by Phil Tucker
He could make out details now. The lead dragon was a bloody gold in color, the second largest of the four, and it bore a rider athwart its shoulders.
Tharok’s song fell silent. A human?
A small, white dragon flew to the left, and, squinting, Tharok made out a second human rider with long white hair streaming in the wind.
The third was a great crimson beast, and there at last Tharok saw a kragh rider, a female, her hair a muted crimson. Could it be?
Behind them all came the fell black dragon, largest by far of the four, its wings beating slowly in comparison. A human was riding it too.
“What is this?” Tharok croaked. “Have my actions so offended the Sky Father?”
Unable to sing, shocked to impiety, he walked to the edge of a short ridge and there stood, stunned, as the dragons alighted before him. The downdrafts of their great wings caused spinning cyclones of dust to race violently in all directions, forcing Tharok to narrow his eyes against the sting, but he refused to shield his face with his hands.
Oh, these were glorious creatures. Jormungdr had been a frozen corpse, much diminished and hidden within the banks of snow. Robbed of life, robbed of his fiery vitality, he bore as much resemblance to these godlike creatures as a crude sculpture of mud.
The golden dragon landed on its rear legs, claws sinking deeply into the rock, beating its great wings a final time before it settled. To call it gold was to do it an injustice; its form was colored in such brilliant gradations of umber, marl and gold that it was impossible to settle on one color’s name for the whole. Its head was as large as a cart, and its eyes were alien in their lizardine wisdom. Its horns burst from its head in a violent and warlike crest that ran down the length of its neck in diminishing height right down to the nubs that terminated at the tail.
The white dragon landed with greater ease, its smaller stature allowing it to descend neatly and without effort. Tharok’s heart leaped when he saw Shaya sitting athwart its shoulders, her eyes shining with emotion.
But it was the third dragon that drew a cry from his lips, the crimson beast that seemed to have been fashioned from the glorious heart of an inferno. Almost as large as the gold, this third dragon dropped with sinuous grace and there was Maur, looking like nothing more than a savage queen of war.
Tharok fell to his knees. His plans had borne fruit. How many long nights had passed since he’d given the Wise Woman permission to slip free of his chamber in Gold and liberate the shamans? He’d not imagined how ambitious their goals might prove to be, but now it was evident, as was their success.
Dragons. They had awakened their kind’s greatest and most noble of protectors.
Tharok felt tears prick his eyes. Without the circlet’s baneful influence, he realized that he didn’t mind having undone his own life’s greatest work. This was a good death. A pity that he would not be able to lead the kragh against the demons, but that responsibility would fall to another. Jojan, perhaps, or even Maur.
Let this be his end. Let his deeds be carved into these rocks by a blast of purifying flame.
“Tharok!” Maur’s call carried easily as she slid down the crimson dragon’s wing and landed on the rocky ground. “Your medusa is dead.”
“Not mine, Wise Woman.” He smiled. “She was always first and foremost her own mistress.”
“Regardless. She is reduced to a stone spindle, her head buried eight feet in the rock.” Maur strode up the slope toward him. By the Sky Father, she looked good. Fierce, untamable, muscled and curved all at once. Yet there was something in her gaze, some undefinable quality that spoke of the paths she had walked since last they’d met, of the dangers she’d surmounted, of the legend she had become in her own right.
“Maur,” he said, and there was pride in it. “Dragon rider.”
The other riders were descending from their dragons. He vaguely remembered the older human male who had ridden the black. Where had he seen him? A recent combat, perhaps. He wanted to ask Shaya about Nok, wanted to know everything, but he was not in a position to make demands.
“Yes,” she said, and he realized that she was owning the title. “I am blessed with that privilege for now. But not for long. The dragons have agreed to one more deed, to ensure that our kind turn away from dissolution. That we return to our traditions. That we give up this war against the Ascendant Empire before it destroys us.”
“It is done,” he said. “I declared the war over but a few moments ago.” He couldn’t help but smile. “You achieve your goal with admirable ease.”
“Done?” She glowered at him, an expression so familiar, it made him ache with nostalgia. “Don’t trifle with me, Tharok. Where are our warriors? I see only a few thousand gathered here. You say the rest are not bent on conquest?”
