by Jon Kiln
33
Artas ran toward the burgeoning glow of sunrise. Each ragged breath burned in his chest. Sweat poured down the sides of his face despite the lingering chill of night. Soon it would be hot, burning hot. He didn’t know what he would do then, how he would keep running. He only knew that he would.
The broken ship was gone. It must have rested there on the burning sand for hundreds of years, preserved in the arid climate, but now there was nothing left but ash and fire. Zander and Dristan were dead. Zander had been lucky - a spear of wooden shrapnel had impaled him, killing him instantly. Hunks of burning wreckage rained down out of the sky. Dristan had been trapped beneath one, his legs crushed. Artas had been able to hear his screams for over ten minutes.
He’d been running by that point, of course. Because he had seen the thing that was born in the druid’s flames. The creature summoned forth somehow by the ritual. The first sight of it, rising on the billowing thermal updrafts of the explosion, had filled him with blind, screaming terror.
Dragon.
It couldn’t be. He knew there were no dragons. Maybe there had been once upon a time, but if so they had died out or been wiped out long ago. Except now he knew that wasn’t true. Or it was, but the Marawi druids had found a way to bring them back. This was what Ector had died for; to resurrect a dragon.
And now the monster was chasing Artas across the desert.
***
Naavos of the Rock Eagle clan peered over the horizon, his dark eyes narrowed to discern any movement. Two of his men huddled on the shifting sand beside him, four more crouched further below. Hiding at their vantage point, half a mile from the settlement, they had seen the huge explosion where that strange ancient structure stood.
The rising sun behind them pushed the fleeing wisps of darkness further away, giving rise to an early morning mist. It was a strange thing to behold, for mist had never before formed over the harsh sand dunes of their arid homeland.
“Brace yourselves, my brothers,” Naavos cautioned. “I fear our new friends did rankle the ghosts further, instead of quelling them.”
“What are we to do, Naavos,” one of the men, Tolemaas, ventured, “…now that the accursed place appears to have vanished?”
“We wait, we watch,” Naavos replied, running his fingers over his bearded chin.
“Look there,” Draagos cried, his sharp eyes detecting movement in the swirling miasma of dust, smoke, and heat waves.
“Yes, I see him. It is a man,” Naavos whispered through gritted teeth. “One of our new friends.”
“But where are the others? Have the ghosts-”
He couldn’t finish his sentence as something huge and gleaming rose up from behind the man that was running toward them.
“What is that?” Draagos screamed, his eyes wide in terror.
“The strange legends are true… we are undone.” Naavos leapt to his feet. “Flee, we must flee to the settlement. Get everyone into the depths of the caves.”
As one, the seven tribesmen turned and raced down the shifting sand dunes, their feet sinking and sliding as they ran toward their ancestral home. A loud, ear splitting shriek blasted through the air, making their stomachs churn and hearts beat faster. The sound of beating wings grew louder, and a huge shadow fell across them. Some of the men tripped and fell, in their hurry to get to their settlement.
The flying creature shrieked again as it swooped over them, heading in the direction of their home. The wind from its immense wings blew up enough sand to make a little sandstorm, forcing the running men to cover their faces and drop to their knees.
“It is him.” Draagos glared at the lone figure running toward them as he looked back. “The archer.”
“There is no time, my clan brothers. Run to the settlement,” Naavos urged his men. “Get everyone to safety below the caves. I will bring the easterner with me.”
The others raced after the horror that soared toward their homes, as their chieftain turned to face the young man stumbling hard on the shifting sands. The sun broke over the horizon, bathing the desert plains with the pale incandescence of dawn. Naavos knew that it would grow unbearably hot within minutes. He held out his hand towards Artas.
“Make haste, young archer. All is lost.”
“The dragon, the dragon,” Artas babbled, panting furiously.
“No time to talk now. Here, drink and follow me.” The tall chieftain handed Artas a waterskin and turned away, running off toward the settlement.
