Dragon Space

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  The drahl left its words unfinished. The darkness fell away from around WingTouch's head. He blinked hard, and gasped out a long hiss of bewilderment as he turned his head one way and then another.

  He was in daylight again—but it was a daylight unlike anything he had ever seen. There was a swirling, shimmering, unnatural quality to it, as though a darkness existed within the light, as though the light were somehow subordinate to the darkness. For a moment, he could not focus upon anything physical at all. The air and light took all of his attention. He could only think of them, together, as a strangeness—something not of this realm. Was this a naked sorcery of Tar-skel? If so, the Enemy had grown far bolder in his displays in the time since WingTouch had so blindly and stupidly served in his shadow.

  * Are you surprised, dragon-called-WingTouch? * whispered a powerful, but silken, voice that seemed to come from within the strangeness itself.

  WingTouch shivered at the familiar sound of that voice. He'd never thought of it as being the voice of Tar-skel, not during the time when it had so beguiled and commanded him. Then it had seemed the voice of a near-equal, perhaps just a touch wiser and more worldly—offering him choice and power. In the end, of course, it had given him neither, only blindness and fear.

  "I have not offered you my name," WingTouch protested, trying not to let his voice tremble.

  * Oh, but you have—long ago, * sighed the voice. * As did your brother Farsight. * The voice suddenly hardened, as WingTouch narrowed his gaze. * But your other brother, Windrush, never learned. And you—you forgot my teachings. You abandoned me. Do you not remember? *

  WingTouch did not answer. Of course he remembered. Yes, he had given his name to that one. But it had never given its name in return. WingTouch had made his escape when Jael had shown him the way out. At least he'd tried to, or wanted to. He wondered now: was it ever really possible to escape?

  The Enemy seemed to understand his thoughts. It laughed softly. * You thought you could run away. * Its laughter ended on a hard note. * Do you think, once you've given your name, you can ever take it away? *

  WingTouch trembled, remaining silent. The light and air suddenly changed, and he became aware of shape and form around him. It was no less strange than the formless light of sorcery. The drahls flanking him looked like pure shadow—not at all like creatures that once had been dragon, before Tar-skel had altered them. They were jagged, threatening shadows, and though he could not quite see it, he felt that there was a pale light flickering within each of them, the light of their living spirit, perhaps even the spirit of the dragonlings that they had once been. The sight made him shudder and turn his gaze away.

  In front of him, something altogether different, and incomprehensible, had appeared. It was a floating geometric pattern: a series of hollow, nested, angular shapes, each closed inward like a ring, but with four or five straight sides of unequal length. At first he thought that they were floating one inside another; then he realized that one floated behind another. He was staring down a sort of tunnel, down a profound emptiness that ran through the center of the figures as they diminished into the distance. The strangeness of light and air seemed to originate here, within this thing, a power of sorcery that flowed like a river from a source hidden in that tunnel.

  The sight was so disturbing, so alien, that WingTouch was almost hypnotized by it. At last he shifted his gaze. The drahls were still present, floating threateningly around him. Behind them was a landscape—not of ground, but of streaming, coiling clouds. It was as though they were all still in the sky; and yet he knew, the muscles and sinews of his wings and feet had told him, that he had landed on the ground. A watery sort of light shone down upon the clouds, which glimmered darkly from within, with flashes of red and purple fire, like eerily tortured storm clouds.

  Rising out of those mists, he saw several narrow, spindly peaks—more like needles than mountains. Spots of shadow circled around the tips of the peaks, orbiting in regular rhythm, with none of the dipping and swaying that any flying creature would display. What were those spots, and those peaks?

  WingTouch glanced higher, and was startled to see that the sky itself shimmered, though not with the light of a sun. There was a fine tracery of webbing that seemed to enclose the sky, and it shimmered, and something about it was familiar. It took WingTouch a moment to remember his brother's vision. Windrush had described a great, treacherous web encircling the realm.

  Binding the realm.

  Crushing the realm.

