The Raging Fires

by T.A. Barron

  She sighed. “How beautiful.”

  I nodded.

  “Don’t you love,” she said quietly, “the way the mist moves? Like a shadow made of water.”

  I ceased nodding. “Myself, I was watching the sunlight, not the mist. How it paints the reeds, and whatever else it touches.”

  “Hmmm.” Her ears twitched. “So you saw light, while I saw motion?”

  “So it seems. Two different sides of the same moment.”

  Eremon released a throaty sound, almost a chuckle. Shredding mist wove through his antlers. All of a sudden, the wind again shifted. The stag stiffened, his nostrils quivering.

  Hallia chewed nervously on the leaf. “That smell . . . what is it?”

  For quite some time, he did not answer, did not move. At last, he lowered his rack. “It is the smell,” he declared, “of death.”

  16: DREAMS YET UNHATCHED

  Stepping cautiously, we approached the bank of the rushing river. Rapids slapped and pounded. Strands of mist, tinted red from the setting sun, wound around our legs, curling like vaporous ropes. The soil grew soft and slippery under my feet—and the others’ hooves.

  At the lip of the bank, I paused to watch Eremon and Hallia descend. Despite the unstable ground, they moved as gracefully as a pair of dewdrops rolling down the petal of a flower. Unlike them, I stood upright and vertical—a young man, half human, half Fincayran. Two legs felt so narrow, so unsteady. Even as I curled my fingers, feeling their delicacy, I missed my own hooves. And, still more, I missed my own magic. Thanks to Eremon’s gift I had, at least briefly, forgotten the emptiness in my chest.

  Change back! Yes. Now. I turned to run along the edge of the bank—when I saw Eremon suddenly halt, his antlered head erect. Hallia, too, froze, the fur on her back bristling.

  Like them, I stood motionless. For through the shredding mist, I could now see the edges of the opposite bank. And the scene of slaughter that scarred it.

  The boulders that I remembered no longer marked this place. Only broken shells, their reeking innards clotted with blood. In a flash, I comprehended that they had never been boulders at all. They had been eggs.

  Dragon eggs.

  Strewn across the muddy shore, the broken remains of the eggs lay in ghastly heaps. I spotted a section of throat, hacked brutally. And a ragged wing, streaked with scarlet and green. Except for the few strips of flesh that fluttered in the spray, everything seemed frozen in the moment of death.

  No wolves had dragged away these carcasses. No vultures had carried off the meaty fragments, still glistening with newborn scales. At once, I knew why. For over the whole scene hung something as potent as the fetid odor of rotting flesh—the possibility that Valdearg himself might appear at any moment.

  I clambered down the bank to join the others. Mud tugged at my boots, while a growing dread tugged at my heart. As we stepped into the shallows, frigid water slapped against our legs. Yet nothing chilled so much as the devastation before us. At least, I told myself, they were only dragons. Destroyed before they could do the same to anyone else. Even so . . . Eremon’s words still nagged at me.

  The stag bounded up the opposite bank, then veered sharply to the left. Forehoof raised, he bent over something, studying it intently.

  As fast as I could, I scrambled up behind him. Below his hoof, I spied a slight indentation in the soil stained dark orange from blood. All at once, I realized that it was a footprint. The footprint of a man. Here, I felt certain, was the proof that Urnalda had used to turn the dragon’s wrath away from the dwarves—and toward me.

  Cautiously, Hallia approached. She lowered her head to sniff the print, her nose almost touching it. She glanced at me, the old mistrust back in her eyes. Working her tongue, she spat out the leaf that I had given her. Then, her voice barely audible above the river, she spoke. “This man, whoever he is, has brought much pain.”

  “And Valdearg will bring even more,” added Eremon grimly. “Unless we are successful. Yet our time dwindles. Already the sun is setting on this day.”

  Sadly, I shook my head. “This print looks so much like my own.”

  Hallia snorted. “All men’s footprints look alike. Heavy and clumsy.”

  Eremon struck the mud with his hoof. “Not so, my sister. See here? The edge of the heel is blunted, but with a sharp edge. Not in the normal, rounded way caused by walking on turf, or even hard floors.”

  Hallia turned toward one of my own footprints. After a long pause, she admitted, “There is, I suppose, a difference.” Hesitantly, she glanced at me once again. “I’m sorry. I just . . .”

