The poor Drake was still suffering from the wounds he had sustained in the battle with the Phantaur, so their flight was erratic and slow. Fletcher could see the jagged holes in the demon’s wings, and blood had caked around the demon’s haunches, where a spear had penetrated deeply. They were nearly crippled, but had no choice. Nothing else stood a chance against the Dragon.
Cress had barely been able to treat Ignatius’s wounds, using her last trickle of mana to heal a scratch on the Drake’s forearm. Now they circled the battlefield, orienting themselves. In the distance, Fletcher could see Othello and his dwarves chasing the goblin army, leaving a trail of dead stragglers in their wake. He sent them a silent thanks and angled Ignatius away.
As they turned, Athena gliding alongside them, Fletcher heard a high-pitched cry from above him. The Caladrius was spiraling down out of the clouds, appearing for all the world like a dove descending from heaven. It landed gently on Ignatius’s back, and Fletcher saw a strange aura around the demon, a blurry haze along its edges.
The Caladrius was fading back into the ether, its master gone, the call of the wild taking hold of it. Fletcher wondered at the demon, its blue eyes boring into his as it spread its long, delicate wings across Ignatius’s own. He could see pain there.
A glow of white light suffused Ignatius’s body. Fletcher felt the demon’s pain receding, and before his eyes, the wounds began to fade, shrinking and healing over as if time were in reverse. The wound on his arm was wiped away.
All the while, the demon watched him. The white light dimmed, and the Caladrius stroked his cheek with the edge of its beak. Then it was gone, gliding away to mourn its loss among the clouds above.
Fletcher had once heard that part of a summoner’s soul lived on through their demons—that their consciousnesses merged upon death. It was an old wives’ tale, one that Major Goodwin had scoffed at when Seraph had asked about it in one of their lessons. He had replied that the character of their masters might rub off on their demons over the years, but that was all.
Yet now, as they flew east, Fletcher was not so sure. His gaze wandered to Athena, who had loved him unconditionally from the moment they had met. Did his father live on within her? Had the Caladrius’s healing been a parting gift from Atilla?
He took solace in that sentiment as Athena led the way, using her hearing to guide them toward the booms of cannon fire that echoed over the rugged lands beneath them. With every minute the sun continued its slow descent toward the horizon, its tone turning the world sepia with its rays.
It was only now that the enormity of his task began to settle on his shoulders—and the fate of an empire weighed heavy. Could they do this? Did they even have a chance? Doubts plagued his mind.
Before long, Fletcher could hear the distant echoes of battle, carried by the warm evening breeze. Worried about finding himself behind enemy lines, Fletcher angled Ignatius’s flight north.
They flew on, blindly now, hoping to see Corcillum somewhere in the distance to orient themselves. But instead, he saw something else.
A great herd of deer, spread out over the green fields below him. On their backs, armed with bows and long-handled swords, were the elves.
They were divided into clans, each one delineated by the color of their armor. Leading the way, Fletcher could see the red of Sylva’s family, a moose-riding elf at their head, a tall, straight-backed figure who could only be her father. Behind him, powerful elk tossed their branching antlers, eager for battle.
Even as he watched, the cavalcade broke into a gallop, bounding along the ground. Fletcher could see their target, a nearby cloud of smoke, beneath which were flashes of light and the crackle of gunfire.
Then his eyes widened. In the center of it all, he could see the outline of an ancient castle, stark against the horizon. It was Vocans. Somehow, the orcs had forced Hominum’s army deep into the empire. Corcillum, with all its innocent inhabitants, was no more than a few hours’ march away. The very future of their world now lay on a knife’s edge.
A flash of warning from Athena pulsed through Fletcher’s mind. Below, a creature was flying up toward them. A Griffin.
His heart leaped.
Sylva.
Within moments she was beside him, the long, curved blade of her falx sword held aloft. She wore the red lamellar armor of her clan, and her hair was braided into a bunch at the nape of her neck.
“Fletcher,” she shouted, guiding Lysander closer. “You’re alive. I thought … I’m glad you’re okay.”
He could see the relief in her face, lips half-parted, eyes wide with emotion.
Despite the fear that gripped him, Fletcher could not help but smile at the sight of her. With her by his side, perhaps he had a chance.
She looked fiercer than he had ever seen her, with a rouge of war paint highlighting her cheeks. He wanted to reach out and hold her, tell her how he felt, politics be damned.
But there was no time.
“We thought you were Khan on his Dragon,” Sylva said, her voice raised to cut through the rush of wind between them. “Our scouts are reporting that all is lost, that it’s decimating the battlefield.”
“He’s out there,” Fletcher replied, pointing at the cloud of smoke that drew ever closer. “I’m going to fight him.”
“Well, let’s go, then,” Sylva said, pushing Lysander on in a burst of speed.
“It’s up to me,” Fletcher yelled. “I’m immune to the flames.”
Sylva turned back and yelled over her shoulder.
“Try and stop me!”
And with that, she disappeared into the smoke.
CHAPTER
61
THEY WERE EVERYWHERE. Thousands of orcs, more than Fletcher thought existed, sprawling in a great horde across a smoking landscape, the villages and trees behind burning like funeral pyres.
And a few hundred feet in front of them, spread in a thin red line in front of Vocans’s gates, were the remains of Hominum’s army. Perhaps a thousand men were left, garbed in red uniforms with a patchwork of a few hundred others, survivors from noble regiments that had been decimated in the fighting. And a single platoon of dwarves, strewn along the center in twos and threes.
“So few,” Fletcher choked through the smog.
The stench of brimstone was thick in the air—a heady mix of gunpowder and smoke from the burning buildings of the hamlets that had been put to torch a mile away. The entire world was tinged orange by the distant flames, merging with the red glow of the setting sun. It would be night soon.
As the world below them smoldered, Fletcher was aware of Sylva’s every move beside him and he couldn’t help but wish they could remain here, together, far above the fighting. Sylva’s braided hair streamed behind her as Lysander hurtled through the air, his wing tips brushing Ignatius’s. She looked glorious in the setting sun, her face drawn with determination, falx sword held ready for battle.
“We can do this,” Sylva said, her eyes meeting his.