by K J Taylor
The others were looking as well, every eye fixed on the sacred mountain. At first it looked as though nothing would happen — the mountain stayed a mountain; nothing but a shape against the vast blue sky. But then, impossibly, it moved. Gasps and murmurs of awe rippled through the people, even the grown Jüngen who had seen it up close at least once, as what had looked like the mountain’s peak suddenly shifted. And then, as the Jüngen began to chant a prayer, the head of a gigantic dragon lifted into the sky.
‘The Drachengott,’ Nils breathed.
His mother smiled. ‘Just wait until you see him up close.’
Nils’s heart was already pounding at the thought. He had seen the Drachengott move once or twice in the past, but this was different. The great pointed muzzle turned, so huge he could see it even at this distance, and a sudden certainty shot through him: the Drachengott was looking at him.
‘Can he see us?’ he asked, breathless at the idea.
‘He can see everything,’ his mother answered. ‘He can see your soul. He’s waiting for you. He’s been waiting since the day you were born.’
Nils couldn’t stop himself. Awestruck, he joined in the chanting, his eyes fixed on what lay ahead. On the horizon, growing slowly closer, the Drachengott did not move again. He stayed poised, head pointed toward the oncoming humans, tiny specks of other dragons circling around him as if they were nothing more than flies.
***
It took most of that day to reach the mountain, but the journey never became boring. Nils and the other initiates kept watching the Drachengott, sometimes praying, sometimes talking in low voices, and as they came closer Nils could see more and more detail of the Drachengott.
Bit by bit the mountain became less black, and soon Nils could make out the shape of the Drachengott crouched on its top, his humped back and folded wings mimicking the form of a mountain peak. His enormous tail curled around the mountain’s flanks, the tip hanging down. His talons, each one the size of a tree, curved into the stone as if they had been there in that very position for centuries. Only his head had lifted itself away from the mountain; the rest of him stayed absolutely still, a part of the land itself.
‘Why doesn’t he ever leave the mountain?’ one of the girls asked in a small voice. It was the question every young Jünger had asked at least once — Nils remembered asking it himself.
‘Nobody knows,’ said one of the adults. ‘But he never has — not once in living memory. Some people think it’s because he doesn’t need to. Some say it’s because the mountain is his link to the magic that makes up the world, and he has to stay there to protect it.’
‘Hasn’t anyone ever asked him?’ Nils said suddenly.
Several of the adults burst out laughing.
Nils flushed. ‘Well, haven’t they?’
‘Boy, you don’t question the Drachengott,’ a man on his other side told him. ‘Even thinking it is heresy.’
Nils’s face burned even more intensely. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t—’
‘It’s all right,’ his mother told him. ‘It’s a reasonable thing to say. But nobody can question the Drachengott. To question him is to lack faith, and lack of faith is what turns a good Jünger into a Ketzer.’
Some of the people nearby spat.
‘I won’t question him,’ Nils said quickly. At least, he thought, he wouldn’t ask the Drachengott about that — but he would still ask his other questions, no matter what.
When he finally saw the Drachengott up close, however, any questions he might have considered asking immediately fled from his mind.
There were no buildings at the base of the mountain, only outcrops of granite, where dragons perched. Dark red-brown stains splashed over the pale stone, and withered lumps of gore encrusted their tops, where captured heretics had been sacrificed. Nils shivered at the sight, and again when he saw the trees. They grew among the rocks and up the lower slopes of the mountain — birch, oak, fir and others. Their branches had been decorated with bone and wood carvings. They had also been decorated with bodies.
Corpses hung head-down from the larger trees; animals, some of them, but also people. Many had been beheaded, and all had been cut open from their chests to their stomachs. Their hearts had been ripped out and given to the Drachengott.
Above, the Drachengott himself cast a massive shadow over everything — the stones, the dragons, the hanging dead, and the faithful who gathered at the mountain’s foot and dismounted to kneel in reverence.
