Nor did the Starwings' defensive stance aid the magi, for there was no one attack to which to lend their strength. One after another, the ships were shattered by dragonfire, or melted by the terrible clouds of acid breath, or left so damaged or bereft of crew that they were forced to limp down toward the sea.
A sudden surge of magic, like sunlight breaking through winter clouds, flooded the joined minds of the Circle's elves. As one, they soared upward in thought to seek its source.
Winging toward the battle in precise formation were thirty gold and silver dragons, each bearing an elven warrior.
Amlaruil's lips curved in a triumphant smile. She recognized the formidable Lady Mylaerla Durothil. The matron sat astride a venerable silver and looked as if she'd been born to battle. The grim, Gray elf woman who rode at her right wing tip could only be the legendary Ahskahala. With such heroes as these fighting for Evermeet, surely victory would not be long in coming!
Yet even as she watched, lending her magic to the Circle as Jannalor wove a net of power that supported the dragonriders like a favorable wind, Amlaruil realized that the battle would not be easily won.
The dragonriders came in from above, attacking the invaders with great, swooping dives and pulses of magical power. But the evil dragons countered with their own fearful weapons. Amid the terrible confusion of blood and steel and flame and smoke and magic, pairs of the gigantic creatures grappled in the sky. Here and there the entwined dragons plummeted from the fiery clouds, only to be swallowed by the waiting sea.
Above the roar of the embattled dragons and the answering shouts of elven fighters, a shrill, distant voice took up the elven battle cries. Giant eagles, nearly as large as some of the dragons, hurtled down from the sky. Leading them was a wondrous golden female, and on her back rode Zaor Moonflower. His wild dark blue hair streaked behind him like a storm cloud, and the moonblade he brandished blazed with arcane fire.
Amlaruil instinctively reached out to him. Her magic strengthened his arm as he slashed out to meet the snapping jaws of a red dragon. The sword slapped the dragon's head to one side, and the hooked beak of Zaor's eagle partner sank deep into the vulnerable neck.
The young mage felt the swell of gathering magic nearby, and she flashed her attention to the small black dragon who drew breath for an attack upon the deadly eagle-rider. Amlaruil sensed the moonblade's protective shield, and she lent her magic to calling it forth. The dragon spat acid in a fetid stream. It hit the moonblade-created shield and dissolved into a foul smelling cloud, as easily as a cup of water might be dispersed if tossed upon a dwarven forge.
Deep into the magic of Zaor's sword Amlaruil went, finding its secrets and lending her magic to his strength. Unknowing, she slipped free of her place in the Circle and bound herself instead to ties still deeper and more mystical. Yet in a distant corner of her mind, she could still hear Jannalor's voice, still feel the wondering thoughts of the magi as they focused their efforts upon bolstering the new and powerful Center who had unexpectedly taken over the course of the battle.
Zaor seemed to be everywhere, his sword flashing and diving as he battled the invading dragons. He and his magnificent eagle worked together as if one creature. Dimly, Amlaruil could hear the elf's voice as he shouted encouragement and instruction to the aptly named WindShriek. But more than that, she felt the distinctive magic of the elven isle itself pulsing through Zaor's moonblade, and binding the defenders together. It was a magic she knew, for it coursed through her body and sang in her veins.
Nor was she the only one to sense the power of Zaor and his sword. The other eagles, even the dragonriders, rallied to the Moon elf warrior as the magic of the king sword subtly reached out to touch and inspire each child of Evermeet.
The eagles attacked relentlessly, gouging the invading dragons with their hooked beaks and shredding at their leathery wings with talons as long and sharp as any sword. The eagles swooped down in groups of two and three, slamming into the dragons as the dragons had in turn attacked the elven ships.
Not all of the giant birds survived. A burst of dragonfire caught one of the eagles in mid-dive, filling the air with a spray of golden feathers, and the stench of charred flesh. Another spun down to the sea, a broken wing hanging over the long bloody gash that scored its side so deeply that it exposed a neat row of bones.
But at last the battle was over. A single elven ship, a dozen pairs of dragonriders and wyrms, and less than a score of giant eagles winged wearily back toward the island. They left behind skies still dark with smoke, and a sea that still steamed and seethed from the burning destruction of the ships and the gigantic warriors.
Slowly, gently, Jannalor Nierde reclaimed control of the Circle from the young mage.
We have yet another task to do, one that will challenge our remaining strength. You were all bound up with the magic of the goodly dragons-you know that those few who survive are without exception gravely wounded. We must put them into healing slumber, else all will die, the Grand Mage said somberly.
I will take half the Circle-all the males, let us say-to the tower at Sumbrar. Some of the more gravely wounded dragons will surely stop there, at the nearest land. There are hidden caves where they can sleep. Nakiasha, take the others to the Eagle Hills, and do the same.
In response, the elves eased away from their shared Circle and reformed the magical ties into two groups. Along with the other female magi, Amlaruil focused her will into the casting of the spell that would carry them along magic's silver path to the Eagle Hills.
It was the first time she had experienced magical travel. White light enveloped her in a sudden, dizzying whirl. Swept into the vortex, Amlaruil held tight to the threads of magic that bound her to her Circle-and the deeper, more personal tie that guided her to the place she needed to go.
As the magic faded away, Amlaruil felt the chill sweep of wind against her face. She opened her eyes cautiously, and found that she and her Circle were standing perhaps halfway up the western slope of a mountain. Above them wheeled and soared five silver dragons, and one great gold. Following them like bright shadows were the eagles.
The gold dragon was clearly in trouble. One wing was badly tattered. Torn flesh showed through the gap where melted scales dripped like liquid gold down his wounded flank. Ahskahala was not in much better shape. Her face was blackened with soot and dried blood, and much of her hair and tunic had been singed away. Zaor and his eagle partner kept close to the wounded dragon's side. Through senses still attuned to the warrior, Amlaruil heard his voice, felt his sword's magic, joined in bracing harmony as they urged the faltering wyrm on.
The dragon that Zaor called Haklashara lumbered to the ground, hitting far too hard and skidding painfully over the rock-strewn hillside. His head-now bereft of one of its proud, curling horns, twisted back to regard his elven partner. An oddly contented smile curved his reptilian maw as he noted that Ahskahala still held her seat.
Amlaruil rushed forward and caught the wounded elf woman as she fell. "You must speak to the dragon, help him find his way into the cave," she urged as she lowered Ahskahala to the ground. "We will put him into deep, magical slumber. He will heal, and live to serve Evermeet again."
The warrior's red-rimmed eyes fastened on Amlaruil's face. "I will join him," she croaked.
"But-"