by R. E. Fisher
He watched as the sun began setting below the water as he crouched close to the precipice, his toes hanging over the edge of the cliff. He despised having to hide who he was, but he knew that he must be patient until the mage could gain custody of the sword that could kill him as the spear had his brother. He studied the sunset and how it turned the sky in that dimension a fiery orange with hues of pinks and blues. Soft...like most of its inhabitants, he thought. They would soon realize that in a realm of stone, heat and flame were what forged strength and power. Not this gentle existence he saw before him. It was an existence he despised.
He decided that it would be there that he would build his keep, overlooking what would become a sea of molten stone and ash and surrounded by plains of rock so sharp that they would slice open the feet of any who would intrude on his desolate nirvana. It would be perched high upon cliffs of slick, black stone—high enough that none but those with flight could reach it. He thought of how he would revel in the pain and anguish that these beings of the light would be forced to suffer. Those who embraced the pain and anger might survive, but most would not. He did know that he would rule those who adapted, forcing them to bend to his will and desires. It was then that they would learn that it was he, Jerrous, who had conquered them—not this dragon façade he was hiding behind.
Not always as powerful as he was now, Jerrous had fought and struggled to evolve into the demon he had become. He also knew that he was not invulnerable, but he had protected his weaknesses from becoming common knowledge. He had made sure of that. Death was life for his kind, but it was the journey of his victim’s deaths that nourished the greater demon. The fear, anger, pain, and hatred of those who lived in this Realm of Light fed him, just as the meat from carcasses fed the backward creatures of this realm.
He grew frustrated at having to pretend to be something other than who he was while waiting for the mage to find the sword that been hidden from him. Still perched on the edge of the cliff, he raised his arms high above him and stretched the muscles of his body that had gone unused for all those months. They’d been atrophied ever since he’d put himself in the service of the mage to gain the sword.
He was not the dragon that he had led everyone to believe, but the demon he had always been as far back as he could remember. Not caring if any could see him, Jerrous resumed his natural form. His body began to shift, his height growing to well over thirty feet tall. He was taut and muscular, with cords of muscle from his neck to his calves visible on every inch of his body. Not the vulgar muscular bulges of those who swung an axe or hammer for a living, but the sensuous form of one who was simply blessed by natural selection. He was not ugly or deformed in any way, though his brother had tried to destroy his beautiful visage on numerous occasions before he had been slain. His cheekbones were high, while his chin was strong, wide, and chiseled. His eyes were silver, almost mercurial in that they were constantly changing in a hypnotic manner. He wore his hair long, down to his waist, and he had a beard that was cropped close and neat. His hair and beard were silver in color, but it was not actually hair; it consisted of long, thin strands of some hellish metal. His greatest point of vanity were the horns that started at his temples. They consisted of thick white bone and curved above the crown of his head and then back down behind his shoulders, but not so close to them that they impeded the use of his wings. The wings that adorned his back appeared leathery and were also bone-white in color. The silver hair, white bone, and wings contrasted sharply with the color of his skin, which was a vibrant, deep blood red—almost black—and was still covered with the tattoos from his former life. It looked much like blood under the moonlight. He was a fearsome and beautiful nightmare.
While looking out, he spied the barge that carried the trolls on the water, so he extended his arms back with his palms facing behind him. He eased his weight forward, leaning out toward the chasm floor that was over a thousand feet below him. Just as it appeared that his shifting weight was going to pull him downward, he let out a powerful roar. The shape of his feet shifted to that of his adopted form, a dragon. His white toenails began splitting, turning into razor-sharp claws that dug into the hard stone shelf of the cliff face. His form was then consumed by that of the immense and heavily scaled dragon. His sense of smell and vision lessened, but the hunger that all demons suffered began to consume him. His flight allowed him to watch as a small barge made its way toward the coast, below the high mesa. He watched as his two trollocs huddled in the shade of a tarp that sat on the middle of the barge, avoiding the last vestiges of sunlight and the edges of the boat, petrified of falling into the cold water. Their heavy bodies, however strong, were unable to keep them above the surface of the water. He landed on the shore of the lake and waited for the trolls.
In his human form, Jeresette walked all night, while Tilk and Timulsif followed him along the flat terrain, remaining silent. Waves of heat were already beginning to rise from the sand and rocks of the early morning sunlight. Maintaining the pace that he had begun the night before, the dragon realized that he and the two trolls had traveled for over twelve hours—and for the trolls, it showed. Not daring to complain, Tilk and Timulsif strained to keep pace with Jeresette. Sweat stained their wide leather belts and ragged trousers. The trolls used everything they could to cover themselves shortly after the burning sun had taken the temperatures from just above freezing all the way to sweltering. The sun had only risen above the horizon minutes before, but their exposed flesh had already begun to burn. Their ashen skin was emitting a stinking, burning odor, splitting and hardening as well. Both were too frightened of the dragon to risk angering him and too frightened to save themselves from the certain death that the sun brought with it.
Jeresette stopped walking and waited for the trolls to catch up without turning toward them. They stopped less than two yards behind the dragon without saying a word, marveling that the dragon had traveled as far and as fast as he had, all the while wearing his heavy black plate mail and helm. After a few moments, the dragon lifted the faceplate of his helm and turned to the trolls. “How long?” he asked.
