Dragon's Rise

by Lou Hoffmann

  Regardless, the great change approached, and it couldn’t be stopped now.

  Midsummer day dawned cold and dim, in keeping with the change in the world’s weather over the last years. People laughed and clasped hands in relief when the sun broke through the clouds and skimmed the hilltops, even though she was but a dim remembrance of the brilliant summer sun of not so long ago. All the palace, all the town below, and perhaps, the guard thought, all the world stood with breath held as the sun made its final movement to align with the still-unblemished crystal.

  Black and white had vanquished the sun’s gold, and her rays had become a sheet of seething, battling colors.

  LUCKY COULD not define what happened to him then. The world he’d been in didn’t end, time didn’t pass, he did not change. But immediately, nothing of what had been remained. The Blade tugged at him, pulling him back to his own life, but he responded sluggishly and before he truly returned to his comfortable rock in the Behlvale he caught a glimpse of a life, long in the past, but soon after the rift.

  A prince of the City of Suns, he led his people to crystal temples and towering statues topped by six-rayed likenesses of the twin suns of Ethra. Bells rang out and the sky came alive with light and song. But the long-ago prince knew, just as Lucky knew in his real, present Ethra, that something had gone very wrong with his world.

  Bayahr, Wizard of Stone

  THE WIZARD Bayahr massaged his temples as he pulled his gaze from the clear crystal sphere he’d been staring into for hours. Something had clearly gone wrong in the world. Ethra seemed to be fraying at her magical seams. Portals located deep inside stone caves—the most stable kind—had begun to collapse or behave erratically. The flow of water beneath the land had slowed in places, reversed in others. Very strong stones could at times be cracked to pieces with an unintentional tap from a shoe. Mines—ever held in delicate balance—exploded or collapsed. Landslides from crumbling peaks buried farms.

  Ethra quaked at her core, yet Bayahr—renowned wizard of stone, sand, and soil—couldn’t discover a cause. His magic still worked. He could still assemble particles into stone or loosen their bonds and dissolve them with a Command. He could still sense the mood of the soils, decipher the conversation between sea and sand, retrieve visions from clear quartz, and extract and direct the energies of minerals and stones. But, after considering, he admitted these things required more effort than he ever needed before.

  Might be why I suffer these blasted headaches, he mused, grumpy as only someone five hundred years of age has a right to be.

  But what did it all mean, these changes at the world’s roots? That was where he focused his attention. After all, meaning is the wizard’s primary business. He’d researched, but the only writings he’d found that said anything about unstable energies in stone was the totally unreliable Willock, who’d written, “When the stone is wobbly, likely you’ll find a leak somewhere.” If that meant something, Bayahr didn’t know what it was. He’d also talked to some fellow wizards at the University of Nedhra where he taught, but they were all young still and only book wizards, their magics as yet ungrounded by any element, and they offered no new ideas. Bayahr had even traveled in bad weather—rheumatic joints and all, to sit in contemplation on Gahabriohl’s flank. He’d heard and felt a commotion in the stone at the heart of the mountain, but he’d not been able to grasp the strand of wrongness he sensed, at least not firmly enough to trace its origin.

  Reluctantly, he came to a decision.

  “Nothing else for it,” he told himself, which was quite his usual way, as he rarely had anyone else around to tell. “I’ll have to bother the old man.”

  He moved to the hearth with his long-customary limp, using his weak, withered right leg only as a prop to take a hop with the healthy one. After banking the flames from the camp stones in his hearth, he returned to drape the smoky quartz sphere set into the marble table with its cover. Woven into a rough cloth from fibrous selenite, the drape would keep the crystal’s energies clean should anyone—or anything—happen into his deep-earth hermitage while he was away. Finally, he packed his satchel for another long trek.

  With oak-and-olivine staff in hand, sapphire wand sheathed in the belt of his robes, he exited his chamber to the forecourt, where his longtime friend, the donkey Salvatohr, waited chewing a huge mouthful of timothy hay.

  “Time to go out again already, Sal,” he said.

