The Dragon Throne

by Chrys Cymri

  ‘The honour is ours.’ The man straightened. ‘Your bed’s ready, my lord, and although we can only offer hay for the night, the ale has been brought to you.’

  The Prancer nodded. Suddenly very tired, he walked into the stall. Even hay was better than wet grass under wind-blasted skies. As he lowered his head to take a deep drink of the dark ale, the two men left quietly, shutting the double doors behind them.

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  Wind lashed rain against the barn sides for several days. The Prancer cocked an ear at the sound, and nibbled smugly on hay. He was glad for a rest at any rate, after his rapid progress across the Third Kingdom.

  He only wished that these villagers were as sociable as those in the first town he had visited. Only the stable owner came by, tending to the animals in the other stables and bringing ale in addition to the Prancer’s portions of hay. The Teacher had said that human communities could vary, some giving names and greetings freely, others keeping apart from a unicorn. Until now, he’d been disinclined to believe the Teacher.

  The fourth morning dawned crisp and clear. The Prancer woke to the sound of only a breeze against the rough boards. He opened the barn door and stepped outside, taking deep breaths of the fresh air as he studied the blue sky above.

  ‘You’ll be leaving us, lord?’

  The Prancer flicked an ear at the stable owner. ‘I have far to go. I thank you for your hospitality.’

  ‘My sorrow that we couldn’t offer you more.’ The Prancer turned his head, meeting the man’s gaze. ‘We’re unused to lords walking amongst us. We are so near to the lands of the dragons here, our young are as like to marry into a family of the next kingdom as one of this.’

  ‘Where is the boundary?’ the Prancer asked, curious.

  ‘Long ago a small line of stones were laid. You’ll pass over them, if you continue east from here.’ The man visibly hesitated, then asked slowly, ‘Is that where my lord must go?’

  The Prancer dipped his head in a nod. ‘I need to cross the Fourth Kingdom to the dragons beyond.’

  ‘If I may suggest to the lord, he should journey south from here, and travel along the Dragon’s Back.’

  The Prancer studied him as he mentally worked out the geography. ‘Is that what you call the mountains which ring the Land?’

  ‘Aye, lord. It’s said, the Family themselves only live in the Sacred Mountains. The passage would be far safer for one such as you. The villages of the next kingdom would not welcome a unicorn.’

  ‘I’ll avoid frightening them,’ the Prancer said politely. To travel the mountain route would take much longer than continuing over land. And he had no fear of humans. What could they do to harm a unicorn? ‘Again, I thank you for shelter and hay. And the ale.’

  The man bowed. ‘Safe journey, my lord.’

  The Prancer bent his head in acknowledgement. Then he trotted down the dirt road and out of the village, arching his neck and lifting his tail as he saw that several people had come out of their homes to watch his departure.

  A half hour later he passed over the small stone boundary the man had mentioned. His hooves flashed between the rocks, and then he was in the Fourth Kingdom, by legend and by custom belonging to the humans who were ruled by the dragons.

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  The first few days the land appeared little different than that of the Third Kingdom, fields and meadows separated by patches of woods, sometimes even a forest. Then the ground began to grow less even, lumping into hills, exposing rocks and the roughness of soil which had never felt the touch of human hand or the cut of steel.

  Remembering the man’s warning, the Prancer skirted around villages. His sire had also advised him to avoid contacting humans of the Fourth Kingdom, as their response to a unicorn was at best unpredictable. Communicating with the People through several rowan trees lessened the Prancer’s loneliness, but he longed to speak with a being present in flesh as well as spirit. And he had still to meet the woman with the red hair.

  One evening, ten days into the Fourth Kingdom, he paused on a hill outside a large town. Bonfires were lit in fields near the central buildings. From where he stood the wind which rippled mane and tail also brought to him the sounds of laughter and song, and the roasted scent of new ale mingled with the harsher bite of burning wood. Some celebrations, he decided, wanting very much to join them. He stood and watched for hours, ears flicking to the many conversations, the shouts of exuberant, drunken joy. First one moon, then the other rose as he waited, unmoving. Only when the last humans were stumbling to their homes did he finally turn away.