Close up he looked even larger than he had at a distance. His scales were the grey of ancient stone, encrusted with lichen. Small ferns grew between them, and even a few stunted shrubs higher up on his back. The spikes which lined his spine and tail were rough and rugged, like the trunks of dead trees, and his great curving horns could have crushed a castle. His eyes were the size of lakes, and they were green — deep, rich green, shot through with gold, their expression both calm and sad.
Nils looked into them, and could not look away. He was only dimly aware of the robed acolytes who came forward to take the deer, and of his mother’s prayers. He couldn’t even pray himself. All he could do was stare, straight upward, utterly paralysed. Terror choked in his throat. He both wanted to run and wanted to stay. He wanted to scream, and he wanted to pray. But he couldn’t do either. He was frozen to the spot.
His mother’s hand on his arm slowly brought him back to the present. ‘It’s time,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Go to him.’
Nils looked vacantly at her. ‘I can’t . . .’
She kissed him on the cheek and gave him a quick hug. ‘You can. Go.’
On the ground, the acolytes had gathered — three of them. Their robes were made of rough brown cloth, tied with ropes around their waists, and they wore red gemstones around their necks the way every Jünger did. Solemnly, they beckoned to the initiates.
Slowly, avoiding looking up at the Drachengott again, Nils stepped forward with the others.
The acolytes said nothing. Watched on all sides by the dragons, they ushered the initiates forward to the mountain, into the sacred grove where the bodies of the sacrificed hung. Nils tried not to look at the corpses, but the stench of them hit his nose and made him gag. One or two of the others were in tears — maybe they were afraid, or maybe the smell was making their eyes stream. It could easily have been both.
Beyond the trees, flanked by a pair of upright stones carved with elaborate spiralling patterns, a cave entrance led into the mountain. The acolytes led the way inside, still saying nothing.
The cave entrance looked dark, but, as soon as Nils entered, light hit his eyes. He flinched, looked again, and gaped in wonder.
The place of initiation was not a cave — it was a cavern. Easily twice as big as the large hall in Zauberwald Castle, it was shaped like a flattened oval. The walls were studded with thousands upon thousands of tiny holes, some of them empty and some of them holding magical flames, each flame a different colour. Their light flickered over the floor, where a massive heap of treasure lay.
Gemstones, hundreds and hundreds of them, gems of every kind and colour. Sapphires, rubies, amethysts, topaz, emeralds — some Nils recognised, others he didn’t, but each one was smooth, each one about half the size of a human heart. They glittered like eyes.
The acolytes placed themselves in front of the heap, facing the initiates, and one of them finally spoke.
‘Choose,’ he said. ‘Come forward and choose your stone. Choose your blessing.’
Silence followed. The initiates exchanged glances.
Finally, a girl pushed forward. She went toward the heap, glancing quickly at the acolytes as she passed. They let her go, and waited while she searched through the gemstones, picking some up and pushing others aside until she finally chose a topaz. She carried it back to the acolytes, and offered it to them. ‘I choose this one.’
‘Good,’ said the acolyte who had spoken. ‘Now bare your chest and prepare yourself.’
The girl pulled the front
of her dress open, completely unembarrassed. Two acolytes took her by the shoulders and held her still, while the spokesman took the topaz and pressed it against her breastbone. For a long moment nobody moved, and then a strange green-grey light began to glow from the ceiling. It reached downward, like a hand, and enveloped the girl, who immediately went rigid. Her eyes closed.
A moment later she began to shake violently. Her hands spread, fingers curving into rigid claws. All the colour drained out of her face, and her mouth trembled. She made no sound, but Nils could imagine her agony as the power of the Drachengott flowed through her, scouring her mind and soul.
Absolute silence had fallen. The initiates watched. Then, without warning, a sickening crunch and a flash of yellow light brought the girl’s ordeal to an end. She sagged in the acolytes’ grip, and the lead acolyte moved away. As the Drachengott’s light faded, Nils could see a ragged red scar forming on the girl’s chest, where the topaz had been pushed inside her. Yellow light shone around the wound, healing it before a drop of blood could spill.