  The dun-colored beast responded with a snort and a hee-haw that almost aspired to a whinny.

  “What do you mean, ‘where are we going?’” Bayahr asked. “To see the wizard, of course.”

  The donkey nuzzled at his ear this time, whispering.

  “Yes, yes. Sal. I know I am a wizard. I said the wizard, meaning Thurlock.” He leaned his stout middle across Sal’s back, and the patient beast waited without complaint or comment while Bayahr swung his good leg over, got himself and his satchel situated, and picked up the single rein. “Walk on, then. We’ll never get there if you don’t put a foot on the path.”

  Together, wizard and four-hooved friend began the long climb to the surface from his ancient home beneath the Southern Ehls. “Off to see the wizard,” he said again, and began to whistle a half-forgotten tune. It was a journey of necessity, but after such a long time between visits, Bayahr looked forward to seeing Thurlock, the only wizard older, wiser, and stronger than Bayahr himself.

  Mahros, Rebel Wizard of Ethra

  THREE HUNDRED years had gone by since Mahros, a High Wizard of Ethra, first made friends with hatred. In the time since then, his magical sight had grown keen. His Word and his Hand and his Staff had all grown powerful. His hair had gone as white as that of his cousin—many times removed—Thurlock Ol’Karrigh, and his hatred of that man had gone black as Naught and spread like pestilence to all things Thurlock held close.

  At first, Mahros’s anger had blazed, a self-stoking fire that would from time to time race through his veins, unstoppable until it spent itself. When he was young, Mahros had thought that if Thurlock would just die, he could get on with his own destiny, for surely he was meant to be the ancient man’s successor. He was born for it. His power was great enough, his mind quick enough. He even looked the part—almost the spitting image of Thurlock despite the generations that separated them.

  At one time, though, he’d idolized Thurlock. He’d fashioned himself in his image, had even approached him in the hopes of becoming his apprentice. But Thurlock, already an old man then, had practically sent him away with an absent smile and a pat on the head, as if he was but an ordinary child. Resentment had been seeded that day, and soon it grew, blossomed, and bore the bitter fruit of hate.

  Unable to direct his rage against that powerful man and hope to survive it, Mahros had lashed out in cruelty whenever he could do so with impunity, just to gain respite from the fire in his veins. He hadn’t known that hatred would grow when put to use; he’d been shocked to find himself seething with it, taken aback to realize he hated so many people so thoroughly. That’s when he’d begun to hate himself, and that fueled his anger to burn so hotly that he—literally, because he’d also grown into a powerful wizard—left a trail of ash and bones in his wake wherever he went.

  If he hadn’t met Ahmadou—an aspect of Mahl, but certainly the greatest—Mahros would certainly have gone to cinders himself. But Ahmadou, praise his name, had cooled the roiling flames of his hatred, transformed them. Mahros knew now that he was Ahmadou’s chosen, and he wore cold hatred so much more comfortably. Ahmadou sustained his life—he needn’t even eat or drink. He simply found a life and consumed its moisture, its nourishment, its life energy. He laughed, thinking of it. Sometimes, though, burning was required, and the stuff of his hatred ignited just as swiftly from cold essence as it had from ready heat. And the flames—beautiful both red and blue. So very pleasing.

  Mahros looked forward to the coming war. Liliana—who had thought she recruited him—was now out of his way. Pahlanus would make a useful partner for
a time. But for Mahros, alliance with the Terrathians was but a means to an end.

  Soon, Mahl-Ahmadou would show himself to be the greatest god Ethra had ever known.

  “I’ll make the old man Thurlock Ol’Karrigh bow down to you, Lord Ahmadou, and his Sun Child too. And then I’ll consume them both.”