“Don’t know,” Timulsif stammered, unsure of himself.
“I could care less if you burst into flames or turn to stone; however, that would leave me with no one to take my prisoners back to the mage. How long?” the dragon demanded.
“Less than an hour,” Tilk managed to get out between his deep breaths.
“Fine; you will rest over there.” The dragon pointed to a rock outcropping that neither troll had seen, as they had been too busy trying keep up with what they believed was a dragon. Their master dropped the face shield of his helm, turned, and began walking away from the trolls. “You will meet me at Great Rock no later than fourteen dawns, or I will nail your hides to the rock itself,” Jeresette warned. Then, pausing for effect, he told them, “Each with the other’s bones,” and strode away.
The oversized swine fled for the shelter of the shade, breathing heavy sighs of relief as they exited the bright sunlight. Their skin began cooling and started to heal, though the scars from the injuries would be a permanent reminder of the dragon’s indifference.
They watched the armored dragon stalk off into the horizon. Timulsif began to comment, but was cut off when Tilk’s ham-sized fist slammed into his face, breaking two of the troll’s teeth.
“Him still hears we. I not want him thinking me is you!” Tilk growled.
Timulsif, unsure since he’d never been around a dragon before, decided that it was best to just sit down and rest. Tilk stood at the entrance of the opening until Jeresette was out of sight. He looked down at his traveling companion, who was already fast asleep, his split and cracked skin almost healed. Tilk, exhausted, sat down and pulled his knees up, crossing his arms over them. He laid his head down on his arms and fell asleep, hoping that they got to the Great Rock in time and with visions of Timikin’s demise flashing through his undersized brain.
The now broiling sun would have killed any normal
being inside the hot, heavy plate mail Jeresette wore. He walked like a machine, each stride precisely the same length. He knew that he was going to be unable to bring the trollocs into the city, but he also knew he could get to the city and back to the Great Rock by the time the trollocs arrived. All he had to do was return to his keep in hell and wait for Carion to bring word of the outworlders’ location. He increased his speed until a shimmering aura surrounded him. Fiery heat from Asmordia began flowing from him as the portals to Asmordia began to form around him. Jets of flame erupted from beneath his armor as he prepared to enter his hellish home. The metal of his plate mail began glowing red-hot, causing the gold to melt from his armor and drop onto the sands of the desert. Even the dragon scales of the armor glowed. He increased his speed. The faster he traveled, the more heat began erupting from his armor. Flame and smoke trailed behind him. Falling shards of white-hot metal and sparks were turning the sand behind him into fragments of glass as they hit the blazing sand. His body now a blur, the landscape began flying past him.
Looking more like the demon he was, Jeresette stepped through a smoking circular portal that opened in front of him. As he disappeared through the black opening, an unholy wail rang out. The portal slammed shut, and splinters of darkness flew outward in all directions before dissipating throughout the desert morning.
Chapter 16
“Would thou exact a punishment upon thine enemy that thou would not accept for thine own self or child?”
(E.Mu.3.1 - Book of Earth, Tenets of Murock, Chapter 3, Verse 1)
Laz loved this stuff—the runs like the one he was participating in next to his best friend and the others. He also thought about how he went to bed every night battered and bruised, and still he enjoyed being there. After two months, he had gathered more than a couple new scars. He’d always been the physical sort, and his size is what had prompted him to start playing sports when he was young. In high school, he had lettered in three sports, but football had been his ticket to Colorado Springs and a scholarship to the Air Force Academy. His grades had been good, but they wouldn’t have been good enough to get him in on their own. He reported to the school, unsure of what to expect; but he soon found that his studies took a priority, and fortunately for him, he had met Ollie. His friend had helped him through the more difficult studies in his curriculum. The grades followed, and he graduated from the academy with six subsequent years of his life mapped out for him by the Air Force brass. Though he had been drafted to play pro football, he had passed on entering the league because of his love of jets. Now, just six years later, he was in a world that he found more intriguing than anything else he had ever experienced—though it required some adjustments on his part.
His parents had both passed within the last couple of years. His father had died of a sudden heart attack, but it was from heartbreak that his mother had died; he was sure of that. He had been born late in his parents’ lives. He really didn’t have much to return home to; however, he knew that he was never going to fly again, and after these few months, he had accepted and embraced his newfound life. He wished his friend didn’t have to struggle with it so much, but he understood. He watched as his friend floundered with the day-to-day task of adapting. He looked on the series of macabre events as though they were a dream. Ollie participated when he had to, but he found that though his attempts were genuine, they were also halfhearted. Laz had tried to talk to him about it, but the simple fact was that Ollie hadn’t wanted to talk about it, and Laz hadn’t pushed it—until now.
“What’s on your mind, Ollie?” Laz asked as they continued to jog.
“I was just thinking about what we’re going to do. I still want to go home, but I’m not so sure about you.”
“What? You don’t think I want to get home? I do—sort of—but what would I be going back to?” Laz asked.
“How about your career? I don’t know if you realize it, but this place is more brutal than you think,” Ollie answered.
