Dragon Speaker

by Mugdan Elana A.

  A burning feeling seeped through his veins. Something terrible was happening inside him. It felt like his soul was suffocating. Something was squeezing in to envelop and absorb his light-threads.

  He made a desperate mental lunge for his source and missed. His magic was out of reach. The creature was in his way, blocking him inside his own body.

  Then, without any warning, he was suddenly himself again. For some unknown reason, the bogspectre had let him go. Thorion stood shivering and gasping. He could feel his magic! He was once more the most powerful creature in the world.

  His panic ebbed and a mindless rage replaced it. He puffed himself up and embraced his source. Without hesitation—or thought—he opened his jaws and blasted the bogspectre with light. It exploded in a shower of muck and guts.

  “Let that be a lesson,” Thorion told the bogspectre’s remains.

  But—what was this? Little gloppy pieces of the monster’s body were sliding across the ground toward one another, re-forming themselves to knit the vile creature back together.

  “How are you still here?” said Thorion, his voice unsteady. “I killed you!”

  “I cannot be killed,” the bogspectre retorted. “That was unwise, drackling. You’ve made a mortal enemy.”

  The bogspectre lashed its tail and shot toward him. Hemmed in by thorny roots with nowhere to run, Thorion leapt aside and spat a thinner but more concentrated light beam at the monster. His aim was poor and he missed. It gave the bogspectre the opportunity to vanish into thin air.

  He stared around, his muscles taut with the tension of coiled springs. Could the bogspectre wield lightmagic? Was it using an illusion spell, bending photons around itself to make it invisible to the naked eye?

  The bogspectre soundlessly popped into existence next to Thorion, but in its insanity it had already forgotten their fight. It hovered low and whispered to him in some guttural foreign language.

  Though he couldn’t understand the monster’s words, he could hear what the problem was: shadowbeasts were approaching. His wielding must have attracted them.

  “Please help,” the bogspectre gurgled, pleading in the draconic tongue. “I have no power against them and they cannot have my treasure. You mustn’t let them find it!”

  Hesitant though he was to help the thing that had attacked him, when Thorion looked into the creature’s face, he saw genuine sadness and terror. Its eyes were the eyes of a sentient being who could feel pain and regret.

  Thorion nodded reluctantly and the bogspectre sagged with relief, drooping and dribbling and going so far as to touch him. It petted Thorion with one of its boneless tendril-arms. He made an effort not to withdraw in revulsion.

  They stood side by side and awaited Necrovar’s minions. It wasn’t long before a group of shadowbeasts invaded the clearing. They were of varying species, though Thorion noted all of them were fast-moving carnivores. Perfect hunters.

  Since he’d already revealed his presence, Thorion simply wielded against the demons. They burst into dust the instant his magic touched them.

  Pleased with his work, he smiled and turned to his new companion.

  “Who are you?” hissed the bogspectre, glaring at him.

  Thorion sighed. “I am Thorion Sveltorious. Before you ask, I wasn’t sent by Necrovar and I’m not here to steal your treasure.”

  “How do you know of my treasure?” cried the bogspectre, squirming furiously in midair. “How dare you speak of Necrovar in front of me? I can smell his touch on you!”

  It was definitely time to go. “I’m leaving,” Thorion announced. “Your treasure is safe.”

  He turned, only to find himself facing the bogspectre again.

  “You cannot leave,” it growled. “I need you.”

  Thorion tried to squeeze his eyes shut so he couldn’t be hypnotized, but it was already too late. He was locked in place. All he could do was stare into the monster’s hungry gaze as it clouded the light of his magic, burying his soul in darkness.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “Losing one’s way is only an opportunity to find a better way.”

  ~ Sandrine Althir, Fifth Age

  Cezon Skyriver swore as he stumbled on a clump of twisted vines and sprawled on the damp ground of the rainforest. Hissing like a rabid raccoon, he shoved himself to his feet.

  He had been running since the darksalm explosion, though he knew it wouldn’t be pretty if Necrovar got ahold of his blood. He had to go back, if only to prevent whatever awful things would happen if Tanthflame discovered he’d deserted.

