by Sam Ferguson
“Never has a queen done so in the past,” Algearon replied.
Siravel turned a stern eye on the dwarf and he shrank away from her, bowing his head low and ceding the argument entirely. “Knowing one’s place is as important, if not more so, than knowing the law and the traditions.” She then turned to Gorliad and her hard, angular features took on a softer appearance as she smiled at the young hatchling. “Your father will return home within the fortnight. I should like to surprise him then with an exhibition. For that, you must be able to fly.”
Was it possible to learn in days what he had not accomplished in months? Gorliad felt excited and nervous at the same time. His mother locked eyes with him. His muscles went rigid. A wave of heat washed over him. Everything went dark. His eyes no longer saw anything. Then, as if emerging from a dark cave, light opened up before him. He looked down and saw a red foreleg clutching the side of a mountain, not unlike the one he had been standing on moments before. The leg was much brighter red than his though. He understood that he was seeing through his mother’s eyes, reliving one of her memories.
He felt a nippy, early spring wind rush up from below. Sparkling bits of snow and frost layered over the pine branches to either side, though most of the snow on the ground had melted or been blown away. He took a step forward. Great, golden wings extended out to either side, trapping the wind in them. A dwarf, one whom Gorliad had never seen before, circled in front of him. The dwarf had a long, gray beard that hung over his belly in a neat braid. A tall, pointy hat of leather sat atop his head, with bits of fox fur poking out from inside. He wore thick, leather coats with fur visible at the end of the sleeves, the bottom, and at the neck. Gloves and boots finished the ensemble.
The dwarf looked up with its beady blue eyes. “Now, just like we practiced, Siravel. Leap high into the sky, catch the air beneath your wings, and subdue it, using your tail for balance and your neck for direction. Then, once you have the wind, glide down to the lake.” The dwarf backed away and to the side, clearing the path down the slope to a beautiful, serene blue lake.
Gorliad watched eagerly. He saw the other foreleg join the first. They tensed, and he could feel every muscle and joint tensing, preparing to launch. Everything went still for a moment. A mighty leap and up the dragon went. The chilly air turned to biting cold as the dragon beat the wind down and ascended. Each whoosh of the wings propelled the dragon higher and higher, until it was soon far above the nearest trees. Then the tail shot out behind and the neck angled down. The rush of wind washed over the dragon. It cruised down the slope, stiffening its wings, but keeping them slightly bent to funnel the air. It steered its course with its head and neck, veering right and left while keeping its legs tucked up underneath it. It only lasted for a few seconds, and then the dragon thrust out its wings and turned them slightly up to catch the wind and stop itself. It landed gracefully on the soft, frost-covered grass near the lake and let out a mighty roar, flame shooting out from its mouth.
Then the connection broke.
Gorliad again saw through his own eyes. Reignited by what he had just experienced, he turned back to face the slope. He flapped his wings twice, catching a good amount of air beneath them and nearly lifting himself off the ground.
Tail straight, beat the air down with your wings, and use your neck to steer.
Gorliad tensed, then launched from the stone outcropping without a word of warning to either Algearon or his mother. The dwarf scurried away as the rush of wind kicked up dirt and small twigs nearby. Gorliad climbed high up into the sky. Each beat of his thunderous wings seemed to pull the sky downward, and place it below his feet as if he would sit upon the sky as king over all he saw. Then, as he had seen from his mother, he angled his head and neck down, parallel with the slope, and stuck his tail out behind him for balance. He thrust his wings down powerfully, then brought them up and held them rigid, keeping them slightly bent. He managed to trap the same current of air he had felt from his mother’s memory. He soared down the slope faster than ever before, covering much more ground and remaining higher above the slope as he flew.