  * You see. But do you understand? *

  The voice jarred him back to the present. He had been allowed to look at all of these sights, to absorb the mystery, to wonder at the power. But for what purpose? To plunge him into despair? WingTouch turned his gaze back to that strange geometric structure and trembled, remembering how he had once done the bidding of the one behind it. He opened his mouth to speak, then blew a wisp of steam instead. He wasn't ready to give in to despair.

  The voice chastised him. * You would be wise, young WingTouch, to understand the nature of the power you challenge. Perhaps you should search again for that wisdom which seems to have deserted you. *

  WingTouch blinked. This time he found words. "I recall only one time when wisdom wholly deserted me. That was when I abandoned my father and gave my allegiance to a power that wanted to destroy the realm where I dwell." He subdued the flame that rose in his throat, and vented smoke from his nostrils instead. "But that was before you let your true nature be known. Before you began attacking our groves. Before you took away the Mountain."

  He was answered by soft laughter, rising against the stillness, and echoed by the croaking laughter of drahls. The strangeness seemed to deepen, the geometric shapes to distort in a way that confounded his eyes. "What have you done with the Dream Mountain?" he demanded, angered by the laughter. "Are you afraid to tell me?"

  The drahl-shadows began to converge upon him, then stopped, hissing.

  WingTouch blinked slowly. "What could it harm you to tell me?"

  * I tell, * whispered the voice, so deadly and soft that he had to strain to hear, * those whom I wish to tell. *

  "Are you afraid to tell?"

  * Do not test wits with me, impudent fool! * There was a pause. * You will lose—now, and every time. *

  WingTouch glanced at the drahls which he knew were awaiting the command to kill him, or torture him. But he had already decided: he would not allow despair. "Highwing was right. You deal in fear, and yet you yourself are afraid."

  Soft laughter once more. * Afraid? *

  Drawing a breath, WingTouch said, "Yes. Afraid of the prophecy—"

  His words were cut off by a clap of thunder. It seemed to rock from one side of him to the other. The swirling clouds flickered with lightning. A bolt snapped up out of the clouds and across, striking him in the chest. He gasped, could not gasp, as the shock paralyzed him, blinding him with pain. He could not speak, but he could hear. The next words seemed to reverberate from the clouds, like the thunder. * Do not speak to me of prophecy, or you will suffer . . . suffer . . . suffer . . . no matter how long you might plead, or how pitifully you might beg. Is this understood? * WingTouch gasped, could not speak. * IS THIS UNDERSTOOD? * Another bolt hit him, and he blacked out.

  It was only an instant, it seemed. But when his eyes blinked open, and his vision returned, he focused on something new, something that had appeared over the clouds, over the slender peaks that spiked upward out of the flashing mists. There was an enormous shape floating there—a mountain peak, broad and sloping and translucent. A dazzling light seemed to glimmer in it and through it, as though barely contained by it. The sight made him tremble in awe. It was true, then. The Enemy controlled the Dream Mountain, held it captive—by what sorcery he could not imagine. There was no visible point of connection between it and the other peaks, or even the clouds. It seemed to rise out of a nearly invisible mist high in the sky. How could it be? he wondered helplessly. The thought of a power that could do su
ch a thing sent shudders of fear through him.

  The Enemy controlled the Dream Mountain, as the dragons controlled their tiny patch of territory and their tiny lumenis groves.

  As he watched, the mountain faded from the sky. But the image persisted in his mind like the lightning that flashed in the clouds.

  Without warning, a third bolt flashed out of the clouds and struck him and in the blast of pain the dragon lost consciousness altogether.

  * * *

  WingTouch awoke to darkness, and to the sound of murmuring voices. Tar-skel's voice? No—these were voices of torment and despair. He couldn't even tell if they were dragon voices. "Who is there?" WingTouch murmured, but he heard no answer.

  A short time later, he heard the sound of footsteps. They were not the footsteps of a dragon. He squinted into the darkness, where he was now able to discern some shapes. He seemed to be imprisoned in a large open area, some sort of crater, surrounded by dark, jagged shapes of stone, just at the edge of visibility. He tried to move, but his legs were frozen in place. The effort to move sent shudders of pain through his body. The wound at the back of his neck throbbed. He peered down at his feet and saw that they were embedded in solid stone. Enraged and humiliated, he could only vent steam.