  Except he couldn’t go back, because he was lost.

  “Stupid Iako,” he wheezed as he scrambled over a boulder. “This is all his fault, the blood-burned lagwit! If I ever get my hands on him, I’ll wring his scraggy neck and feed his body to ducks in a pond, piece by little piece!”

  Cezon was so preoccupied with hating Iako that he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings. Deadly creatures lurked in every corner of this miserable marshy forest, yet he charged on, heedless of the racket he was making.

  Only when a shrill roar echoed through the valley did he pause. Whatever had made the sound was too close for comfort. The trail of broken branches and squashed plants he’d left would lead an enemy right to him. Whether that enemy was a shadowbeast or a shoal-tiger made little difference—Cezon was weak from hunger and exhaustion, and wouldn’t be able to wield much in his own defense. He was easy prey.

  Dusk had fallen, and it was too dark to flee. He’d trip and break an ankle before he could outrun whatever was behind him, so he’d have to be sneaky instead. Wedging himself between the rising roots of a kapok tree, he drew his pocket knife. With the element of surprise, he figured he stood a fair chance.

  But he was wrong. So wrong. A few minutes later, following in Cezon’s footsteps came the most dangerous and powerful creature in the world.

  The dragon.

  No. Impossible! Why was it here? What was it doing alone in the jungle? Cezon adjusted his sweaty grip on the knife, knowing how inadequate it would be against the beast.

  Despite the dragon’s inherent grace and elegant shape, it was moving clumsily. It lurched around like it wasn’t sure if it wanted to move forward or go backward. A snarl marred its lips as it staggered. If Cezon hadn’t known better, he’d have said it looked like it was in pain.

  Then he noticed its eyes. No longer crystalline purple, now they were solid orbs of jet-black. He knew what that meant.

  “Bogspectre . . .” Though the word had been little more than a whisper, the bogspectre-possessed dragon lifted its head and swiveled its ears forward.

  “Flesh rats . . . in my forest—to steal my treasure—” It spoke in Allentrian, biting its words into broken syllables. Then it let out a wail and collapsed, limp and lifeless.

  Cezon was frozen, unable to think. He watched with mounting horror as a dark liquid oozed from beneath the dragon’s eyelids. It pooled in a gelatinous clump on the forest floor, thrashing about and coalescing into the bogspectre.

  With a grating roar, the monster spewed sludge from the hole that served as its mouth, spattering the green moss with black vomit. It shuddered and disappeared.

  Cezon huddled in his hiding spot, shaking. No one had ever been dispossessed by the bogspectre—at least, no one he’d ever heard of. It stayed in your body until you died.

  This would be an excellent moment to escape, but now that the monster had gone, all that remained was the dragon. Maybe it was unconscious, maybe it was dead. Either way, Cezon stopped thinking about how much danger he was in, and started thinking about the lovely sheen of that bronze hide.

  He sifted through every myth, legend, and old wives’ tale he’d ever heard about dragons. Their scales were said to be so hard that not even a diamond could scratch them. Their bones supposedly made fantastic weapons because they were lightweight an
d porous, yet strong and durable. Eating the heart of a dragon was purported to heal any sickness in the world, and it had once been thought that drinking dragon blood could make you immortal.

  Though he knew the bogspectre might return at any time, Cezon emerged from the safety of the kapok roots and approached the dragon. He grabbed a fallen branch and prodded the body. No response. With a growing sense of glee, he drummed up the nerve to move closer. He crouched by the dragon’s head and lifted one eyelid. The purple iris glimmered in the light of the rising Oldmoon and the pupil contracted—the thing was still alive.

  “Might be for the best,” he murmured. “If it was dead, I couldn’t bring it anywhere without it going bad, could I? This way it stays fresh.”

  He stood and circled it, brainstorming. He couldn’t carry it through the whole jungle, so he’d make something to pull it on.

  Cezon found two sturdy bamboo stalks and strung his blue vest between the shafts, securing it with his bootlaces. He rolled the dragon onto the sling, then grabbed the ends of the makeshift sled and began hauling.