Artas gratefully emptied the cooling contents of the waterskin, fearing it may be his last drink in this life. He cast the skin aside and watched Naavos crest a dune. He broke into a fast run after the man.
“Keep up, boy.” Naavos looked over his broad shoulder. “And what of your companions?”
“Dead,” he replied, coming up alongside the tribesman. “Slain by that monstrosity.”
Naavos cursed. “Soon, we will all be. Where did this come from?”
“In the ruin of the ship, we found the Marawi druids. They summoned it.”
“That is the work of the fire worshipers?” Naavos sounded skeptical.
“Yes. I killed three at least before the dragon appeared.”
“Have you seen such a thing before?” Naavos topped the final dune that concealed the settlement.
“No, I’ve only heard the legends. They are fairy tales-” Artas' heart caught in his mouth as Naavos suddenly bellowed in anguish next to him.
Cresting the dune, a sight more horrific than he had ever seen before made him freeze. His limbs felt lifeless and his heart raced frantically. The full view of the dragon in the early morning sunshine was breathtaking and terrifying all at once. Its bronzed, scaly skin gleamed, as its huge wings flapped furiously. Jet streams of fire exploded from its massive angular jaws, bringing death and destruction to the tribesmen below.
Screams of terror and sounds of metal hitting stone echoed all around, as Artas and Naavos ran down the dune. Tribesmen frantically hurled their metal tipped spears and fired arrows at the rampaging behemoth, to no avail. Naavos searched around feverishly for any sign of children and women among the dead or the dying. He sighed in relief as he saw none; most must have already escaped into the deep caves under the grotto.
But his brave tribesmen were falling in large numbers, trying to contain the beast. He joined the attack, hurling a spear with a long chain attached to its butt. It struck the hind leg of the dragon, ripping into its softer underbelly. The spear stuck fast, making the dragon rear back with an ear splitting shriek. Turning its massive head toward Naavos, it shot a stream of red flames from its mouth at the stunned tribesman. Artas threw himself at the desert chieftain, getting him out of the line of fire just in time.
“My thanks,” he gasped, even as Artas sped away, with one of their bows in hand, shooting a flurry of arrows at the mammoth creature.
The dragon landed on the ground, shaking it hard as men scampered around losing their footing. It pushed its snout under its hind leg, trying to get at the heavy spear embedded in there. It was in pain, Artas saw that in its blazing dark eyes. It couldn’t quite reach the spear haft and thrashed its tail on the ground violently, smashing into the mud huts that had served as dwellings for the Rock Eagle clan.
Artas nocked an arrow and took aim. If he could blind the monster, it might become easier to kill. As he drew back, an arrow whizzed past his face. He dropped quickly behind a ruined pillar, spotting Draagos on the other side of the smoking ruins of the town building. He had a malevolent glare in his eyes and a sneer on his face. His bowstring was drawn with a second arrow aimed at Artas’ head.
The slender noble picked up the bow he had dropped and grasped around for an arrow. Even in this hellish predicament, Draagos chose to seek retribution for his humiliation on the archery contest. Finding an arrow, he peered up again. The arrow Draagos released slammed inches from his head, into the remnant base of the pillar he hid under. He rose up, bowstring drawn, arrow nocked, aiming at Draag
os, who was himself nocking his third arrow.
Suddenly the man’s eyes went wide, and the next instant his whole body was engulfed in flames. He died with a silent scream escaping his open mouth. Another ear spitting shriek from the dragon reminded Artas that he was far from being safe.
He felt the rest of the building begin to shake and large chunks of it hit the ground around him. Leaping to his feet, the nimble youth darted out into the open. The shadow of the dragon fell upon him. He saw Naavos running for the caves. The dragon lashed out its tail, bringing down the whole town building around them. The chain on the spear butt whipped out, wrapping itself around Artas' left leg. The links entwined and he felt a sharp snap as the dragon took to the air.