  A figure came into sight before him, nearly obscured by his breath. WingTouch grunted in surprise. It was not a dragon, nor any other creature of the realm. But it was a kind of creature he knew. It was a human—a human like the rigger Jael. Only not like Jael—taller, more muscular, darker in demeanor. But, surely, a rigger. His mind was clouded with confusion. A rigger. What was a rigger doing here, in the Enemy's camp? Was this . . . could it be . . . a rigger of the prophecy?

  The human walked around an angular boulder and stood before him. It stared at him for a time, then said, "You have gazed upon the Dream Mountain." Its voice rippled like dragon scales, smooth and yet threatening.

  WingTouch stared back at him, trying to decide what to make of this being.

  "Do you begin to understand how useless your struggle is?" the human asked.

  WingTouch drew a slow, difficult breath. After knowing Jael, if only for a short time, he had come to think of humans as allies, as forces for good from a realm beyond the realm. But he suddenly recalled Windrush's report of the human-spirit he had met in the abandoned warren to the south. WingTouch didn't remember that one's name, but it had seemed clear enough that it had counted itself no friend of dragons. WingTouch decided, staring at this one, that perhaps it was of the same order as the being his brother had met.

  "Are you a spirit?" he asked the human.

  The rigger drew itself up, in surprise. It did not appear pleased by the question. "Do I look like a spirit?" it barked. "You are exceedingly impudent for one who has no hope, dragon-named-WingTouch!"

  WingTouch closed his eyes for a moment. That was certainly true. He had no hope left for himself, and he didn't know why he persisted in taunting the Enemy and his servants with his own . . . yes, impudence. Except that . . . he refused to admit despair into his thinking. Even now.

  He blinked his eyes open. "You have me at a disadvantage, human—or human-spirit, as the case may be. You know my name, but I do not know yours." But I have not given you my name, remember that, he thought.

  The human laughed. It was an ugly sound. "I have you at a disadvantage in many ways, dragon. But for the sake of convenience, since I harbor some expectation that you and I will become colleagues, you may call me Rent." His tone of voice made it clear that he was giving a form of address only, and not his true, full name. Not his garkkon-rakh, not the key to his inner being.

  "Rent," the dragon murmured. It was, he thought, not nearly so attractive a name as Jael. It was, however, a suitable form of address for a servant of the Enemy.

  Rent nodded, and strode around the dragon with his hands on his hips, studying the captive. "Now, if these questions are out of the way—"

  "Not yet!" WingTouch said, wheezing with pain. "You haven't told me—" and he paused, breathing slowly "—whether you are a spirit or a true human."

  Rent returned, scowling, to face the dragon. "You are most persistent, WingTouch. Headstrong, I should say. That could be to the good—if coupled with common sense and wisdom."

  "You evade—" WingTouch began—and cried out as a sharp new pain clamped onto the back of his neck. Rent waved his hand, and the pain vanished, but left him shuddering.

  "Let that be a lesson. Do not ever speak disrespectfully to me."

  WingTouch vented silent steam.

  Rent smiled. "But I will answer your question—because in doing so, I may help you to understand something important." He waited for a reaction from WingTouch, and nodded when the dragon remained silent. "Good. You're learning. Now, then. I am a spirit, yes—a spirit from another realm. You know the meaning of that, I believe?" He paused. "But perhaps you don't know this. It is with the power of the Nail of Strength that I walk in the form that you see. I was once bereft of my form, through the viciousness of your own kind. But now I have my form once again, and it is far greater and stronger than ever before." He studied the dragon. "Do you understand what I am telling you?"

  WingTouch considered before answering. "I understand. Your form, as I see it, is not yours at all. It is a sorcery-thing, a trick of the underweb, a—"

  The pain this time was blinding, and it lasted for a longer time than he could measure; it lasted nearly forever.