  “It’s all right,” I replied. “Say no more.” Facing Eremon, I asked, “So what does the shape of that heel tell you?”

  “That it was cut, over time, by something jagged. Perhaps this person lives in some sort of cave, lined with rough stones. Or in a maze of tunnels under the ground.”

  “Urnalda lives in a realm of tunnels,” I mused. “Yet she doesn’t wear a man’s boots. Besides, why would she ever attack Valdearg’s young, knowing it might bring his wrath down on her people?” Slowly, I exhaled. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  Hallia’s ears twisted. “There is another possibility. This person, this man, could have left the print on purpose, trying to trick us somehow.”

  “Possibly,” acknowledged the stag. “Men can sometimes be . . .”

  “Deceitful,” she finished.

  His antlers tilted to one side. “Are you saying a deer is never deceitful? Would you never try to trick an enemy?”

  The doe straightened her neck. “Only to defend myself.” She glanced at the nearest of the heaps, swathed in mist. “Or, one day, my young.”

  I strode over to the demolished egg. Kicking aside a piece of shell, I froze. Before me lay a severed arm, its claws extended like fingers. Though the arm’s shape was not much different from my own, it was at least twice the size. Its underside bore a crest of iridescent purple scales; its wrist seemed as delicate as the neck of a swan. The claws seemed to be reaching, groping for something just beyond their grasp.

  Something about this lifeless arm made me want to touch it. With my own hands, my own fingers.

  I kneeled and stroked its length. The arm felt soft, despite the rows of scales. Almost like the chubby leg of a newborn baby. Not long ago, it had been alive. And young. And innocent.

  At last, I understood the full horror of this tragedy. No life, no creature, no future, deserved to be wasted like this. Murdered like this. No wonder Valdearg’s rage knew no bounds.

  To myself, I recited the lines from Tuatha’s prophecy:

  By anger unending

  And power unmatched,

  The dragon avenges

  His dreams yet unhatched.

  For when he awakens

  To find those dreams lost,

  Revenge shall he covet

  Regardless the cost.

  Suddenly, Eremon jerked his head, his rack spraying drops of water. His body and Hallia’s stiffened as one. They were sensing something, feeling something, that eluded me completely.

  Then I heard a sound, deep and rasping, like a distant volcano erupting. It came from somewhere far beyond the river, yet it grew steadily louder. A wind stirred; the air felt almost imperceptibly wanner. I picked up the faint scent of smoke. All at once an enormous shadow darkened the reddening mist.

  “The dragon!” cried Eremon. “Run!”

  The two deer scattered, bounding into the mist, while I stumbled over to the slick bank. The sound of flying thunder rent the air as the shadow passed over again. Terrified, I thought of changing back into a deer myself—when suddenly I slipped in the mud, losing my balance. In a whirl, I rolled down to the river’s edge. Frigid water coursed over my legs as well as my sword. Breathless, I regained my feet and dashed across the shallows.

  On a steep section of the far bank, I spied an overhang. A thick curtain of grasses, soaked from spray, dangled over the edge. Yet behind the grasses loomed a dark pl
ace where the river had washed away the soil. A cavern!

  Even as the sound above me swelled into a roar, I threw myself into the cavern, rolling over and over on the mud until I bumped into the arching wall of the bank. For a moment I lay in the darkness, panting. Feeling the chill of the river, I sat up and pulled my knees to my chest. As I gazed through the dripping curtain of grasses I felt a touch of satisfaction. I had eluded Valdearg. Only temporarily, of course. Yet even delaying the inevitable by a handful of days seemed cause enough for pride.

  Listening to the rushing torrent outside, I felt grateful for the safety of this cavern. It was cramped, and smelled . . . rancid somehow. Yet who could ask for a better hiding place? Then, without warning, something brushed against my leg.

  17: POWERLESS

  I drew back in fright. Grasping the hilt of my sword, I struggled to wrench it from the scabbard. But the scabbard’s mouth had been so caked with mud that the blade refused to come free. Hunched beneath the low ceiling, I pulled and pulled without success.

  Hurl myself from the cavern! Now, while I still could. Before whatever had stirred did so again. Yet . . . I hesitated. Beyond the grassy curtain Valdearg himself might well be waiting for me. Again I tugged at my sword. Again it failed to move.