The rush of warm air was so exhilarating he almost closed his eyes. Almost. Despite the exciting sensations, he knew that one false move could spell disaster. He mentally checked himself. Tail was straight, but slightly swerving. He concentrated on holding it perfectly still. As he did so, he realized he had let his wings relax slightly. He tried to raise them, but as he did so it shifted the air he coursed through and took him off course. Gorliad quickly tried to correct, but in doing so he ended up losing the current altogether. Soon he was tumbling down the mountainside again. Rocks and dirt flew out around him. A sapling snapped at the trunk as his tail crashed through it. He spotted a large fallen log only a couple meters before him. There was no way to avoid impact. The rotting fallen log splintered apart, spewing orange, mushy wood and bark out before him as he slid to a halt.
Gorliad laughed aloud and remained on his back. His mother was the first to arrive, followed by the other two dragons from below. Gorliad looked up at Siravel and smiled. “Well, I made it farther this time,” he said.
Siravel nodded slightly. “You are thinking too hard. Just concentrate on feeling it,” she said.
Gorliad slowly pulled himself up from the ground and shook the soft bits of wood from his body. His mother flew off, back to the mountain. The other two dragons returned to their position in the valley. Algearon was standing nearby with his arms folded and eyeing the young dragon.
“Well, shall we try again, or have you had enough for today?”
Gorliad grinned. “I could carry you on my back,” he offered.
Algearon shuddered and waved the notion away. “That would not be proper. It goes against all tradition. Why, I never would have supposed to even imagine such a suggestion!”
The dwarf turned and stomped his way up the slope. Gorliad ascended the hillside, back to his perch on the rock outcropping. He didn’t even bother to wait for Algearon to catch up before leaping from the stone and trying to fly. Unfortunately, despite his best efforts he met with a fate similar to the other times. He tumbled down the slope only to have the two dragons race up to him, ensuring he was uninjured. Three more times the scenario repeated. Each time, Algearon would shout out corrections and his ideas for how a dragon attains his gift of flight. Gorliad kept his spirits up as best he could, though the frustration worked its way into his heart with each failed attempt.
“If not today, then someday,” he said to himself as he dusted himself off.
The sun started to drop behind the mountain, halving the light and casting long shadows over the slope and the valley below. Gorliad ascended the mountainside for one final attempt. He climbed up onto the rock outcropping and slowly stretched his wings. His muscles were tired, and he could feel knots forming in his legs where they had struck rocks or other obstacles during his falls. A sore area in his left side was also beginning to ache more severely, but he was not about to show his weakness to Algearon.
The wind had almost died down now. No strong gusts. Only a faint breeze that moved across his flight path. For a moment, he thought perhaps to finish for the day, and return tomorrow after refreshing himself. His pride got the better of him.
I am a dragon. Dragons fly.
He tensed his hind legs, preparing to spring into the air. His tail switched behind him before becoming stiff. His wings went up. He launched upward again, bringing his wings down with massive force. Up he went. He angled down and prepared to glide. No sooner had he gone twenty meters through the air when an intense crosswind came through and knocked him off balance. He fell from the air and tumbled across a path of rocks and stones. He bounced over the hard surfaces and then tore through a patch of young birch trees as he went completely off the path and down into a shallow ravine. Trees snapped around him. Branches and ferns slapped his face. Something felt as though it bit his right foreleg, but Gorliad could not see it. Then, his body slammed onto the ground at the bottom
of the ravine and his head struck a patch of moss.
The world above him seemed to spin, much more so than with any of his previous falls. He could hear a shouted voice, but he could not make out the words. A black shadow overcame him. Something heavy landed near him, followed by something else on his other side. He picked his head up to move it around and see the source of the sound, but a stinging pain in his neck stopped him from moving at all. He groaned and let his head fall back to the patch of moss.
He closed his eyes, meaning only to shut them for only a second or two, and groaned again.
A muffled, distant voice called out to him.
He moaned in response, as if annoyed that the voice would want to wake him. His body ached, and he shivered. Gorliad wanted only to sleep.
The voice shouted again. This time it was much closer, yet the words were not intelligible.
Gorliad struggled to open his eyes. The lids cracked open only enough for gray light to filter in. He saw a shadow standing over his face, but he could not distinguish the shadow’s features. His eyelids grew heavy and closed again.
