by Richard Due
“But not for you,” said Roan.
“What do you mean?”
“You must leave, Your Majesty. As long as you have that saddle, you will be able to outrun them. You must bear Jasper to safety. You both must get away. You know this is true.”
Nimlinn lowered her head. “I’m glad Greydor is not here to see this,” she said.
A new sound came from the direction of the old road. A moment later, saddled wirtles raced out of the dust, weaving in and out at breakneck speed. An army of wyflings were mounted on their backs. Witcoil, lance in paw, led the way.
Snerliff and Twizbang, wearing what looked like ceremonial armor, were among those in the front. Upon spying their Queen, they immediately broke ranks and, accompanied by Witcoil, steered a path to her. Behind them, hundreds of mounted wirtles emerged from the dust. Witcoil reigned in his wirtle just feet shy of Nimlinn. Its many legs thrashed, and its head wove constantly back and forth on its powerful neck, its wide snarling mouth baring sharp rows of teeth. Witcoil held up his small lance in salute.
“Witcoil Lightfoot, Lancespeed First Class, Royal Guard to Her Majesty the Queen. We have come to offer you our service.”
Nimlinn stared at him, having forgotten for the moment that the wyflings had military leaders of their own. She made the smallest of nods to Snerliff. “Take whatever position of advantage you may find, my small, brave friends.”
The warrior Rinn appeared next, galloping at full speed.
“Nimlinn,” shouted Jasper. “There’s always a way.” He ransacked his memories for all the bedtime tales Uncle Ebb had ever told about the Rinn. When he could find no help in them, he conjured the tales of the valiant men of Dain and their intelligent, winged dragons—now gone, lost to time or myth. Were they just stories? He thought of the merfolk of Dik Dek, their steam-breathing seahorses, their magical pearls; the giants of Min Tar; Faerathil and her black unicorns, faerie folk, and Morgoroth the Devourer, the mightiest dragon in all the Moon Realm. Was there nothing in these tales to help stop a tidal wave of scaramann?
Jasper grasped the moon coin and stared at its face. Lily had used it to call down the darkness and save the Rinn. Surely, there was something he could do with it.
Several scattered and bloodied Rinn began to emerge from the direction of the advancing scaramann. One of them, with fur the color of sandstone, approached quickly. He was thin, like a mountain Rinn, but his fur was much longer and tangled in long mats.
“Your Majesty!” he exclaimed, on seeing Nimlinn. “What are you doing here?”
“Tanglemane. How far off are they?”
“There is no time. You are a fool to be here. And with Jasper! You must leave immediately!”
Nimlinn glared at Tanglemane. “I will make my decisions,” she said icily.
Tanglemane regarded Roan. “Jasper must be borne to safety. You understand this, yes?” Roan nodded.
The lunamancer Rinn began streaming in now, forming a protective circle around Nimlinn, Roan, and Tanglemane. The warrior Rinn formed a loose outer circle, and between them ran the rapid wirtles, weaving and darting with boundless energy.
“The Dainriders are within Fangdelve, Tanglemane,” explained Nimlinn. “We must hold this gate.”
“To what end? The scaramann will not tire of following us. They will chase us—mercilessly—across this valley of yours. Most of your Rinn are wounded, scattered. If you feel you must die here—fine. It’s as good a place as any. But if death is your choice, you must give that saddle to one who can bear Jasper to safety.”
Nimlinn’s eyes widened. “And who here but I would bear this saddle?”
“If I must,” said Tanglemane fiercely, “I will rip it from your back!”
Roan pounced between them, but it was obvious to Jasper that Roan was conflicted.
“Do you think, Tanglemane,” said Nimlinn, “that a saddle such as this would sit on a back such as yours?”
“ENOUGH!” roared Roan. “Snerliff and Twizbang! Help Her Majesty remove this saddle and—”
The skies suddenly darkened. Jasper and the Rinn looked upward to see a thick swarm of dark shapes falling from the sky.
“Dragonflies!” hissed Nimlinn. “Into the tower! Protect yourselves!”
“Take Her Majesty through the gates!” ordered Roan to a group of warrior Rinn, who hastened to obey him, only to slow once they felt the full fury of Nimlinn’s glare.
Roan bounded to Wizcurs and freed two dirazakein from his war saddle. Sheen and Keenscent followed Roan’s lead, seizing dirazakein from the saddles of their comrades.
“Shadopads! Do whatever you must, but get her into Fangdelve!” roared Roan, and this time a press of warrior Rinn began forcibly herding Nimlinn through Fangdelve’s shattered gates.
Roan reared up on his hind legs and heaved his first dirazakein into the air with deadly force just as the first gouts of fire spilled down around them, spreading out into great pools of bright flame. The Rinn leapt wildly to escape, but not all were successful. The lunamancers set to casting enchantments to quell the deadly flames, but it was slow work. The Rinn recklessly heaved more dirazakein into the air. Bits of severed dragonfly, along with more belching fire, rained down.
