribesmen were as unpredictable as vicious, their alliance with Faline’s Drachnorians tenuous at best. Still, facing the Nagun was better than attempting to hack their way through the eastern gate against overwhelming numbers.

And always there was the Shatain to deal with. The Dragon Heartstone had kept those shadowy terrors at bay so far, but for how long? Gall shuddered at what they could do if they reappeared.

No, the west gate had to be their goal. Hopefully, Harald would clear a way south long enough for them to retreat south toward Tenoach, where they could regroup and continue the struggle for Bretagne’s survival.

Gall didn’t waste effort trying to calculate their odds of success. Instead, he gritted his teeth against the pain and limped over to the group on the south wall of the keep. He formed a defensive circle with Ulrich and the remaining Free Cazidoran soldiers surrounding Queen Britta, whose face was streaked with dirt and blood but still radiated defiance.

“Your Majesty,” he called over the clash of battle, while waving her toward the still-intact western gate. “We must move now!” Their eyes met briefly, and in that moment, he silently promised to get her safely to Tenoach—or die in the attempt.

* * *

Riasean reached the defenders on the North wall just as Drachnorian soldiers wound their way to the top of the rampart stairs. Their battle cries echoed off the stone walls, mingling with the sounds of steel on steel and the cries of the wounded. The afternoon sun glinted off their armor, casting long shadows across the blood-spattered ramparts.

The weight of the Heartstone pressed against Riasean’s chest beneath his tunic, its rhythmic pulse almost like a second heartbeat. He wondered if he could use it against the Drachnorians as he had against the Shatain. Those shadowy creatures had recoiled from its flames, but would it work on human foes?

He crouched on the rampart, fingers trembling slightly as he reached into his tunic. The garrison soldiers formed a desperate line ahead of him, their weapons clashing against the incoming tide of Drachnorians. The stone felt warm in his palm, its surface smooth yet etched with ancient symbols that seemed to shift beneath his gaze.

Riasean closed his eyes and concentrated, searching for that sensation of connection he’d felt before when the stone had awakened.

Please, if there’s any power left in you, now would be the time.

Nothing happened. The stone remained dormant, just a pretty bauble, while men died mere feet away.

Shouts and sounds of fighting grew closer. A defender fell backward, clutching at a crossbow bolt protruding from his shoulder. Another stumbled, a Drachnorian blade opening his throat in a spray of crimson.

“Curse it all,” Riasean muttered, stuffing the stone back into his tunic. Its weight felt heavier now, useless. He pulled his short black blades from their sheaths, the familiar grips centering him.

Guess we’ll have to fight our way out of this one.

He leaped into the fight with practiced precision, his blades dancing in lethal arcs. The lead fighters fell back before his onslaught, their confident advance faltering. A handful of defenders rallied around him; their spirits lifted by his unexpected ferocity. Together, they held the surging mass of attackers at bay, but Riasean knew it wouldn’t last. Two more climbed the steps for each Drachnorian that fell to replace them.

A glance to his right caught a large vat of oil, abandoned before it could be used to defend the east gate. The black liquid sloshed inside, its pungent smell cutting through the metallic scent of blood.

Riasean tapped the soldier beside him—a young man with a gash across his cheek—and waved him over to the container. Understanding dawned in the soldier’s eyes, and they raced over while the others maintained their defensive line. They sheathed their weapons and pushed the heavy vat closer to the steps, muscles straining against its weight.

“On three, we dump it,” Riasean shouted, his voice hoarse from the battle’s chaos.

He turned to the remaining defenders, their faces streaked with blood and sweat. “The rest of you run for the west gate!” he commanded. Without hesitation, they broke and ran, taking advantage of the momentary reprieve Riasean had created.

Seeing their prey escaping, the attackers redoubled their efforts, racing up the remaining steps with renewed vigor. Riasean positioned himself beside the vat, ready to overturn it.

“One.”

The first Drachnorians reached the top of the steps, their faces contorted with battle rage beneath their helms. Teeth bared, swords extended, they bore down on Riasean and the young soldier. Riasean grabbed the soldier’s arm, feeling the tremor of exhaustion in the man’s muscles.

“Run for it,” he ordered. “I’ve got this.”

The man needed no encouragement. He darted away just as more attackers flooded the rampart, cutting off the path west. Now it was just Riasean and a half-dozen Drachnorians, their eyes narrowed with bloodlust.

“Two.” Riasean grabbed a torch from a nearby holder, its flame dancing wildly in the wind. He lifted his leg as the attackers surrounded him, their weapons poised to strike.

“Three.”Clang! His boot struck the side of the container with all his strength. The vat tipped over with a groan of metal. Oil spilled across the walkway, a glossy black wave that gushed down the steps and spread outward in all directions, including onto and around Riasean’s boots.

Attackers slipped and fell, arms windmilling frantically as they lost their footing. They tumbled down the steps and off the narrow walkway, their screams mingling with the sounds of battle below. But one Drachnorian—a burly veteran with a missing teeth—maintained his balance and slashed at Riasean.