  Their ruler is kin to the dragons, he reminded himself as he galloped away, kin to the being who killed Storm. Humans of the Fourth Kingdom would not naturally offer friendship. Steeling his heart, he continued on into the dark until he was finally too tired to need anything other than rest. He lowered himself down where he stopped, and sighed as he fell asleep.

  Mist condensing on his nostrils woke him before the sun rose. The Prancer barely had time to raise his head before sneezing, scattering droplets of water across his forelegs. Not one of my better mornings, he decided groggily, his skin twitching under the clamminess of a fine coat of moisture. He rose stiffly to his feet.

  As his hooves touched ground, a charge seemed to pass through the silver to tingle all the muscles of his body. The Prancer jerked his head upright, suddenly very awake. The sensation reminded him of the clarity in the Mages’ College, and he knew that he must be in a place equally connected to the Land.

  He swung around, blinking his eyes clear of water. The sun was still struggling against the pull of the ground, paling the sky but still not visible. Grey fog rolled back slowly, revealing the humped outlines of stones, tall and worn. They were similar to the monolith in the Dancing Ground, dark, but with small, glittering lines of lighter mineral.

  The warm glow of sunlight finally streamed through the mist, and touched the stones with tender fingers. The Prancer saw that he stood in the middle of a semi-circle. Although several of the boulders had fallen down, and grown over by moss and grasses, the outline was still clear.

  This is not a natural structure, he realised. Someone raised these stones, placing them in this formation. For what? A ceremony, even as the People had raised the stone in the Dancing Ground? If so, there must have been a purpose to the shape, a point of focus.

  Perhaps humans built this. He studied the sweep of stones. Try to think like a human. What would this remind them of? Probably of their arms. They use their hands so much. Hands for building, gesturing, welcoming. Arms held wide open in welcome.

  He backed away slowly, keeping an eye on the semi-circle to ensure that he remained equidistant from each end. The sensation of power grew in his hooves. When he stood where stones would rest, had the circle been completed, he knew he was at the focus.

  The Land touched him briefly in amused congratulation. The Prancer lowered his head, seeking to deepen the contact. But the specific communication was gone, leaving behind only general awareness. This structure was not built by unicorns, he thought. Nor by humans, nor even dragons. It’s older than all of us.

  But that cannot be. He snapped his head upright, a hind hoof striking the fog-dampened ground. The People of the Trees rose first from the Land, the first of all her children. There is nothing more ancient than the unicorn.

  Unsettled by the puzzle, he quickly turned and marched away from the stones.

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  The number of human dwellings and villages had thickened for awhile. But as the high mountains came into view, the signs of human existence thinned again. The Prancer found himself travelling then without the temptation to trot into a village and test the humans’ reactions. And his goal was now in sight, coming closer with each day. Beginning as nothing more than a smudge on the horizon, the peaks were gaining clarity with every mile that passed beneath his hooves.

  Obeying the cautions of his sire and the Teacher, the Prancer began to sleep on his feet. �
��Dogs,’ the Teacher had warned him against in particular. ‘Near the mountains the dragons are guarded by strong dogs. Or so it is said.’

  ‘Dogs are usually friendly to unicorns,’ the Prancer had protested, recalling the wandering mongrel who had lived with the People for several years before making his way back to humans.

  ‘These will be trained to guard the dragons against unicorns. Do not trust them. Sleep always standing, and keep an ear ready for their howls.’

  Nothing so far. The Prancer wondered if these hounds had ever existed. The lessons passed down from unicorn to foal were at least generations old. And how often do unicorns seek out dragons? he asked himself. Dragons come to us to hunt unicorns. I may be the first of the People to have travelled this far in return.

  So, impatient with old teachings, the Prancer did not take the more circular route to the mountains. He continued straight on, passing close by a village late in the night, the blue and green of the full moons lighting his way. He flinched slightly as deep growls came from a stable he passed. Then he was beyond the otherwise quiet buildings, and beginning the climb up to the foot of the first mountain.