  Suddenly a sound like I had never heard before echoed in the darkness. Part moan, part snarl, part whimper, it grew louder until at last it abruptly died away. I pressed myself against the earthen wall. Mud oozed down my neck, but I did not stir. I barely breathed—yet the rancid smell assaulted me, stronger than ever. I could only hope that this creature, whatever it was, might just ignore me and leave.

  Then, very gradually, a faint orange glow began to illuminate the cavern. At first I could not tell where it originated, for its flickering caused strange, ungainly shadows to grow and wither on the walls: giants stalking, snakes writhing, trees crashing to the ground. Finally, though, I located the source: a triangle of orange light, not far above the floor at the cavern’s far end. The light flickered, quavering like a candle in a breeze.

  Though fear gripped me, I did the only thing I could think to do. With both hands, I scooped a chunk of mud off the floor, pressed it into a ball, and hurled it straight at the glowing triangle. A splat—and instantly, the light went out. At the same time, the whining, moaning sound returned, this time swelling so loud that I had to cover my ears. I wriggled closer to the rear wall.

  All at once, the entire wall shifted behind me. Mud poured over my head. For an instant I thought the riverbank was about to collapse on top of me. Yet the earthen wall did not collapse. Instead, it did the one thing I least expected.

  It breathed. Shaking with effort, the whole surface drew a slow, halting breath. Foul-smelling wind rushed over me, swirling around the enclosure. Heedless of Valdearg, I rolled to the curtain of drenched grasses, hoping to escape in time.

  Just as I was about to roll out of the cavern, back into the churning waters outside, the long breath choked off. As abruptly as it had started, it ceased. It was, I felt sure, one of the last breaths—if not the very last—of something at the edge of death. Or dead at last. Pausing at the entrance, I studied the path of a single shaft of light, as crimson as the setting sun, that slit the cavern from the place where my shoulder had pushed apart the grasses. It landed on the spot where I had seen the glowing triangle.

  My heart froze. For there, tilted on its side in the black mud, lay an enormous head—twice the size of the head of a full-grown horse. It belonged to a dragon.

  Its eye, whose eerie light had filled the cavern only a moment before, was now shut. Long lashes rimmed the eyelid. I could see, clinging to the lashes, a few fragments of broken shell. A dull yellow bump protruded from the forehead, while lavender scales ran down the full length of the wrinkly nose. Dozens of teeth, as sharp as daggers, glistened within the half-open jaws. Curiously, only the left ear flopped limply on the mud. The right ear, silvery blue in color, stretched stiffly into the air, like a misplaced horn.

  A sudden rush of pity filled me. What vision of terror, I wondered, had driven this young hatchling from its egg and into hiding in this hollow? My skin tingled as I recalled the movement of the great body against my back, movement that was probably its final stirring of life. An inexplicable instinct made me guess that this dragon had been female. If so, she would never have the chance to lay any eggs of her own.

  Reaching up, I pulled out several handfuls of the grass that hung over the entrance. More crimson light filtered into the cavern. Probing with my second sight, I spied a pair of sharp claws, flecked with purple, protruding from the mud. Not far from the place where I had momentarily rested, a tail with two hooked barbs lay coiled. Turning back to the head, I smiled sadly at the irrepressible ear. Nothing, not even death, could make it lie down.

  I wondered about the dragon’s wounds. Had she starved to death? Bled from some fatal gashes I could not see? Or, like any abandoned child, simply suffered from sorrow and fear—until she finally died?

  At that moment, another deep moan, weaker than before, rose within the cavern. Still alive! The dragon’s immense bulk shuddered, shaking the earthen floor. Clumps of mud dropped from above, splattering my head and shoulders. Her eye opened barely a sliver, fluttered, then closed once again, but not before I caught its look of anguish.

  Biting my lip, I hesitated. Then . . . slowly, very slowly, I crawled closer. Gingerly, I lay my open hand over the eye, stroking its delicate lashes. It did not open again. Ever so gently, I moved my hand down the lavender scales of the nose, stopping at the immense nostrils. My whole hand barely covered them. A faint flutter of air warmed my fingers—reminding me of that horse from my childhood, whose name I could no longer recall, but whose misty breath I had never forgotten. But the breath of this creature, I could tell, was rapidly fading.