  His first efforts had culminated in an exasperating failure when he’d had to abandon his work at the Behlvale Stones. The Terrathian attack at Hoenholm had proceeded as planned, and Mahros didn’t blame himself for that failure. They’d had plenty of opportunity to succeed, plenty of resources. But the work at the Stones should have been a trap for at least the Luccan boy, if not for the wizard himself. He didn’t mourn Liliana’s loss there, but his failure to strengthen the Mist Ports had resulted in the stupid woman’s ultimate demise. Now, the Terrathians questioned his allegiance. Not that he had any—he had his own motives—but it suited his purposes for them to think he was on their side.

  He was working at their bidding for the moment. He’d been tasked with recruiting, gathering a force of both powerful and ordinary folk. They had given him no further instructions—not surprising considering they knew hardly anything about the way humans lived and nothing at all, really, about Ethra’s people. He’d made his own plan, and he was off to Nedhra City to set it in motion.

  PART ONE: Ancient Paths and Waking Powers

  Chapter One: Snake Attack

  THE LAST time Lucky had gone to Nedhra City with Thurlock, they’d been on foot. This time, they took horses. Lucky had considered summoning K’ormahk, but a winged horse seemed like overkill for a trip to town. Besides, K’ormahk was basically wild and self-determined—he did what he wanted. Lucky knew he would answer if he was needed, just like he’d done on the day of the Battle of Hoenholm. Calling him at a time when an ordinary horse would be sufficient felt like taking advantage of the great stallion’s generosity—and anyway Thurlock wouldn’t have been able to keep up—even on Sherah.

  Fortunately, Lucky had become a much better rider after spending time at Morrow’s stables the previous year. They’d been on the road for half a morning already, and he hadn’t once come close to falling off or even looking silly. He sat his mount—a spirited dapple-gray mare named Zefrehl, descended from Lucky’s old friend Windy—with grace. He was even comfortable enough that when Thurlock struck up a conversation as they rode, he could give it most of his attention.

  “We might as well get some things said, Luccan,” Thurlock said. “We’ve got time now and who knows when we will again. If you like, we can start with questions you may have.”

  Instead of the heavily traveled East-West Way, Thurlock had chosen an older, secondary track as their road to the city. Its route cut straight through obstacles the main road avoided—went over hills and through the forest instead of around them. When Thurlock prompted him to ask questions, they were in the middle of a stand of young pines with rather stiff, sharp needles and sticky, though pleasantly aromatic, sap. Ducking under some low branches and going around a fallen tree provided a good excuse for Lucky to take a moment deciding what to ask. As often happened when it was the wizard he was speaking to, what came out of his mouth surprised him. “You know when we were doing Shahna’s Cup?”

  “Surely that’s not the question you want to ask.”

  “You sounded cheerful.”

  “Yes.”

  Lucky suspected Thurlock was being deliberately obtuse. “But it’s a parting cup. We were saying goodbye, and you talked about going into battle.”

  “Every day, we all go into battle one way or another. When those battles for which we are preparing seem likely to be significant, we sometimes take Shahna’s Cup. It’s for luck, you might say. And the battles we all move toward today could be significant—momentous even.”

  Lucky heaved a sigh. “You’re missing the point and you’re doing it on purpose.”

  “Am I? What is the point?”

  Instead of answering, Lucky asked, “Does going into battle always make you cheerful?” He refrained from adding, “you stubborn old fart,” and he was glad Thurlock couldn’t hear his thoughts.

  “No, Luccan. As a matter of fact, it doesn’t. But doing something rather than waiting for things to be done to us certainly improves my mood.”

  They didn’t converse much after that—or rather Thurlock rambled quite a bit but Lucky stopped listening, instead drinking in the quiet countryside along the way, and reflecting on how appearances can deceive. At about half an hour before sundown, they found a small glade on one bank of a fair-sized stream where water bubbled crystal clear over rocks into a tiny waterfall. The day cooled as night clouds began to weave themselves across the sky, but there was enough dry wood scattered nearby for a nice fire. They’d brought bread and cheese and sausages from the Hold’s kitchens, and they ate that cold, but afterward, Thurlock produced a bag of Jet-Puffed marshmallows, and they roasted them over the coals with long sticks.