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  Cursing at the interruption in their sleep, two men stumbled from warm beds into the chill of the night. They exchanged brief words, clipped and angry at the hounds. As they moved to go back to their homes, one called out, his foot turning in a mark in the soft soil. With the light of the moons over their shoulders, they traced a line of hoof prints. An unshod horse? No. The prints were far too regular.

  The dogs growled again, insistent. The men conferred, then nodded. If a unicorn had passed this way, as unlikely as it seemed, the dogs would track it down. If it had been nothing more than a horse, the hounds would return in the morning, none the worse for the exercise.

  Grunting with the weight, they rolled back the heavy door to the stables. The three hounds blinked in the light, muscles tensing under thick, brown coats, their blunt muzzles reaching up to the men’s waists. One quick whine, then they were gone, streaming out into the night.

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  Unable to rest so near to the mountains, and unsettled by the scent of dogs in the village, the Prancer had continued his ground-eating trot during the night. Early morning found him swinging past a small hut set into rock at the beginning of a faint trail into the mountains. An empty corral waited nearby. The Prancer gave the wood a quick sniff as he passed, deciding that it had been unused for some time.

  He halted, two hooves on the trail, as sunlight picked out the bulk of rock ahead. ‘The Four Faces,’ he murmured, recalling the Teacher’s tales. Weathered now, the human noses little more than mounds below holes for eyes, imagination as well as memory was required to see that four heads had once been carved into the grey stone. For once, the Prancer felt small. The noses alone would have been his size. The Teacher had been unable to explain why humans should want to cut into the side of a mountain. A few more centuries, and the soft mineral would once again be featureless.

  It was, however, the mark of the beginning of the Second Kingdom, the Sacred Mountains of the Family. The Prancer closed his eyes for a moment, trying to sense if a rowan tree were near. He would like to contact the herd once more, before he started on what might be the final journey of his life. But only pines and sturges were near, scenting the air with sharp pitch and cloying flowers. Lifting his head, the Prancer started up the trail.

  The first he heard of his followers was the sound of a rock shifting under sudden weight. He stopped, glanced behind him. Seeing nothing, he took a few more steps. The trail was beginning to curve, to follow along the mountain. He eyed the mosses overtaking grass, wondering if his diet were about to change.

  Another noise, grit against dirt. This time, when he looked around, he saw the hounds. Three of them, dark brown, long coats. Thick ears were laid back against stout necks, heads held low as they growled.

  The Prancer sighed. ‘I’ve been warned. You may leave now.’

  The dogs gave no answer. The hound in the centre held his ground, while his companions moved away. The Prancer watched them warily as they circled around him, obviously trying to pen him in. ‘You can’t harm me,’ he continued. ‘Dogs have no claws, and I have seen the teeth your kind bear. Far too impure to touch a unicorn.’

  The dogs were coming closer, placing each foot carefully, precisely, steadily. The Prancer glanced up the trail, finding where the path curved up and around ahead. With a few quick strides he was several yards higher, and he strode out onto a large boulder overhanging the lower trail. ‘I have no wish to harm you. Go back to the village.’

  One dog leapt onto the rock behind him. The Prancer glanced over his shoulder, curious as to the creature’s plans. How could he rid himself of their company? He had no wish to face a dragon with three hounds at his heels.

  The dog plunged forward suddenly, jaws open, teeth bared, driving for his left hind leg. There was a moment’s pause. Then, to his shock, the Prancer felt four sharp points thrust through skin and muscle, rip flesh away from bone.

  He screamed with anger and pain. The hound released her grip, sprang away. The Prancer glanced at his leg. Blood was curling down the white skin, dripping onto silver hoof. Silver. Sunlight glittered on the dogs’ teeth, flashed across the trail. Their teeth were capped with silver.

  His first thought was of flight. Throwing himself past their gleaming eyes, he stumbled once he was back on the path. His leg was shaking, weak, unable to support its share of his weight. No running, the Prancer thought. Must fight them. He threw his head back, trying to recall all he’d ever been taught about defending himself. Very little, as normally nothing dared to attack a unicorn, nothing but dragons.