His body drifted into sleep, jerking and jolting strangely as his consciousness slipped away. There was only blackness then. A cold void that pulled him in and refused to release his mind. Pain ripped through his head, from the back, where the left horn grew, down through the skull and into the left side of the dragon’s jaw. It came as a red flash, nearly tearing him from the void’s merciless grasp, but even the stabbing ache was not enough to free him.
Gorliad gave himself to the void, too tired, and too weak to fight it. Time became irrelevant. The intervening period between losing and regaining consciousness could have been minutes, or it could have been days. There was no way for him to calculate it. He only knew the black trap he was in.
It wasn’t until he heard a beautiful, angelic melody that his mind was able to make for itself a small hold on his consciousness. The golden, ringing sound, like a small bell, or perhaps a harp if it had strings of gold, reached into the void and beckoned him to come out. Additional tones added in and a wave of warmth poured over him, as if washed with fire that sang to his soul. A light appeared in the darkness of his mind. A beautiful, brilliant white light that pushed out the void darkness, and gave strength back to his body.
The melody pulled his mind to it, much like the void had done, but this time he became more aware of his body, instead of less aware. His muscles regained their strength, and he could feel his feet and tail once more. He was no longer numb. He was reawakening.
Red and blue lights entered his mind as well, followed by green and purple. With each light came a distinct tone. Some lower, some higher than the golden melody that chained it all together. The symphony was a brilliant masterpiece, and it healed his mind.
He opened his eyes, but they could see nothing. His skin felt warmth all around it, and he knew he was covered in something. It felt heavy, but it did not feel alive. Gorliad shifted his body. Jingling coins and tinkling gems slithered from off his head and neck to slide down a mountain of treasure that had been built around and over him. Slowly he rose and let the jewels and coins fall from his body, reveling in the sound they made.
“Could you hear the music?” Siravel asked from the left.
Gorliad turned to see that he was back inside the mountain, in the upper nursery that had become his home. He looked to the treasure and nodded. “I could hear the music, and feel the warmth.”
“Dragons horde treasure because the energies in the gold, silver, and jewels heal and strengthen us. This was a lesson I had hoped to save for another time, but after your last fall, it seemed appropriate to hasten the lesson.”
Gorliad tenderly brought his foreleg out from the pile. No sooner had he let the last of the jewels and gold fall from his leg than he felt the stinging pain return. A gash sat open there, though no blood flowed out. “I was hurt?” he asked.
“They brought you back yesterday evening,” Siravel said. “Nothing lasting, but you will not be able to practice flying until it heals completely.”
“But I must learn before father returns. You wanted me to show him.”
Siravel frowned. “Your father will return in the morning. He has been told of your injuries, and is coming back to check on you as soon as he can.”
“I am sorry,” Gorliad offered.
Siravel nodded once and turned her visage to the fire. “It is well, I suppose. He will still be happy to see you, even if you cannot yet fly.”
“Am I late?” Gorliad asked. “Other dragons fly at a younger age?”
Siravel nodded. “You are a bit late, but keep trying. You will get it.” She looked to his leg. “You will need to be more careful though. You are young. Your scales haven’t hardened, and you are much more susceptible to injury at this stage.”
“Algearon would say I was lucky not to injure my wings,” Gorliad said in a huff.
“And so you are,” Siravel confirmed. She rose to her feet and her tail gently swayed behind her. “I am going to go and prepare for your father’s arrival. You should lie back down and rest some more.”
Her tone wasn’t wholly disapproving, but enough so that he felt the sting long after she departed. He sank back into the gold and jewels, letting the sweet music envelope him once more. This time as he slept, the music controlled his dreams, and they were pleasant. He also was aware of the passing of time, and yet, he did not feel as though time was moving. It was as if he was able to stand outside of time, watching it pass on as the music played.