  When the stars were humming overhead and crickets, frogs, and a couple of owls had come out to sing along, Thurlock asked Lucky to fetch some water in his little teapot and set it on a rock near the fire pit.

  “Why don’t you just do your tea by magic in the morning, like you do coffee for Han?”

  “If you recall, I told you once before: we only do things by magic, instead of the ordinary way, when we have a very good reason.”

  “I forgot you said that,” Lucky said. “Probably because you just seem to do things whenever you want.”

  “Well, when you’re as old as me, maybe ‘because I want to’ is sometimes a very good reason. Another consideration, though, tea just isn’t the same if you don’t make it the long way. Besides,” he added, tilting his head indignantly, “do you really mind doing this one little thing for me?”

  Lucky’s mouth dropped open, and shame heated his face. How ungrateful he must seem! “I’m sorry, Thurlock. No, seriously, I don’t mind at all.” By the time he finished speaking he was already halfway to the creek with the little kettle.

  Thurlock smiled when he brought it back and set it in place. “Thank you, young man.”

  They laid out their saddle blankets beneath their bed rolls to keep the moisture down, and sat for a while under their cloaks, watching the fire cool. And that’s when Lucky decided it was time to ask another question.

  “How far are we from the city?”

  “Only about forty miles. We’ll be there tomorrow.”

  Lucky snorted, which was slightly embarrassing because he hadn’t done it on purpose. “Thurlock, that would mean we traveled seventy miles today. Mostly at a walk. Horses can’t go that fast.”

  “This route is a little shorter. And no, not on their own, they can’t.”

  “Oh! So you did some magic? I didn’t notice.”

  “You’ve been in a bit of a trance, I’m afraid, which is why you remember everything I said about the Charismata even though you thought you weren’t listening.”

  Lucky started to say that he remembered no such thing, but the protest sort of strangled itself when he realized that yes, indeed he did remember what Thurlock had said about the Suth Chiell’s power called the Charismata. He breathed out roughly, for some reason quite disappointed in himself for not being able to ignore Thurlock when he wanted to.

  “Never mind for tonight, Luccan. We’ll find time tomorrow to review the concepts, and perhaps you can practice a little. For now, sleep well, young man.”

  Thurlock’s last words had sounded like some sort of benediction, and they fell over Lucky like a soft snowfall of peace and safety. He fell asleep, not expecting to dream at all.

  The stars winked out as Lucky floated down into a desolate landscape. He came to rest on top of a broad plateau with a lake like a giant pothole in the middle of it. He walked to the edge of the cliff to see what he’d find below. He saw, as he had before in his dreams, black mist-shadows and crackling flashes of blue light. But Ciarrah rested in her sheath, the Key of Behliseth agai
nst his heart, and all around him shone a shield of light—Thurlock’s blessing, he thought.

  He knew this dream was not like the others. He’d not been taken into it; he’d dropped in unannounced, of his own accord. He’d come to spy, and as yet he remained undiscovered.

  He saw a dim figure in the distance, and thought first of his mother’s shade, but the voice he heard rumbled low-pitched with words he couldn’t make out. He saw pillars of mist grow up from the ground, and elsewhere puddles and pools of it so black and numerous that from above, in the dim unholy glow, the land looked pockmarked, its disease spreading like leprosy.

  Then he realized that though the landscape may look ruined and foreign to him, it was, indeed, land. It was a place in the real world, and if only he could remember the landmarks, he’d know where the battle he was being warned of would be waged. Because that’s what this was, a warning. Preparation for a battle unlike any that had ever been fought.

  Before he could begin to catalog the features of the land, though, a painfully brilliant blue light shone directly into his eyes, blinding him. It hurt as it stabbed into his brain, and he may have cried out—he wasn’t sure. Ciarrah answered that light with her own violet beam, shining forth from the emblem on her hilt. And the Key made its noise so high and piercing that whatever foul curse someone was trying to lay on him, its syllables were shattered before they could bring the magic into being.

  Lucky fought panic down, closed his eyes against the cold blue glare, and commanded himself back to the glade where he slept near the fire.