  Now that he was thinking straight, he started paying attention to the growth of lichens on the trees. He was heading in a southeast-ish direction. If he stayed this course, he would eventually reach the road to Noryk.

  It would be difficult to bring the dragon into the Imperial City undetected, not to mention dangerous. He was a wanted man. Still, it would be worth the risk. If he sold the dragon to the highest bidder, he’d end up richer than the empress.

  He paused mid-stride. For the first time, he could imagine something more valuable to him than gold: a vial of blood.

  “No.” He shook his head and set off again, stomping through a patch of fleshy toadstools. “You’d barter the dragon to Tanthflame? What good’ll that do?”

  All the legends said that only a dragon could defeat Necrovar. That was probably why Tanthflame wanted it—he was killing off the competition. Would Cezon doom the world, himself included, to save his own neck in the short term? Was he so selfish that he would trade this creature for his blood?

  He snorted. Of course he was.

  “Besides, who’s to say the legends are right?” he reasoned. “I’m sure someone else can take care of Necrovar when the time comes. Also, I’m sure I’ll get some gold out of the deal.”

  That was all it took to convince himself that this was a fantastic idea, and he kept going.

  He briefly wondered what Endred would say about his plan. Endred wouldn’t approve, because Endred was too moral. That was why he was broke, while Cezon . . . well, Cezon was broke too, but soon he wouldn’t be, and that was the point.

  He stopped when dusk faded to midnight and made camp in the hollow of a long-dead tree, keeping the dragon’s body as close as he dared.

  In the morning he continued his trek. He soon came across one of the paths that led through the jungle. This was a state road, not an Imperial one, which meant it was patrolled by Galantrian servicemen rather than Tanthflame’s bunch of loons. He continued in the forest, deciding not to risk exposure.

  The next day, Cezon was in a foul mood. His vest was in tatters and he didn’t know how much longer it would last. He’d been using his airmagic to lift the stretcher over rough terrain, but he was at the end of his strength.

  Luck was on his side again. By noon he stumbled onto the open brightness of the highway. There, not fifty paces to his left, was an Imperial watch house. He hid the dragon behind a spattering of large rocks before approaching the building.

  “Oy! Anyone in there?” he shouted. No answer. This might be one of the empty houses, there for convenience to travelers. He tried the door and found it unlocked. Cackling, Cezon scuttled to fetch the sled and dragged his cargo to the house.

  The inside was barren. There were few fixings, so people like him wouldn’t come in and loot everything of value. A straw-filled mattress sat on an iron frame in one corner. The opposite corner offered a bucket and a black-rimmed mirror that hung from the wall.

  The mirror drew Cezon’s eye. The frame was too fancy, and a faint glow distorted the glass. Raithcloud had owned a pocket-sized version of this mirror, carrying it with him at all times. It had allowed him to speak with other Imperials and, more importantly, with Tanthflame.

  Of course, Cezon had never paid attention to how Raithcloud had used the magic mirror. But if that idiot could do it, then it should be easy.

  “Work,” he said, stumping over to the glass. Nothing happened. “By order of the Shadow, I command you to work.”

  No dice.

  “Show me Commander-General Tanthflame.”

  Nothing.

  “I swear allegiance to Necrovar and to all who serve him, now show me who I want to talk to!”

  The mirror refused to do so. Cezon screamed some obscenities and wracked his brain for clues that might help him.

  “Think,” he muttered. He recalled the last time Raithcloud had contacted Tanthflame, when the commander-general had ordered them to report to the Galantrian Village. The only thing that stuck out in his mind was that Raithcloud had cut his hand and his blood had gotten all over the device.

  No. That couldn’t be it. Although Tanthflame did seem to have an unhealthy obsession with blood. And Raithcloud’s hands had been cut up all the time.

  “This better work,” said Cezon, pulling out his knife. With a wince, he drew its edge across his free hand, as Tanthflame had done in Noryk. Blood pooled in the cup of his palm, and he pressed it onto the reflecting surface, smearing crimson everywhere.

