The field of battle was dry and hot, and it hadn’t rained for weeks.

On one side was arrayed the hosts of the Grand Alliance, all gold and steel armor glowing in the rising sun. Their banners slithered in the wind, green and silver and blue. They guarded the broad road to the Citadel, high and stony hills on either side. Although untested and outnumbered, they would not, could not, retreat now. There was no other army to aid them. There would be no more chances to defeat this... Conqueror. This Usurper.

On the other side, the motley horde of the Conqueror was assembled. Half a hundred ragged banners waved, all colors of the world represented. Armor of bronze and iron, shining steel and rusted iron, axes, lances, swords and hammers… and the three great dragons. They sprawled along the sun-drenched stones, feasting on cattle and horses twisted by fire. 

One was bronze with copper horns and wings, thick with muscle. That was the Bronze Rage. One was steely silvery grey, shot with veins of brilliant gold, graceful and swift, named the Sun Blaze. And the last was dark as iron, ruby-red glittering beneath the black, dark and mighty as his name: the Black Wraith. All three beasts were alive with heat, arabesques of shimmering air pouring off their plated bodies.

{+++}


In the Alliance’s camp…

“Lord Father, our men are assembled,” Crown Prince Berilon of Loraeb said. “All the Five Nations are in agreement: We should attack now!” The twisted candle cast a flickering shadow of the old king over the scarlet tent-wall. He sighed, and stood stiffly from his ornate seat, holding his crown. Every day, he was stiffer it seemed. 



“My son,” Old King Davant said softly. “Before we strike, I have something to talk to you about. You see, I’ve learned a few things about our foe.”



“Useful information?” His son asked, ever the practical man.

“No,” the Old King said. “But enlightening, nonthless. When we’re done here, I feel changes are due in my kingdom regarding the treatment of slaves, and I hope you’ll continue them.”



“There will be time afterwards, Father,” the Crown Prince declared. “We will put an end to this… Young Conqueror and his demons. For Mother.”



“For your mother,” the Old King said in agreement. “Have that armorer come in here. I’ll go to war in the same armor I wore in my first battle, boy. After all these years, I should fit again.”

***


The battle broke with the dawn, with a flight of the Young Conqueror’s arrows. The smaller Allied force, untested, wavered in the onslaught before their commanders rallied them. Emperor Larion of Ahazachred took an arrow to the arm, but insisted on mounting his horse again after it was removed and bandaged. A charge was ordered against the Conqueror’s men, and the chariots leapt towards the enemy.

Chariots, elephants, cavalry, all clashed and bled. Men died, torn by spear and blade or broken by mace and warhammer. The stink of guts, blood and gore filled the air. Men and boys drowned in blood as arrows pierced their bodies, and Lord Varmens of the Great Sand Sea fell when an arrow found the eye-slit in his bronzed helm. Shouts and screams filled the air as the Conqueror mounted his dark dragon, vast wings rattling as the Wraith winged into the skies.

The greater size of the Conqueror’s forces would normally spell victory, but the assembled forces that opposed them still held the pass. Even after the charge made them retreat, they could still hold.

The dragon changed that.

A river of flame tore through the Allied army, incinerating hundreds of men. Torrents of light, smoke, and death cut the army into pieces, dividing the men, panicking horses and elephants. The Black Wraith descended through a curtain of arrows and flame to snatch a warhorse in his black and jagged jaws, breaking the animal as it went up in flames. Then with a scream of steel the Wraith ascended to unleash hell on the panicking elephants. Then a horn: the Alliance had sent a section of its forces to attack the rear of the great host and slay the other two dragons on the ground. 

They suffered the consequences of that folly, and the twin beasts rose screaming into the skies to rain flame in wild, uncoordinated strikes against friend and foe alike. Men boiled in their armor, swords melting in the sheer heat and falling from ashen hands. The Black Wraith circled the field, cutting off all retreat with fire. Famed Lord Tygett of of Vached died when the Bronze Rage chanced to take notice of him, burning with all his men in a conflagration. The battle seemed won, only a third of the Allied army left alive, with barely a king or two remaining.

The Conqueror landed, his dragon painting the survivors of the army around him with jets of brilliant flame, but missing the Old King. Old King Davant, nearly sixty, raised his great blade of rippled adamant. That smoky blade had been forged long ago, and named Bloodfall for all the lives it had taken. With a roar, he charged towards the dragon and slashed out with his six-foot blade. His blow was wild, but Bloodfall split dragon’s plate and lamed the beast’s shoulder. It unleashed a clicking roar, its boiling and molten blood jetting from the wound to drench the king.

He screamed in agony, flesh and armor melting in the blackening heat, and his son Berilon screamed as well from the summit of a nearby hill.

The young man had somehow escaped unscathed through the rout and fires, and had remained mounted atop his white horse. He couched his lance, and charged the dragon as it lay grounded, aiming for the great wound in the beast. His horse almost shied, but he relentlessly spurred it towards the Young Conqueror’s mount. The copper-skinned youth that straddled the dragon’s neck gazed straight at Crown Prince Berilon, and said something lost in the rattling of the dragon’s wings.

It turned its great head, plated with two pieces of armor for upper and lower jaws. The jagged maw opened with a screech like metal on metal, and the fires grew. The smoke parted for an instant, the sunlight striking the Crown Prince. Berilon flashed golden, glorious, half a god. All the soldiers who saw would declare it the most beautiful sight they had ever seen.

And then the Crown Prince Berilon would be obliterated in a cataract of light, his horse going up in flames as well. He’d done no more than any other soldier on the field that day, and when the men saw him burn like all the rest they broke. All weapons were thrown down, all resistance quenched. It was the end of the Five Nations.

***


In the wake of the Battle of the Grand Alliance, the Young Conqueror Miah would feast his men on elephant, and his dragons on the remaining meat. The dragons gorged on charred horses as well, even fallen men, until they grew distinctly thickened. The Black Wraith’s wound was still bleeding at times, but it hadn’t crippled the muscle beneath.

“This is not our final battle!” Miah declared. “Shortly, we move on the Citadel, and then this long war will be ended. We will have done the impossible: conquer the Five Nations!” At that, men shouted and beat their chests, rousing the dragons. The three winged monsters screamed, clicking roars echoing off of the hills as long wings rattled. Miah patiently waited until the roar of men and beast quieted.

“When we are done, I ask for those who wish to join my new, Standing Army! No longer will a ruler be forced to rely on temperamental lords and unwilling subjects! One king, one army!”

An even louder cheer went up, and the lad of seven-and-ten smiled.