Artas felt the breath rush out of him as his world went upside down. The ground seemed to move further away from him, and the smoking ruins of the Rock Eagle clan settlement became smaller and smaller. He suddenly realized that he was in the air.
The heavy iron chain on the spear that was embedded in the dragon’s underbelly held his ankle fast. He hung upside down as the dragon’s massive wings beat the air, soaring ever higher. Blood rushed to his head as the roar of thumping wings pounded his ears. Blackness overcame him.
His body went limp, buffeting against the large, scaly hind leg of a monster of legend.
34
Harald drew rein, making Thawban rear up. The massive warhorse’s slashing hooves nearly took the crouching man’s head off before him. The regent’s eyes flashed with anger at the man cowering on the pathway. He was just a farmer, arrested for a bit of drunken brawling. Harald stared down at the kneeling peasant with contempt.
“Who is this wretch, and why does he hinder my morning ride?”
“He’s from the southern farmlands, sire.” One of the guardsmen holding a spear bowed low. “You need not concern yourself, we will deal with him.”
“I am the king, am I not?” Harald sneered. “I will concern myself with whomsoever I wish.”
“But of course, your majesty.” The second guardsman, a much older man than the first, bowed even lower.
“What are his crimes?”
The older guard replied. “He was arrested for fighting in the marketplace, after a bout of drinking.”
“Is that so?” Harald cricked his neck. “The penalty for that is death by execution. Bring him to the palace courtyard at noon.”
“The death penalty for drunken brawl-” the younger guard began to speak, but a swift jab in the gut from his colleague’s spear haft shut him up.
“Begging your mercy, sire.” The older guard said, as the younger guard dropped to his knees. “We shall escort the prisoner there before noon.”
Harald nodded, glaring at the younger guard before kicking Thawban into a gallop and riding off in a cloud of dust.
“Are you a fool?” the older guard hissed at his younger colleague. “You’d just as soon have your head on a spike as this drunk’s.”
“He is mad. We are being ruled by a madman.” The youth got off his knees. “He has doubled the executions. At this rate he will be a ruler of the dead before this year is gone.”
“That I agree. King Ludwig has never done such insane things.”
“Palara is doomed with this madman for a king,” snarled the younger guard, as he helped their prisoner to his feet. “I’ve a good mind to set this man free.”
“Then your head will replace his, young fool.” The older guard laughed, a bitter resentful laugh. “And watch your tongue when you speak against the regent. Not all are as lenient as I am.”
***
Harald glanced over his shoulder as he rode into the palace grounds. These early morning rides helped soothe his raging nerves. Thawban, his horse, seemed about the only living thing that did not disappoint him. The magnificent stallion was always ready, always there for him. Riding on his horse freed him from all his troubles and misgivings, and now that he neared the palace, all of those came flooding back into his mind.
He dismounted, tossing the reins to his stable hand. He tried to remember the foolish young guardsman’s face. If required, he would have to make an example of him. Insurrection, no matter how trivial, would not be tolerated, Harald decided, stepping into the empty throne room and taking the wooden throne. This was where he felt his most powerful, seated on the eagle throne, looking down at everyone with contempt and disdain.
The stubborn old woman was yet to crack, and it tore at him like a thorn at his side. He had already executed two of his jailers for failing to make an old woman break down. The other two would share the same fate if the Duchess held out any further. He poured himself some wine and drank it, spilling some on his gilded breastplate and tunic.
“You seem troubled, sire.” A soft voice made him jerk up, spilling more wine.
Harald looked around in anger. He was supposed to be alone. Who would dare enter the throne room without his permission? His anger mingled with perverse glee as he sought out his second victim for execution that day.
“Who said that?” he snarled. “Show yourself, before I call the royal guard.”
“Oh, no need for that.” A small man in a simple brown robe and hood stepped out of the shadows. “I am far from being any of the perils that plague you.”