  Yet what if a tiny spark of life still remained? Maybe I could . . . But no! I had no more magic. My jaw clenched, as I cursed Urnalda’s treachery. Had she not stolen my gifts, I might have been able to call upon the sky above and the soil below—sources of the power of Binding, which could knit together the threads of the cosmos, and heal even the deepest wound.

  Limply, my hand slid from the dragon’s nose. I could not call upon that power—or any others. Nor could I do anything for this wretched beast. Helpless! I sighed, feeling more than ever that aching emptiness within my chest.

  Something tugged against my hand. One of the dragon’s scales had caught on the vine bracelet that Rhia had given to me as we parted. Even in the dying light, the bracelet shone with lustrous green. What had she said as she tied it on my wrist? This will remind you of all the life around you, and the life within yourself I closed my eyes, hearing her voice again. The life within yourself

  Yet . . . what use was that to anyone else?

  Almost out of habit, I reached into my leather satchel and pulled out a handful of herbs. Rubbing my palms together, I crushed them as best I could. Instantly, scents of rowan bark, beech root, and silver balm enriched the rancid air of the cavern. Then, with effort, I pulled off one of my boots. Using it as a makeshift bowl, I dropped in the herbs, gathering them at the heel. I squeezed some water from my soaked tunic into the boot, mixed the soup thoroughly with my finger, and leaned closer to the dragon. Since her head lay tilted in the mud, I was able to pour a few green, glistening drops into her partly open mouth.

  As the drops struck her tongue, I waited for a swallow. But none came.

  Once again, I poured some of the potion out of my boot. And I waited, hoping for some sign—any sign—of life. Yet she did not swallow. Or stir. Or moan.

  “Swallow!” I commanded, my voice echoing dully in the dark walls. I poured another few drops, which slid off her tongue and fell to the floor.

  Long after the last rays of twilight disappeared, and through the unforgiving night, I continued to try. My back ached, my bootless foot throbbed with cold, and my head swam from lack of sleep. Yet I refused to stop, hardly daring to hope th
at the eyelid might again flutter, that its orange glow might again illuminate the cavern. Or that the dragon might actually swallow something. But my hopes came to nothing.

  When my herbal potion finally ran out, I tried rubbing the dragon’s neck in slow circles, as my mother had once done for me—long ago, when I had thrashed from fever. It didn’t help. Apart from the rare, halting breaths, which grew more frail by the hour, she showed no life at all.

  When the first tentative rays of dawn drifted into the cavern, I knew that all my efforts had failed. I studied the motionless form, appreciating the subtle beauty of the scales, the savage curl of the claws. The hatchling lay utterly still, utterly silent.

  Glumly, I turned away. The feeling of this hollow now revolted me. Like the devastation across the river, it stank of untimely death. Heedless of whatever danger lay outside, I rolled through the curtain of wet grasses.

  18: VEIL OF MIST

  Rolling down the slick bank, I slid across the mud, finally stopping at the edge of the river. The surging water pounded in my ears. Cold spray drenched my face. Once again thick bands of mist twined themselves around me.

  Cautiously, I scanned the opposite bank for any sign of Valdearg. Or of my companions. I found nothing but the remains of the eggs—broken shells, clotted innards, and hacked pieces of rotting flesh. The twirling columns of mist, and the river itself, were all that moved.

  Full of regret, I glanced back at the cavern that held the last of the hatchlings. The last of Valdearg’s offspring. Had whoever slaughtered these creatures intended to rouse the sleeping dragon of the Lost Lands, as well as his anger? And had the killer also intended that a man—whether myself or someone else—would be blamed? There was no way to tell. Perhaps simply murdering Valdearg’s offspring was enough to serve the killer’s purposes.

  But what could those purposes be? To eliminate the hatchlings? Or to awaken Wings of Fire and send him on a deadly rampage? Yet that made no sense. Unless . . . perhaps the killer was an enemy of the dwarves, someone who hoped that Valdearg would show them the brunt of his wrath. Or an enemy of my father’s race, the men and women of Fincayra. And there were many such enemies, I knew too well. Such a scar on this island, Stangmar’s time on the throne! A scar that refused to heal.