And then, like the dropping of a curtain, the skies became darker still. A scream split the air, a scream unlike anything Jasper had ever heard or imagined. Nimlinn broke loose from the Rinn herding her and leapt high into the air, landing next to Roan and Tanglemane.
“What was that?” she demanded, peering upward with her great amber eyes.
“By the moons, they’ve arrived,” said Tanglemane.
“Who has arrived?”
Parachuting down on great leathery wings, a dragon as large as a house landed on its two legs with a thud that shook the earth. It held a crushed dragonfly in each of its taloned claws and the body of a third in its great, crunching jaws. The wyflings, seeing the scaramann spilling off the dragonflies’ backs, quickly whirled their wirtles into action and with their lances dispatched the bugs before they could do any harm. Then a second dragon dropped out of the sky, and a third, all landing on their powerful hind legs, holding out their wings like the masts of tall ships under full sail, taking care not to step on anyone. All at once, a dozen dragons landed, then two dozen, then a hundred—and then a hundred more.
The first dragon to land twisted its long neck around to face Tanglemane, who, like Roan, had bowed his head as he stepped behind Nimlinn.
The dragon, sensing the distinction being afforded to Nimlinn, turned its great spiked head to her. In a booming voice full of gravel, it said, “Your Majesty! We meet at last. The dragons of Dain have hidden in the safety of your mountains for far too long. But no more. Today, we will endeavor to earn our keep.”
The dragons moved to form an outermost circle. With a great sucking sound, they filled their lungs with the thick smoky air. As the first of the scaramann appeared from the mists, the dragons stretched out their long necks and poured forth a wall of withering flame. The scaramann before them crumpled and turned to ash, but as the dragons’ breath ran out, a new wave of scaramann swept in.
Nimlinn ran forward. “Protect them!” she roared, and the Rinn bounded through and around the dragons’ immense legs, smashing into the onslaught of swarming scaramann. The line of Rinn rose up on their hind legs, raking their claws into the scaramann with a speed that blurred their paws. And as their line teetered in the balance, the dragons sucked in more of the thick air. Jasper, sword drawn, stood in the stirrups and landed blow after blow on scaramann attempting to climb over the line.
The Rinn defense held, and the dragons spewed forth another blast of devastating flame, turning all the scaramann within sight to cinders. But within seconds, like a living sea, a new wave of scaramann swept in to take their place. The Rinn leapt forward to meet them, pro
tecting the dragons until they were ready to release another blast from their lungs.
And so it continued, wave after undying wave. The air grew hot, stinking of brimstone and burnt bug.
Several times, during his all too brief respites, Jasper glanced over his shoulder to Fangdelve, only to find its upper reaches still enshrouded by billowing, oily black smoke. Standing in the saddle, wielding his moon sword on high, Jasper willed his eyes to see further into this sea of scaramann. But always there were more. How fared the Dragondain? Were they still alive? One thing was certain: the dragons’ fiery breath would not last forever. And without them, it was only a matter of time before they’d be overrun.
As the battle wore on, Jasper lost track of time. The muscles in his legs ached, and he’d taken to gripping the moon sword with both hands lest it be ripped from his grasp. The Rinn were weakening, too. More scaramann leapt over their line with each attack. The wyflings were now engaged in a constant, violent battle to protect both the lunamancers and the rear of the Rinn’s front line.
Finally, up and down the line, the dragons’ breath began to fail. And while those not blasting flame chomped hungrily on the pool of scaramann, they were far less destructive. For the Rinn, the scaramann’s assault increased.
“Hold the line!” roared Nimlinn, as a particularly savage wave threatened to create a breach. Redoubling her efforts, Nimlinn met the tide of cold-blooded bugs with everything she had. Jasper wielded his moon sword with a deadly accuracy he wouldn’t have thought possible. At this darkest hour Jasper laughed.
“What strange mirth can you possibly find in this scene, my young friend?” bellowed Nimlinn above the din.
Before Jasper could answer, three scaramann launched themselves over the backs of their slain brethren. Jasper’s moon sword flashed, hacking in half the first. “I was just thinking”—slicing apart the second—“when I’m older”—number three’s open mandibles sped toward Jasper’s face—“what an amazing bedtime tale”—Jasper swung his sword—“this will make.”
The End.
The Murk / Book 3 / A Moon Realm Novel
Available Fall 2013
For more information, visit TheMoonRealm.com.
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Richard Due (pronounced “Dewey”) first imagined the Moon Realm while telling bedtime tales to his children. He makes his home in Southern Maryland, where he and his wife have owned and operated Second Looks Books since 1991. The Moon Coin is the first novel in the Moon Realm series. Visit TheMoonRealm.com for more information on the series.
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Carolyn Arcabascio hails from Massachusetts, where she lives and works as an illustrator while pursuing her lifelong exploration of words, images, and the magical places where they meet. Visit her website at www.carolynarcabascio.com.
