Labyrinth of Stone

From the spot Fawks had pointed, an army of shades began to appear – slowly but in ranks – spilling out from behind the mountains on the right and forming lines across the valley. It was a variegated horde of warriors and beasts of every size. At their front marched a black dragon, and upon its back seemed to ride a figure – though at that distance, it was hard to be certain.

“All of these are shades?” Cecile whispered in dread. “Look how many of them!”

“Countless,” Fawks breathed.

The sight was truly terrifying. When Elias and Fawks first met Vorath, one of his warriors spoke of an army being raised – but this? This was something else entirely! When and where had they gathered so many?

“That’s why the cities seemed half-empty… and why there are no towns left in the Outskirts to live in!” Bard said angrily.

The shades had not yet fully assembled in the valley – more and more kept pouring from behind. The dragon loosed a deafening belch, a sound so violent it startled even the army it led. At once, the front ranks began their advance.

“They will march against Orrendale!” Bard said anxiously.

“What?” Fawks turned pale as he realized they had far less time than he had hoped to rescue her, the girl from his dream.

“At this pace, they’ll be there by tomorrow!” Bard concluded. By now, all four of them had gathered behind the battlement, almost unconsciously trying to shield themselves.

“Not if we stop them!” Elias answered. At once, he began to imagine and shape a long wall. It sprang from both sides of the Turning Tower replica and stretched far across the plain before the advancing army, cutting off its path.

Some of the quicker or larger shades attempted to climb over, but only a few succeeded, for Elias raised the wall higher wherever he needed. The strongest among them hammered at it with all their might, seeking to break it down. Gritting his teeth, Elias reinforced the flanks with a second layer.

His face flushed, sweat streaming down his brow, he was already close to his limit.

Then the dragon advanced toward the new Turning Tower, the gate that marked the valley’s passage, and spewed its black fire. The wooden beams hissed and charred; even the iron bars began to glow, threatening to weaken and bend.

“You left them a gate again?!” Fawks cried. “Quick – build a wall behind the tower, if you can, to stop them!”

Elias clenched his left fist and swept his arm in a sharp motion, as though hurling something from his right shoulder out to the left.

At once, two towering walls shot out from either side of the Turning Tower, forming a corridor that ran deep into Riesental Valley, straight toward Orrendale, stopping about a kilometer away from the tower.

Elias was already breathing heavily; with this last effort, his body began to tremble.

“I must have another dral somewhere…” Fawks muttered as he searched his pouch.

“They’ve broken through!” Cecile cried.

The tower’s gates fell quickly – first the outer, then the inner. The enemy army was too vast, and the dragon their leader rode too powerful. At once, waves of shades poured through, flooding into the corridor Elias had created. The walls stood wide apart – not narrow – so they rushed forward in chaotic swarms, heading toward the only exit they could see.

A few still struck or scrambled over the walls at scattered points, unhindered, but they were far fewer than the main tide funneling through the fallen gates.

“Very good!” Cecile exclaimed.

“This bottleneck will delay them long enough,” Bard observed.

“Still,” Cecile added quickly, “we must warn Orrendale! They need time to prepare!”

“Wait–” Elias cut her off.

“Fawks, give me that–” He snatched a small azure dral Fawks had just found in his pouch. “Sorry!” he managed to say as he slipped it into his mouth. He truly looked exhausted now. His hands shook, his chest rose and fell as though every breath were work. There was no time left for politeness.

The moment he felt a flicker of renewal, Elias turned back to the valley. The first ranks had nearly reached the end of the two walls.

“Now!” he cried – almost to himself. At once, a towering labyrinth of thick, high walls erupted at the far end of the corridor, sprawling across the plain far and wide.

“Hooray!” shouted Fawks, while Cecile nearly burst with laughter at the sudden triumph.

“Now… they’ll never… get out,” Elias gasped, leaning heavily against the battlement he had made. Only then did the others notice – his eyes now shone turquoise, like Cecile’s.

“Never say never,” Bard muttered. “But for now, you’ve bought us time. Well–”

Another deafening roar cut him short. The dragon was rising above the new Turning Tower. Its flight showed it was searching for the cause of all this – and it found them. With speed, it turned, beating its wings hard, and began to ascend slightly and surge toward their position.

Once Bard was sure they’d been spotted, he grinned and gave a mocking wave.

“It’s time to go!” Cecile urged.

But Elias’s legs could no longer hold him. He collapsed where he stood before even taking a step. He had already endured grueling training earlier that day, and only yesterday at noon he had attempted to bring into being an entire city from nothing. His hands trembled as he struggled to open his flask.

Fawks rushed to him, tilting the water into his mouth.

“They’ll reach us any minute,” Bard warned. “It’s too late to fly now… Or is it?” He raised a brow at Cecile.

“Oh no, no, no, no!” she said at once, realizing what he meant. “I am not doing that!”

“What other choice do we have?!” he pressed, jerking his chin toward the approaching dragon – a dark warrior riding its back.

She threw a sidelong glance at the enemy. After two tense moments, she huffed. “Fine…” Reluctantly, she drew out her palette and brush, painting furiously until, in front of them, a dragon emerged – radiant with color, almost expressionist, yet alive.

“Wooow!” Fawks gasped, utterly spellbound.

The beast roared, filling the air with a storm of dust, like clouds of colored chalk. The grit caught in their throats, the world around them briefly turned into a haze of swirling pigment.

“My turn,” Bard said briskly. He raised his lute and began to play – a soft melody, entirely at odds with the chaos around them. The music whispered trills and arpeggios, a complex progression that resonated deep within the dragon’s core. Each note was deliberate, layered, calming the creature’s fiery temperament.

“It’s working!” Cecile whispered in astonishment, her hands clasped tight. Even she had not expected it to succeed so well.

The beast was nearly soothed when a piercing cry tore from above – the black dragon, plunging from the heights, falling fast toward them.

Not willing to lose the momentum, Bard’s fingers flew, snapping the tune into something sharp and fiery. The strings crackled like lightning striking the earth, a sudden surge of raw power. What had been a lullaby flared into a battle-cry – each note sharper, faster, until the air itself seemed to hum with tension.

The dragon jolted beneath the music, wings snapping open. Its calm shattered into raw energy. With a roar that shook the valley, it bent its neck low, as if inviting him. Bard didn’t hesitate – he swung up between its shoulders, carried as much by the music’s force as by his own strength. The beast bellowed, launching skyward just as the black dragon crashed down toward them.

The black dragon’s hind legs slammed into the ground, shaking the path, its massive body stretching toward Cecile’s painted beast – wings pounding, jaws snapping shut just short of its tail. The air split with the sound of teeth clashing.

Below the chaos, Cecile ducked away, while Elias and Fawks pressed flat against the crenellations.

Seeing the monstrous black dragon up close, Cecile realized how battered it looked. Scars ridged its flanks, its scales dented like armor long in use. Its head especially seemed caved, as though it had once crashed headlong from a great height. With a sudden beat of its wings, the beast turned sharply and soared upward, ignoring them, chasing after Bard and the painted dragon. Cecile’s eyes fixed on the rider – Vorath.

“Go!” Bard’s voice rang down from above as he continued strumming, rising higher and higher into the skies with his dragon.