Slowly, the girl seemed to come back to herself. She straightened up, breathing hard. Her eyes opened, and where they had been brown before now they were glowing yellow as magic rushed through her bones and muscle. She looked around in wonder, marvelling at something only she could see.
‘Now,’ the lead acolyte intoned. ‘Now you are one of us. Go now — go and light your flame, and may it be a symbol of your faith, burning bright in this cave for all eternity.’
The girl said nothing. She gently pulled herself out of the acolytes’ grip and walked away toward the cave wall. There, she found an empty hole, and after a moment of silent struggle she lit a yellow flame inside it with a quick burst of magic.
‘It was easy this time,’ the lead acolyte told her as she returned. ‘But to do it again you will need to learn. Now go, and go with the blessing of the Drachengott.’
The girl bowed to him, and left.
‘Now, who will be next?’ the acolyte asked, turning to the other initiates.
Nils started to step forward, but one of the other boys beat him to it. He stood aside and watched, heart in his mouth, as the ritual began again. This one went off without any problems, and the boy left as well.
The third was different. The initiate was another boy, and he looked perfectly strong to Nils as he went forward and chose an amethyst. But when the Drachengott’s power enveloped him his shaking was much more violent than that of the last two. After a few seconds his legs began to convulse, and his mouth opened in a silent scream. His eyes came wide open, staring at the ceiling in a frozen expression of agony and terror, and then he suddenly went limp. The light around him disappeared, and he sagged in the acolytes’ grasp.
The initiates gasped or cried out, but the acolytes barely reacted. They dragged the dead boy to one side and laid him down, arms folded on his chest. One of them returned the amethyst to the heap.
‘Who will come forward next?’ the spokesman asked, as if nothing had happened.
Nobody moved.
‘Another initiate must come forward,’ the acolyte persisted.
‘I don’t want to die!’ a girl cried, her voice high and thin in the echoing cave.
‘The wages of sin are death,’ said the acolyte. ‘If you are worthy you have nothing to fear. Come forward.’
Another grim silence followed. But then, as if in a trance, Nils moved. He hadn’t meant to. He didn’t even realise that he had taken the first step until he was onto the second, and then the third. Unable to stop himself, mind numb, he stumbled toward the heap of gemstones. But at the back of his mind he could hear his own voice muttering: He killed him. The Drachengott killed him. Tore his life out as if he were a sacrifice on the rocks outside.
A strange feeling filled him. Not truly fear, but not truly anger. He didn’t know what it was, but it galvanised him. He started to search through the heap of gemstones, not really sure what he was looking for. But the gems themselves suddenly seemed unimportant. Nils shovelled them aside like dirt, spreading the heap over the floor, and if one of the acolytes complained he didn’t hear it. Het thrust his hands through the gleaming treasures, feeling for something, and his fingertips hit rough stone. He shovelled more gemstones out of the way, exposing the floor beneath, and there he found it.
There, hidden under the other stones, was a small hollow in the cave floor. Nestled inside it was another gem, unlike any of the rest. It was about the same size, but where they were smooth and rounded, it was jagged and harsh. And where they were clear, it was pure black and impenetrable. It was jet. And when Nils touched it, a cold tingle moved up his arm.
‘Choose, boy,’ one of the acolytes said from behind him. ‘This cannot wait.’
Nils could not look away from the piece of jet. There was something about it — something that drew him forward and left him unable to look away. It was as if the stone were calling to him. He touched it again, and as he did the strangest thing happened. A certainty shot into his mind, like an arrow from the blue.
This is mine, he thought. It belongs to me.
On a sudden, mad impulse, he snatched up the stone and slipped it up his sleeve. Immediately afterwards, before anyone could spot the double motion, he grabbed a ruby with the same hand. Holding it, the jet heavy in his sleeve, he got up and returned to the acolytes. They, and the other initiates, looked both puzzled and irritated.
‘And have you chosen a stone at last?’ the spokesman asked.
Nils held up the ruby. ‘It had to be the right one.’
The lead acolyte made a gesture, and the gem pile rebuilt itself. ‘Give me the stone and bare your chest,’ he ordered.