“No longer. A greater threat has overthrown my ambitions.”
Shaya and the two other humans stepped up alongside Maur. The gold’s rider was a slender man, tall and graceful. He had presence to him, and Tharok could understand why he had ridden at the lead. The older man, the black rider, possessed a grim, forbidding hardness that spoke of bitter experience and skill. Dragon riders all.
“What are you talking about, Tharok?” Maur’s voice was a growl. “Spit it out.”
He blinked. “You wish to hear it from me? Very well. We can delay my death as long as you see fit. Demons, she called them. Demons by the thousands.”
Shaya started, but the two human men remained impassive, not understanding a word.
“She?” asked Maur. “Who called them that?”
Tharok turned, and the kragh parted once more, revealing Kethe as she stepped forward, Asho in her arms. At the sight of the dragons, she came to an abrupt stop, swaying where she stood.
“Kethe!” called the grizzled older warrior, and he bound up the last of the incline and clawed his way over the ridge. He ran up to her, his arms outstretched as if he was unsure whether to embrace her or take the Bythian.
“Tiron?” Her voice came as if from a distant place. “What’s going on?”
“Kethe.” The older man’s voice was choked with emotion. “So much has happened. But Asho – how badly is he hurt?”
“Not hurt,” she said, her voice still faint. “Drained. He used too much magic. Are those... are those dragons?”
The old warrior grinned wolfishly. “That’s what they call them. The one I ride goes by the name of Draumronin. He’s as ornery a bastard as I am.” He stopped as if taking stock. “But what’s happened? Why are you here with the kragh? Iskra?”
“Oh, Tiron,” said Kethe, and she leaned forward to rest her head on his shoulder, Asho cradled between them. Sobs finally broke free and wracked her frame, and he clumsily wrapped his arms around her and Asho both.
He turned and glared at Tharok. “Whatever you’ve done to them, I’ll make you pay a hundred times over.”
“Just war,” Tharok said in the human language. “Just war and nothing more, Tiron.” The name was strange on his lips.
“Where is the circlet?” asked Maur. She was standing on the slope below. “Where have you placed it?”
“It was taken from me. Stolen by a dark-skinned human, a companion of the Bythian in Kethe’s arms. I don’t know where it is now.”
“Taken?” Maur searched him, her gaze piercing. “When was this?”
“During the battle. It’s gone, and with it my control over the monsters of this world and its control over me.”
The golden dragon lowered its head, its eyes swirling as if with their own inner flames. THE CIRCLET MUST BE DESTROYED.
Despite himself, Tharok took a step back. There were in the dragon’s voice such shuddering undertones of menace and majesty that he felt his knees grow weak.
“Agreed,” said Tharok. “But I don’t know where the human took it.”
Maur looked past him at where Kethe was yet crying on Tiron’s shoulder. “You say it was the Bythian’s companion who took it? Perhaps she knows. She seems to care for the man.
”
“Let me ask,” said Shaya, scrambling up the scree.
Tharok leaned down and extended his hand to her. She hesitated for but a moment before taking his hand and allowing him to draw her up.
“Nok?” His only question.
Pain clouded her eyes, and she shook her head.
Something went cold within Tharok, and he grunted as if he had been struck in the gut. Nok had been his clanmate. That bond, short as it had been, had transcended even the circlet’s hold over his soul.
Shaya couldn’t hold his gaze. She stepped past him and then stumbled to a stop. “Asho?”
Tharok didn’t turn, staring instead at the rocks at his feet. Nok. The kragh had been formidable, a monster of a mountain kragh. What force could have cut him down? No matter how he had died, Tharok knew it would have been a glorious end. An end worthy of song. He’d hear it, if Maur allowed, before he died.
“What’s happened?” he heard Shaya demand, panic growing in her voice. “Is he dead? No — hurt — did he sin cast?”
“Yes,” Kethe said numbly. “Too much. Again and again and again.”
“Oh, Asho.” Shaya’s voice was bleak. “You stupid —”
“Watch yourself,” said Kethe, her voice hard.
“I’m his sister,” said Shaya.
“So? I doubt you love him like I do. Watch yourself.”