  The hounds were splitting up again. Leaving the one marked already with blood in the centre, the other two edged around him. Three, the Prancer thought. Fear was clouding his thoughts, and he had to take deep breaths to drive it back so that he could think. Must remove one at a time. Must kill them? He had never killed anything before. Must kill them, he told himself grimly. Or injure them too badly for them to injure me.

  They think they have me. Out of the corners of his eyes, he could see that the dogs were less careful than before, daring to come closer. So, pretend they are right. He forced himself to lower his head, to make his breaths shudder his sides. What weapons does a unicorn have? Horn, hooves, teeth. Use whichever you can.

  He stumbled forward. The circling hounds paused, expectant. The bitch further down the trail lifted her head, eyes bright with promise. One step. Two. The other two hounds held their places, confident that she could finish the task.

  Three steps. Four. The Prancer stopped, carefully judging the distance. One more step, a stumble. The dog was only a few feet away from him now, studying his neck, about to move into position. But the Prancer moved faster. He leapt forward, rearing high. Before his left leg could give out, he slammed his forelegs down, aiming for the grinning muzzle.

  The bitch yelped. Then the silver hooves ground down through the skull, breaking the neck. The Prancer came down heavily into a mass of bone and tissue, blood spurting up across his nostrils. He choked on the heavy, metallic smell, felt his stomachs turn painfully inside him.

  The other two hounds growled behind him. With a quickness which surprised even him, the Prancer bucked, kicking out with his hind legs. His hooves connected with flesh, thudding heavily onto bone. The dog’s howl was cut off as he fell over the side of the trail, rolling down the hill.

  The Prancer straightened. The last hound eyed him, her gaze dark, calculating. She side-stepped, forcing him to turn on his injured leg to follow her. The initial numbness was wearing off, and the torn muscles were throbbing with pain. I have but a little time, he found himself thinking. Then he was beyond thought, filled with a great, irrational hatred for these beasts which hunted him. He was not an animal, to be cut down for their meal. Even as she leapt at his shoulder, he whipped his head around, thrusting his horn forwar
d and down.

  The sharp tip pierced hide and muscle, travelled past the ribs to emerge on the other side. She kicked once. Then the dog was a dead weight. The Prancer lowered his head, allowing the body to slide to the ground. Blood covered the spirals of his horn, pooled around the base and slid into his eyes. He was promptly and thoroughly sick, the remains of his last meal mingling with the gore surrounding him.

  I didn’t use my teeth, he thought giddily. Slowly, carefully, he started up the trail again. Don’t know if I could. Tough skin. Dare you to fight three hounds, Storm.

  That’s something you never did for me. Fight hounds. Other colts, and a dragon. But that dog was a friend to the herd.

  Underlying the whirling surface thoughts was one strong awareness. He had to get off the path. Continued movement was aggravating the injured leg, pumping more blood from the long tears. Need to stop. He huffed, air pulling unsteadily into his lungs. Need to rest.

  The trail curved, switched back on itself. To his left was a steep drop back the way he had come, on his right rocks and moss clung to the side of the mountain. No trees to be seen, no shelter from a passing dragon. He shivered, wondering why he was suddenly so cold.

  Forward. Go forward. He lowered his head, summoned stubborn determination. Don’t stop until shelter appears. His hind leg growing ever stiffer, he shuffled along the trail. Only dimly did he note that the sun had finished its climb into the sky, and now was beginning its long descent. The next step. There was always the next step, the earth under his nose passing with painful slowness.

  The path turned back again. The Prancer paused, lifted his head. A clump of bushes waved in the breeze ahead of him, finding purchase on a flatter part of mountainside. That would have to do. Shivering again, he dragged himself over to the shelter, all but collapsing under the green branches.

  The sound of splashing water filtered through his consciousness, and he was suddenly aware that he was terribly thirsty. I’ll feel better soon, he promised himself. Then I’ll go get some water. I’ll feel better soon. He lowered his head, closing his eyes against the thundering inside his skull. Soon.