He stayed in that state for another day. He rose from his pile of treasure in the morning. The music pulled at him as he moved out from the pile, calling and beckoning for him to return to its warm embrace. He looked back with his white eyes of snow and considered doing just that.
“Careful,” a familiar dwarf voice called out.
Gorliad turned to see Algearon sitting in a rocking chair and smoking a pipe. “The lure of gold has a way of entangling one’s heart and making it more difficult to leave.”
Gorliad nodded and continued walking out from the pile. Once he was free he almost couldn’t hear the music at all. Only the faintest of tones vibrated out from the gold. “Can you hear the music as well?” Gorliad asked.
“No.” Algearon rose to his feet, biting the pipe securely and puffing smoke. “But, we can feel its warmth.” His eyes went to the pile for a moment, lingering on the shining coins and jewels. With a longing sigh, he turned from the gold and looked up to Gorliad. “Your father has returned. He is outside, at the entrance to the mountain.”
“Then let us go see him!” Gorliad said. He turned to bound out from the chamber but Algearon jumped in front of him with his hands out and his head shaking furiously, billowing smoke out from his mouth as if a dragon was jailed inside a dwarf’s body.
“No, we cannot!” Algearon shouted. “A challenger has sounded his call, and there is a great battle coming.”
Gorliad’s head perked up and he listened carefully. “I hear nothing,” he said.
“The warning alarms went out while you were sleeping,” Algearon replied. He pointed to the treasure. “Useful as it may be, the gold’s music can deafen a dragon’s ears, and dull his other senses.”
“Who challenges my father?” Gorliad asked.
Algearon shrugged. “Some green dragon from the east. Brought an army of smaller dragons and dwarves with him too. This is no simple challenger. He is obviously the son of an established king to be able to bring an army with him. He will fight until one of the two armies is broken.”
“Then I shall fight too!” Gorliad said resolutely.
Algearon threw his pipe on the ground, shattering it to a thousand pieces and stomped his foot. “No, you will not! You have no place in the battle. You can’t even fly!”
At that moment a thunderous wave of roars shook the mountain. The very air in the chamber shifted and flew out into the hall. Gorliad knew that the battle was starting, and all of the other dra
gons were involved.
“Does my mother also fight with my father?” Gorliad asked.
“That is the way of queens,” Algearon said. “They champion their kingdoms as much so as the king does.”
“And your fellow dwarves?” Gorliad pressed.
Algearon nodded. “Aye, they too take up axes and spears to fight.”
Gorliad lifted his right foreleg. The wound was now healed. Banished away as though it had never been there. The gold had fixed it. “What will happen if we lose this fight?”
“Then all in the mountain will be slain. Except for a handful of dwarven women and lesser queens who will likely be taken as prizes to add to the challenger’s kingdom.” Algearon folded his arms. “Don’t concern yourself with it, though, for the challenger will not win. Your father is a mighty king. There have been many challengers over the centuries. All have fallen when facing King Geldryn.”
“But if he should lose, then all is lost,” Gorliad said.
Algearon nodded.
Gorliad felt a heat rise up in his chest as never before. He leapt over Algearon and sprinted out through the cave. He heard the dwarf shouting and demanding he stop. He didn’t bother to acknowledge Algearon. His path was set.
The young burgundy dragon raced through the snaking caves and caverns. He knew he was small and young, but even now he was larger than the drakes that would fight. He was even larger than some of the lesser dragons. They would not sit inside the mountain cowering, and neither would he.
The sound of battle outside rose to a cacophonous wave of fire and metal. He could hear dragons roaring, fire erupting through the air, dwarves shouting and screaming, and metal axes ringing out against shields and swords. None of it scared him. The fire building in his chest intensified at the sounds.
He leapt out from the mouth of the cave and spotted a band of enemy dwarves leaping down from the backs of drakes. Each of them held an axe or a sword. They were sprinting forward toward a wounded drake that stood on the flat stone with its hind leg broken, dragging behind it, and its wing torn. Its rider lay in a broken heap nearby.