“What do you know of my perils, stranger?” Harald sat upright, an odd chill going down his spine. “And show me your face. I like to know who I send to the executioner’s block.”
“I am not here to offer my head, sire.” The man removed his hood, revealing a gentle smiling face. “Instead, I offer you the very thing you seek.”
“I seek many things. Which do you speak of?” Harald leaned closer, peering intently at the little man.
“The one thing you seek the most.” His smug face irritated the regent.
Harald raised his voice. “Who are you and how did you get in here?”
“I am simply a traveler in these parts.”
“Are you a Druid? I have little patience for your ilk.”
“I wouldn’t rate myself so highly. I am but a humble monk.” He bowed low for emphasis.
“Then what makes you think you have anything I may need, humble monk,” Harald said dismissively.
“Oh, but you do, Harald, regent of Palara.”
“I am the king.”
“Not as long as the princess lives,” the stranger dared.
Harald sat bolt upright. “What do you know of her?”
“She is of no consequence.” The stranger shook his head. “Not when you accept my offer.”
“Which is what?”
The monk’s voice grew sepulchral. “The stones of Berghein are all that are in your way.”
“I have heard enough of those stones.”
“Pay close heed, my liege,” said the little man. “The stones of Berghein hold great power. There is but one way to thwart them, and whomsoever wields it shall rule all the lands.”
Harald was curious despite himself. “And what is it?”
The monk waited a beat before replying. “The Dragon Stone.”
Harald had heard of this mysterious artifact before, thought to be nothing more than a legend. But then, so were the stones of Berghein. He was starting to feel a little desperate and anxious at finding Myriam. At this point, he would take any advantage he could get, no matter how far fetched it seemed.
“Do you have it?” he asked.
“I have it, yes. But first, I must speak to your prisoner.”
Harald raised an eyebrow. “The duchess?”
“Yes, sire, you are most perceptive.”
“She knows where the stones are, and where the princess is.”
“I do not seek the stones, or the princess.” The smaller man took a step back from the throne. “I only wish to speak to her.”
“A woman who won't talk is of no use to me. Speak to her all you like. It matters not. But first, where is the Dragon Stone?” Harald’s twitching hand almost grabbed at the stranger’s throat. “What does it
do?”
The monk waved with a flourish. “It is the heart of the Dragon Sword, and it gives the wielder power over the dragons.”
“You’re mad, dragons are a myth.”
“If you so believe, but I know that you don’t.”
“Give me the sword,” the regent demanded.
“When I have had words with the Duchess D’Anjue. Sire.”
***
The creaking of the cell door opening woke her. The frail old woman looked up painfully at the flickering light that illuminated the darkness in the rank cell. She felt nauseous. The pain all over her battered body flooded back into her conscious mind. Huddled low on the hard, cold floor, she peered at the shadowy figures standing over her. What more horrors would she have to suffer?
She heard Harald’s hateful voice. “There she is. Have your words with her, monk.”
“I see you have shown her your well-regarded hospitality.” She heard a gentle voice respond to him.
“Be quick about it, and bring me the sword,” Harald barked.
“I need to speak with her at length.”
Harald sneered, slamming the cell door shut and locking it. “When you have what I want, you can ask to be let out, or rot in there with the hag.”
She heard Harald’s heavy footfalls fade as he walked away.
The man in the brown robes knelt down before her. He gently touched her as she looked at his soft features. She didn’t know who he was. It felt like a dream. She sensed the man pour something into her lips from a small vial he fished out from within his robe. It tasted vile and she coughed, painfully.
“Poison!” she thought. Freedom at last from this prison called life.
But instead, her pain began to recede and her mind cleared. She looked at him with a sense of bewilderment in her eyes.
“Duchess D’Anjue,” he said softly. “It is a shame to find such a woman of strength as you brought down to this.”
“I’m sure you haven’t taken all this trouble to just mock me,” she said, eyeing him with suspicion. “Who are you?”