Riasean tried to draw his sword, but the oil made the hilt too slick. It slid from his grasp, clattering to the stone. Instead, he gripped the torch tighter and parried the slash, the wooden shaft barely deflecting the blade.

Sparks from the collision showered down, tiny stars falling into the oil surrounding them. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then flames erupted with a whoosh, spreading across the spill with terrifying speed.

In that moment, Riasean realized his doom.

Just as well. There wasn’t much purpose left to my existence anyway.

Larah’s face flashed in his mind—beautiful, uncorrupted Larah—and he found comfort that at least she didn’t have to witness this end.

Flames billowed up and enveloped everyone on the rampart, including Riasean. The Drachnorians’ screams rose higher as the fire consumed them, their bodies twisting in horrific agony. Riasean braced himself for the searing pain, his muscles tensing for the inevitable.

But instead of pain, he felt… nothing. No heat, no burning. Just a dull thumping against his chest where the Heartstone lay.

Riasean stared in disbelief as flames licked around his feet and twisted up his legs, yet left him untouched. The fire ravaged the figures writhing at his feet, their armor turning cherry-red with heat, but nothing stuck to him. Even when the flames brushed against his skin, he moved freely through them.

Through his tunic, he could feel the insistent pulsing.

The Dragon Heartstone. It must be protecting me.

The ancient object had chosen this moment to reveal another of its powers.

A hysterical laugh bubbled up from his chest, but rationality quickly reasserted itself.

How long will this protection last?

Whatever magic sheltered him now might fade at any moment.

Abandoning his position, Riasean raced along the catwalk toward the western gate, his body glistening with oil but miraculously unharmed. Behind him, a wall of flame consumed the north wall, buying precious time for the retreating defenders.

As he ran, the Heartstone continued its rhythmic pulsing against his chest, reminding him that perhaps there was purpose in his survival after all.

* * *

Gall parried another sword thrust, the impact sending painful vibrations up his injured arm. Sweat stung his eyes as he fell back, his boots scraping against stone slick with blood. The surviving defenders formed a shrinking circle, their breathing ragged, their movements growing desperate with fatigue.

A shout rang out over the cacophony of battle, cutting through the clash of steel and the screams of the wounded. “The passage south has been cleared!”

Gall’s heart leaped at the words. Harald had carved them an escape route through the Nagun-held southern quarter. He nodded grimly and tapped Ulrich on the shoulder, leaving a smear of blood on the tall Cazidoran’s armor.

“Get the Queen,” he ordered, his voice hoarse. “Go out the gate and head south.”

The Cazidoran captain nodded, his face set with determination. He broke from the defensive formation and pulled Britta away from the circle of defenders surrounding her. The Queen’s face was tight with anguish as she glanced back at the Inner Keep—the last bastion of her capital, now falling to Faline’s forces.

“Your Majesty, we must go,” Ulrich urged, his deep voice carrying an urgency that finally broke through her hesitation.

They ran down the steps, armor clanking with each footfall, and plunged into the water flooding the western gatehouse. The frigid water rose to their waists, then their chests as they descended, the shock of it drawing sharp gasps from even the hardened soldiers.

Gall limped along behind them, wincing with each step. Blood trickled down his leg, leaving swirling crimson patterns in the rising water. He reached the gatehouse, now nearly submerged, and grabbed the rusted winch mechanism. The metal bit into his palms as he began raising the portcullis.

The chains protested with grinding and clanking noises that echoed off the stone walls. Slowly, agonizingly, the gate’s jagged edge rose above the water flowing through the opening. The effort sent waves of pain through Gall’s injured shoulder, but he continued turning the mechanism until the gap was wide enough.

“Go!” he shouted to the remaining defenders. “Now!”

A steady stream of Bretagnian soldiers, led by Britta and Ulrich, flowed through the opening and into the streets of the lower city. The icy water tugged at their armor and weapons, threatening to pull the exhausted fighters under. They plowed through the chest-high flood, shivering as it sapped the warmth and energy from their limbs.

Gall watched them go, counting silently. Twenty-eight survivors from a garrison that had numbered in the hundreds just days ago. The bitter taste of defeat filled his mouth, but he pushed the feeling aside. There would be time for mourning later—if they survived.

Behind him, the sounds of pursuit grew louder. Drachnorian war cries echoed through the Inner Keep as they secured their victory. Soon they would reach the western gate.

The fleeing defenders’ sense of desperation was so strong that even the bone-chilling water failed to slow their migration toward the southern part of Landros. Britta led them now, her red hair darkened by water but still visible as a beacon for her people to follow.

Satisfied that the Queen was safely away, Gall extended his hand toward the gate winch and summoned his strength. “In loco teneo [Hold in place],” he murmured as waves of pain hammered at him, then pulled away from the wheel. It tremored, but did not move. “Just for a few minutes,” he whispered, more to reassure himself than with any real confidence. Catching his breath, he dove under the surface of the cold, dark water. The world muddled around him, and the sounds of battle were reduced to distant, distorted echoes. He felt a strange peace for a moment, suspended in the murky depths.