  When it did finally stop, he was reeling. He needed desperately to shift his stance, to lie down—but with his feet embedded in the stone, he could not move at all, he could only wobble in pain. Shuddering, he knew that the torment was only beginning. The suffering of being trapped immobile like this could alone drive him mad, if it lasted long enough.

  Rent was watching the dragon from atop a nearby boulder, where he was sitting with one leg drawn up and his hands clasped around his knee. "Had enough?" he asked.

  WingTouch contained his anger. His legs ached fiercely, and were shaking. He tried to flex his claws, but they were locked solidly inside the stone.

  "My point, dragon-WingTouch, since you seem unwilling to perceive it for yourself, is that your allegiance to this side—to the side of Strength, to the side of the Nail—will serve you far better than your meaningless persistence in your present frame of mind." The human leaned forward, gazing at him. "It is not, after all, as if we would ask you to fight in any way that is wrongful or unnatural. Is that what you fear?"

  WingTouch felt his weight shifting dangerously. His leg muscles trembled on the verge of spasm. He did not answer the demon-spirit.

  "You're suffering. Allow me to help you." Rent stretched out a hand toward the struggling dragon. The stone softened and melted away from WingTouch's feet, freeing him. He sank down in shuddering relief, letting the weight off his legs. "You see, we are not without understanding," Rent said.

  WingTouch breathed quickly, gulping air. He struggled not to act on his greatest desire right now, which was to incinerate the demon with his breath.

  "Now, then. What we are asking for is really just some information," Rent said, rising to his feet. "Your brother Windrush is the leader of all the dragons—we know that. He has sent for the demon Jael to help him—we know that. The battle has not much longer to run before we are the victors—we know that. But . . ." He paused, stroking his chin. "We wish not to prolong the suffering. And so we would like merely to know certain aspects of your brother's plans—"

  WingTouch could not hold back a snort.

  Rent raised one human eyebrow, and continued with apparent patience. "So that we might quicken the end—end the suffering, and quicken the release of the Dream Mountain for the benefit of all." His gaze sharpened. "We would like to know, for example, if the demon Jael has reappeared in the realm."

  This time WingTouch kept control. He made no sound, no response to the human's ridiculous claim. No response to the question. He had no knowledge of it, in any case—but he was not going t
o tell the human that.

  "If you are wise, you may share in the pleasure and the rewards of the victory," Rent pointed out. "Just as, for example, your brother FullSky has chosen to cooperate with us—"

  WingTouch lurched to his feet. FullSky!

  "Oh—you didn't know?" Rent asked mildly. "Why, yes—your brother has long been a part of our effort."

  "FullSky . . . is . . . alive?" WingTouch whispered, not wanting the human to hear the anguish in his voice, but unable to keep his silence.

  "Why, yes. Yes, indeed. And being a wise and strong member of your race, he is doing all that he can to help us—"

  "You are lying, demon!"

  "Watch your tongue, dragon!"

  WingTouch swayed on his feet, drawing himself into a crouch. He felt fire tingling at the back of his throat. What if the human wasn't lying? He and Farsight had once been that foolish. Suppose FullSky was alive—and still a traitor? WingTouch did not think he could stand to know that, even if it were true. He would rather die now.

  "FullSky is a noble dragon of the Nail," Rent said. As he spoke, he suddenly began growing in size before the dragon. "He will see the Dream Mountain freed, even if your other foolish brothers do not. They with their stupid attacks! Even now we are turning more of their precious lumenis groves to ashes."

  WingTouch could stand it no longer. He loosed a breath of fire upon the loathsome human, drenching him with flame. "Die, demon-liar!" he cried.

  The flame crackled harmlessly through the human, who did not move a muscle until it had passed. WingTouch drew breath for another blast of flame, but his breath froze in his chest as Rent raised a hand and waggled a finger at him.

  Molten stone rose to swallow his feet in agonizing heat—and hardened in an instant, locking him into a trembling crouch.

  "You are a great fool," Rent said, and turned and walked away.