Maur climbed over the ridge, and Tharok turned with her to watch the exchange. Kethe and Shaya were glaring at each other, Asho resting in Tiron’s arms.
“Regardless,” said Shaya. “Tharok said a dark-skinned friend of Asho’s stole the circlet. Any idea who he’s talking about? “
“Why do you care about a crown?” Kethe looked from Shaya to Tiron, then over to Maur. “Is it that important who wears it next?”
YES, said the gold dragon, briefly rearing back onto its hindquarters, wings flaring out for balance. Tharok saw the anger drain from Kethe’s face as she gazed upon the legend. IT IS OF THE UTMOST IMPORTANCE.
“Oh,” Kethe said in a very little voice. She blinked rapidly, and Tiron put out his hand to steady her as she swayed. “Dark-skinned friend of Asho’s. That would be Audsley. Asho confirmed it before he fell. He said the magister gave him enough power to fight Tharok, but then abandoned him once he had the circlet in hand.”
“And?” asked Tharok, reining in his impatience. “Where would this man have gone?”
“I don’t know,” Kethe said almost apologetically. She looked past them all to the dragon. “I swear to you, I don’t. He’s been missing these past few weeks. The last time I saw him, he was escorting my aunt out of Aletheia to my mother’s side in Agerastos. I think he was investigating corruption at the Aletheian court. Perhaps he returned to my mother in Starkadr? But — but Starkadr’s fallen...”
Shaya translated for the benefit of Maur, whose scowl only served to cause Kethe to recover her glower.
“Fallen?” asked Tiron. “What are you talking about?”
Kethe recounted what she’d seen at the end of the battle. Tiron, the gold rider and Shaya pressed in close, their eyes widening in horror. Tharok took the opportunity to recount the same tale for Maur’s benefit. The closest of the kragh leaned in and listened, only to turn and pass the tale back amongst those assembled behind him.
“Starkadr. Fell. On Ennoia,” Tiron said, testing each word as he spoke it. “And demons spewed out of its cracks by the thousands.”
Kethe nodded.
Tiron shook his head and looked back at the dragons. At his black dragon in particular. “Do you four know anything about this?”
IT HAS BEEN MANY YEARS SINCE I FOUGHT DEMONS, rumbled the great black from the rear. THEIR SCARS YET ADORN MY HIDE. BUT DEMONS WERE FEW IN THE LAND OF THE KRAGH. THE SHAMANS KEPT THEM AT BAY.
Though the circlet was gone, some of its approach remained imprinted on Tharok’s mind, like cartwheel ruts on a dirt road. A desire for logic. For sequences. For establishing the first fact and moving from there.
First things first.
“Kraxor.” The medusa-Kissed warlord was standing in the front rank of the watching kragh, surrounded by a score of his commanders. “Move our kragh back into position. Line them up in preparation to march. Send word through the other Gates for the other captains to ensure order, and tell them that soon all will be summoned for a council of war.”
His words brooked no dissent. The large, black-skinned kragh nodded, shoved a commander to his left, turned and began to bark his orders to the others. Within moments, the kragh massed all around them began to melt back, tearing themselves reluctantly from the proceedings to return to their columns before the Solar Portals.
“Now,” said Tharok, turning back to the others. “We must plan quickly for what is to come. Humans, kragh, dragons — we cannot wait for the demons to take the initiative. We must decide on a course of action and strike.”
Maur nodded grudgingly. “Agreed. Let us form our own council of war. We’ve enough important people from both sides here that we can make decisions for the whole.”
Shaya whispered her translation to Tiron and the second male dragon rider, both of whom nodded their accord.
Kethe moved up to Tiron and studied the fallen Bythian in his arms. Curled a strand of pale hair from his waxen brow. “Oh, Asho,” she whispered. “Where are you? Come back to us. We’ve never needed you more.”
CHAPTER 3
Audsley
Audsley stared in mute horror at Zephyr, and when she dismissed the Ascendant’s sphere of protective light, he felt it as a palpable blow. Gasping, clutching Aedelbert to his chest, he rose shakily to his feet. He stood at the back of the group, though he took no comfort from the armed men between him and Zephyr. They were as solid and dependable in the face of what was to come as reeds before a storm.