  The blood shimmered before dissolving, causing the glass to grow cloudy. Cezon was now gazing into a swirling vortex. He stewed in uneasy anticipation until a voice echoed out of the mirror.

  “Report to me.” The clouds beneath the glass cleared to reveal Gohrbryn Tanthflame. The commander-general scowled, causing his distinctive scar to crinkle. “Cezon Skyriver, is it not?”

  “Ah . . . the very same,” said Cezon. “Surprised you remember me.”

  “I never forget a face, nor a pact such as ours.”

  “About that pact. I’d like to get out of it, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t have a termination clause. And I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the consequences that await a deserter or a traitor.”

  “You give my blood to Necrovar, I get tortured for eternity,” said Cezon, waving a hand. “I’d like to present a counter-offer: if you toss that vial in a fire, I’ll give you what you want most.”

  “Which you think is what?” Tanthflame asked in glacial tones.

  “The dragon.” Cezon stood aside, revealing the body behind him. “Ain’t this what you and your pal Necrovar are after?”

  The general’s red eyes went wide before narrowing to angry slivers. “Yes and no. If you so desperately want to weasel your way out of our arrangement, you can kill it for me. Cut its throat, and I’ll pour your blood into the nearest gutter.”

  Cezon’s heart wilted. He didn’t think he had the nerve to do such a thing. He might be a scoundrel, but this felt wrong even to him—although the dragon’s encounter with the bogspectre had left it little better than dead.

  “Lemme see my blood first,” said Cezon, hoping to buy time. Tanthflame stepped out of view.

  “Oy!” Cezon grabbed the mirror and rattled it. “Where’d you go?”

  “Relax.” Tanthflame reappeared, holding a small glass vial filled with dark liquid. “Here’s your proof.”

  “That ain’t proof. That could be anyone’s blood. How do I know it’s mine? How do I know you ain’t given it to Necrovar already?”

  “You would know if Necrovar had your blood,” the general growled. “As to the question of whether or not this is yours, I suppose I could add in some darksalm to prove it to you, but that would defeat the purpose.”

  “Alright, alright,” s
aid Cezon. “Just get rid of it and I’ll kill the dragon.”

  “You kill the dragon first.”

  “That ain’t fair!”

  “Life isn’t fair,” Tanthflame retorted. “Do it.”

  Cezon couldn’t believe he was hesitating. Maybe Endred was wearing off on him. Could it be that he was developing a conscience?

  He clutched his knife tightly, for his palm had become clammy. “Fine,” he muttered, stalking to the beast’s prone form. “Fine! You want me to kill the dragon?”

  Bending, he grasped one ivory horn with his free hand and lifted the reptilian head, exposing the muted, lighter scales of the long throat. The dragon remained in its coma, helpless and defenseless.

  “Gods damn it.” Unable to believe what he was doing, Cezon laid the head gently on the floor.

  “I take it your blood isn’t worth much to you, after all,” Tanthflame taunted.

  “Wait! How about I give you the dragon so you can do what you like with it?” Cezon offered desperately.

  “You’re lucky that time is on your side. You will deliver the dragon to a contingent of my men at the outpost where the Northern Imperial Highway meets the Kingsroad. You have three days to reach it. If you don’t . . .” Tanthflame raised the vial and shook it.

  “Yes sir, Commander-General.” Cezon didn’t think he’d ever hated anyone as much as he hated Tanthflame. Though Keriya Soulstar and her pack of friends came close. So did King Wavewalker. And that clodhopper Jigon, who’d cheated him in a game of cards that one time. And he really did hate Iako a lot. Also that city official who—

  “You’d best be off. You don’t want to miss your deadline,” said Tanthflame, interrupting Cezon’s thoughts. His reflection wavered as the surface of the mirror grew smoky and opaque. When the clouds cleared, Cezon was left staring at his own ashen face.

  “No use delaying, I s’pose,” he said, turning to the dragon once more. “Sorry, little fellow. Nothing personal. It’s just good business.”