Nils handed over the ruby and unlaced the front of his tunic. Curling his hand to hold the jet in place in his sleeve, he let the two acolytes take him by the shoulders. His heart pounded — he still couldn’t quite believe what he had just done. But nothing could have made him give up the jet, even though it tingled coldly against his skin, even though he knew he had committed a sin.
The lead acolyte pressed the ruby against Nils’s chest, and then it was too late.
Green-grey light covered him, crawling over his skin. At first it felt no warmer than a hot bath, but then, without warning, it began to burn. Nils went rigid, just as the others had, eyes forced shut. Hideous pain caught him in its grip. He could feel his skin cracking and splitting, blood and fat boiling out, hissing and steaming. His bones began to blacken and splinter, his organs liquefied, his eyes seared out of his head. He was burning away to nothing, and yet he was still alive, trapped in place, unable to scream.
But then he began to hear the voice. It was in his head, in his body, filling him. A voice as large as a mountain, saying his name. NILS. NILS OF ZAUBERWALD.
Nils could not move, or reply. But the voice spoke on. The voice of the Drachengott.
I SEE YOU. I SEE ALL OF YOU. OLD BUT YOUNG, LOST BUT FOUND. YOU ARE THE CHILD THAT FLEW, THE CHILD WITH TWO NAMES, THE CHILD OF TWO WORLDS. AND . . . The pain intensified. YOU ARE A THIEF.
No, Nils thought desperately.
THERE ARE NO LIES THAT CAN BE TOLD TO ME, said the Drachengott. I SEE ALL THAT COME BEFORE ME. YES — his voice softened — I SEE DARKNESS IN YOUR HEART, CHILD. DARK THINGS IN YOUR PAST, AND IN YOUR FUTURE. EVEN HERE, SO YOUNG, YOU HAVE COME TO MY MOUNTAIN AND STOLEN A TREASURE THAT IS NOT YOURS.
Nils knew then that he was doomed. Even through the pain fogging his mind, he knew. The Drachengott could see his crime, and he would kill him for it just as he had killed the boy who came before him. He wished he could cry, but he couldn’t. It was too late.
But then the Drachengott answered him — answered the unspoken question in his heart. NO, he said. I WILL NOT KILL YOU, THIEF. INSTEAD, I GIVE YOU A NAME. YOU ARE NILS SCHÄCHER. NILS THE THIEF. MAY IT HAUNT YOU FOR ALL YOUR DAYS. Nils felt a crunching in his chest as the ruby entered him, and the pain began to fade. GO NOW, the Drachengott told him. BUT KNOW THIS: THE DAY WILL COME WHEN YOU WI
LL WISH YOU HAD NEVER BEEN BORN, SCHÄCHER. THAT WILL BE YOUR PUNISHMENT.
And then, quite suddenly, it was over. The pain disappeared, and after it came a great rush of energy. It blasted through Nils’s body, banishing the Drachengott’s fire, and as his eyes snapped open he found himself staring at a world he had never seen before. Everywhere around him, the cave shone. Little sparks of energy glittered in the air, the magical flames in their holes shone with an intensity they had never had before, the gemstones on the floor sparkled so brightly they nearly blinded him.
Nils felt the magic rushing through his veins, in his bones and muscle, and a savage joy filled him. Even the Drachengott’s words faded away into unimportance.
Straightening up, Nils could feel the ache in his chest where the wound was already healing, and without waiting for any instruction he went straight to the walls. He quickly found an empty hole, and started to reach out a hand toward it — but then he stopped. Something didn’t feel right. Confused, he paused. He knew he had to summon fire, but doing it this way . . . there was something wrong about it. He should be channelling magic down his arms to his hands, the way his mother had described it, but there was no heat in his palms. But he did feel heat. Not in his hands, though — it was in his throat.
Bewildered by the rush of magic inside him, and not knowing what else to do, Nils acted on pure instinct. He leaned forward, opened his mouth, and blew. A thin stream of red fire came out of his throat and went into the hole, where it caught and began to burn just above the rock, fuelled by nothing but the magic in the atmosphere.