“There,” said Zephyr, stepping down out of the air onto the black ground. “Now, we can converse at our leisure.”
Once more the Ascendant stirred, lowering his feet to the ground as if descending from an invisible ledge. Audsley couldn’t put a name to the emotions that warred within him as he saw the young man step to the front of their group. All deferred to him. Zephyr didn’t lose her amused smile, though her eyes narrowed a fraction.
Heart racing, breath coming in shallow gasps, he held tight to Aedelbert’s bony frame and resisted the urge to bury his face in the firecat’s tattered wings. He had to watch. The ultimate confrontation between Ascension and the nihilistic worldview of the Minister of Perfection was about to take place — and Audsley didn’t know which side he wished would prevail.
“Your Holiness,” said Zephyr, mimicking a curtsy. “Though I don’t recall your ever having your own name. Are you merely your title?”
“You are subject to great evil,” the Ascendant said quietly. “I can feel it burning upon your brow. You are not yourself. Remove it while there is yet hope for your soul.”
“Hope for my soul?” Zephyr let loose a shrill laugh. “Oh, my dear boy, I lost that hope long ago. Do you know nothing about my family, my clan? What was done to me when I was but a child? The filthy presence of a Flame Walker demon, left as little more than a beast by my family’s tender ministrations – ministrations, incidentally, whose goal was to do nothing more than supply your precious Virtues with that black elixir that extended their lives?”
Each of her statements was like a stone hurled at Audsley’s frame. He flinched over and over again. He wanted to tear his eyes away but couldn’t. He was terrified that she’d see him back here, and yet found himself desiring it as well.
“While you yet draw breath, you can change the fortune of your soul,” said the Ascendant, his voice tight. “Nobody is damned to descend the chain of Ascension while they may yet repent. Even you, after all you have done, may cast aside that crown of despair and turn to the light of the White Gate.”
“And what if I don’t want to bathe in the light of the White Gate, hmm?” Zephyr took a sly step forward. “What if I de
light in my fallen state? What if I exult in the power that dances through me like the most exquisite fever?”
“Then you damn yourself after all,” said the Ascendant. “And your soul shall be reborn farther down the chain. Perhaps to be hurled through the Black Gate itself into eternal perdition.”
“Hmm, yes. That is, of course, if I die.” Zephyr cocked her head to one side. “What if I were to become immortal? What if the power that suffuses me were to grant me life unending, dominion eternal?”
“Nothing and nobody lives forever,” said the Ascendant. “Even the sun itself is doomed to be quenched after the last soul ascends, leaving the world bereft of all light.”
“Not so,” said Zephyr. “Demons will persist. Oh, you may banish them, but they have always returned. Do you know how old the being that resides within my circlet is? How many strange eons he has seen pass? To him, your life, your Empire, your entire religion is but a flickerflash, a bout of arrogance and delusion. Do you really seek to impress me while I stand before you, draped in his power?”
“I don’t seek to impress you at all,” said the Ascendant. “I merely warn. And you say it yourself. His power – why do you think he lends it to you? Why do you think it yours? You are the tool, not he. You are the one who must prove your utility. Do you truly think to hold his attention in the centuries to come?”
Zephyr’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I wear him upon my brow. He does as I command. Were I to snap my fingers, I could summon such powers and principalities to fall upon your head that you wouldn’t even have time to beg. Mal’orem now dance to my tune. Even the ur-destraas that rests beneath us is mine to command. You think to intimidate me with your words? You have no idea with whom you deal.”
“Your mistake,” said the Ascendant, and Audsley could hear the smile in his voice, “is that you think I am bargaining with you. I’m not. I am simply informing you. And if you were to murder us all? We would die. But death is not so terrible a thing. We will be reborn endlessly until we Ascend, whereas you can only fall, forever fall, and when you do, this memory, this moment of arrogance and spite, will haunt you and torment you more than the worst that the Black Gate has to offer. Why? Because you’ll remember that this was your last chance to turn away from perdition. And you spurned it, lured by a fell and temporal power that will do nothing to ameliorate your agonies while you burn for eternity for your sins.”