“I understand how brutal it is, but let me ask you this. Have you ever been anywhere else where you felt freer?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, look at this place. There are only a few simple laws. Don’t murder. And keep in mind that killing to defend yourself isn’t murder or even manslaughter here. Don’t rape; don’t steal. Other than that, it’s pretty much live and let live. Two men get to settle their differences. I realize that it’s a lot different from home; I’m not stupid. But who’s to say this isn’t better?” Laz asked Ollie with a grim look.
Ollie looked at him, not sure he understood where Laz was going with his observation.
“There are no sheep here, Ollie. Not like back home, where television advertising, programming, and propaganda train everyone what to think, what to buy, and how to vote. Or ostracize you for having a differing view, no matter how innocuous or benign. So, what if you don’t like what someone says here? Back home, if you voice any disagreement to the ‘accepted’ norm, you’re vilified. I don’t know about you, but I don’t miss that at all.”
“It’s not as bad as you are making it out to be.”
“Yes, it is! We are nowhere near as free as our fathers and not even remotely close to being as free as our grandfathers were. Governments take turns proposing and making intrusive laws to legislate behavior! It’s nothing but social engineering by legislation! The idea that overreaching laws and regulations are routinely passed and accepted by the public at large without any real thought or objection is depressing. Or don’t you see that that’s what they do to us?”
“You’re crazy! You can’t live in a society that doesn’t have rules,” Ollie pointed out to him angrily.
“This place has rules. It has consequences, too, or have you not noticed?” Laz shot back.
“I just don’t agree with you. We’ve argued about that a lot, buddy,” Ollie answered honestly. “But it doesn’t change our friendship.”
“It hasn’t changed ours, but it has polarized and divided us as a nation, Ollie, and there isn’t anything anyone can do about it now. It passed its tipping point years ago,” Laz replied dejectedly.
“So, you’d rather stay here?” Ollie asked.
“Frankly, yes,” Laz told him. “Just because I understand that this place is different and I’m preparing to deal with it, I’ve suddenly become blind? Gimme a break, Ollie. I’m just playing the hand we were dealt,” Laz emphasized.
“That’s it, Laz; this isn’t a game. What happens if we get into a situation we can’t get out of?”
“So, what would make that different from home? We’re just more comfortable at home. What would you be doing if you couldn’t fly jets? Building houses, paving streets, selling insurance? What? You’d find something you liked and you’d do it, right?”
“Yeah, but this is different.”
“Why? Because they don’t have technology? How many movies have we watched, wishing for that simple life? I know that we’ve had that discussion a couple of times while watching DVDs.”
“But talking about it while nuking popcorn in the microwave and having it forced on you are two different things, damn it!”
“Like it or not, we’re here. Until I have the choice of going back right in front of me, I’m gonna learn what I need to know to survive.”
“But what about the rest of our friends?”
“They know what we do for a living, and they all knew that we could be gone in an instant. As far as I’m concerned, they’ve been told we’re missing. Knowing that we’re military pilots, they’ll adjust. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care.” He paused for a moment, smiled, and then continued, “And if we do get back, well, that’s going to be some explanation, isn’t it?”
Suddenly, a big red blur rushed up beside them and shouted, “If you two have that much wind, we’ll just run another circuit. Move it!”
The bear moved to the front of the group, and everyone looked angrily at the two outworlders as they began jogging past them. Groaning,
Laz and Ollie fell into the back of the pack to run until Dumas told them they were finished.
A few days later the dwarves arrived, and Laz became giddy with the anticipation of getting to know them. He looked at them as they trudged into the barracks; they were covered in road grime and dirt, yet they still reminded him of many dwarves portrayed in movies.
Upon the dwarves’ arrival, they immediately segregated themselves from the elves and humans. The dwarves didn’t particularly care for the wide-open spaces, the blue sky, or the bright sunlight. They were particularly grumpy whenever they had to train anywhere but the courtyard. One gray, rainy day, the sky dark and overcast, they were in a surprisingly cheerful mood. They commented about how it reminded them of their gray-skied steech. That day, one of the dwarves introduced himself to Laz and Ollie.
Sterling Silverbeard was shorter than the average dwarf. His white hair and ruddy complexion accentuated his bright blue eyes. His white beard was braided and decorated with small strips of black leather and colored beads. His armor was decorative, but extremely functional and well- crafted. The two outworlders were already aware that dwarvish armor was second only to that of the elves, and they also knew enough not to mention this perception to the dwarves. The humans were impressed by the small man’s demeanor.
“And how are you finding our fair lands, outworlders?” he asked with much more bass in his voice than expected.
“We’ve not seen much of it to this point,” Ollie replied. “But we’re looking forward to it with a degree of apprehension, to be honest.”
“Where are you from?” Laz asked.
“Our steech is high in the Central Range, the seat of the dwarvish kingdom.”
This last comment brought a sharp glare from one of his comrades. The somber ebony dwarf looked at the younger dwarf and shook his head.
“Have you met Tightbeard?” Sterling asked, then he whispered quietly, “He’s of the old ways, when we rarely came down from our mountains.”