Then his lungs began to burn, and reality reasserted itself. He re-emerged at the gate, water streaming from his beard and armor, just in time to see Riasean appear, running down the northern rampart steps. The young man’s tunic was stained with oil but oddly unburnt, and a faint glow pulsed beneath the fabric—the Dragon Heartstone, its power active.

A short distance behind Riasean, Drachnorian swordsmen moved along the narrow walkway, their weapons drawn, their faces twisted with the anticipation of more killing.

“Anyone left?” Gall asked, his teeth chattering from the cold. A similar column of enemy soldiers descended the walkway from the south, closing the trap around them.

“No,” Riasean replied, his eyes meeting Gall’s with grim understanding. “Just you and me.”

Together they pushed through the gate, the water dragging at their limbs. Gall extended an arm toward the gate mechanism again. “Exsolvo [Release].” The portcullis gate crashed down with a thunderous splash, buying them precious moments.

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” Gall observed, noting the oil slicking Riasean’s clothes and the distant look in his eyes.

“You could say that,” Riasean replied, his hand unconsciously touching the spot where the Heartstone lay hidden. “The stone… it protected me.”

Gall nodded slowly, too exhausted for surprise. “The Caretakers’ gifts are strange but timely. Let’s hope that continues to work for our benefit before this day is done.”

They turned south, following the trail of their comrades through the flooded streets of what had once been the proudest city in Bretagne. Behind them, the sounds of pursuit continued—the relentless hammering of Drachnorian weapons against the portcullis, the shouts of Faline’s officers urging their men forward.

Ahead lay uncertainty—the Nagun, the long road to Tenoach, and beyond that, the struggle to reclaim what they had lost. But for now, survival was victory enough.

* * *

Britta waded through the frigid water, her sodden royal garments weighing her down like armor. Each step was a battle against the current as she pushed forward, surrounded by Ulrich and several Free Cazidoran soldiers whose vigilant eyes scanned the half-submerged buildings on either side of what had once been a main thoroughfare.

They passed around the south boundary of the Inner Keep, leaving behind the last symbol of Bretagnian authority in Landros. Britta refused to look back, though the pain of abandoning her adopted capital burned in her chest more fiercely than the cold that numbed her limbs.

Bodies floated in the water on either side of her—Bretagnian defenders, Drachnorian soldiers, and civilians caught in the conflict. Their vacant eyes stared skyward, accusatory in their stillness. One face—a child’s—made her breath catch.

This is the cost of my nascent reign.

The water rippled oddly several yards ahead, disturbing the reflection of gathering storm clouds above. A heartbeat later, harsh curses erupted from her right as shadows moved against shadows.

The Nagun.

The mountain tribesmen emerged from the surrounding buildings with unnatural silence, their dark-haired bodies blending with the stone and moss of the waterlogged structures. Some hurled barbed spears down upon the retreating party from higher positions, the weapons slicing through the air with venomous whistles. Others—more daring or more bloodthirsty—leaped into the water with barely a splash, their movements fluid despite the flood.

Britta turned and held up her sword, the blade that the Caretakers had created for her as Queen of Bretagne. The gold filigree on the hilt caught what little light remained in the day, but her arm trembled with effort. She could barely keep her head above water, let alone wield the weapon effectively.

“Form around the Queen,” Ulrich bellowed, his voice carrying over the sounds of combat that erupted around them.

Sounds of splashing disturbed the water around her—desperate men fighting and dying to protect her. A snarl pulled her attention to the left, primal and filled with hunger. An open, fanged mouth announced its presence before she fully turned, yellow eyes gleaming with savage intelligence. The Nagun warrior’s face was painted with red and black symbols that twisted as he bared his teeth, and clawed hands dug into the water, propelling him toward her with terrifying speed.

Before the creature could reach her, Ulrich appeared between them, his massive frame blocking Britta’s view. The Cazidoran captain grabbed the beast by its throat, his muscles straining as he forced the thrashing Nagun underwater. Bubbles and thrashing arms marked the desperate struggle beneath the surface. The water churned around them, turning murky with stirred silt and darker things.

Within moments, both the bubbles and the thrashing stopped. Ulrich looked up to Britta, his face transforming from grim satisfaction to wide-eyed alarm as his gaze fixed on something behind her.

“Your Majesty,” he shouted, lunging forward, one arm extended toward her.

Something cold and strong gripped Britta’s shoulders, sharp points digging through her clothing and into her flesh. A fetid breath washed over her neck, carrying the stench of rotting meat. She tried to swing her sword backward, but her limbs refused to obey.

In the next heartbeat, she was yanked downward with great force. The world above disappeared in a rush of bubbles and muted shouts. Darkness enveloped her as she was pulled beneath the water.

Her lungs burned. Her vision dimmed. The last thing she saw before consciousness began to fade was a pair of gleaming eyes in the murky depths. Then only darkness, and the distant sound of Ulrich’s desperate shouts fading above her.