by Byron Preiss
He quietly observed the dragon. It was indeed a creature worthy of legend. It slept with its tremendous head on its paws, and two magnificent gray wings folded and peaked like hills around it. It had four legs, not two, and though its size was twice that of the Darkling, it gave an impression of grace and agility belonging to a creature half its size.
Amsel sensed that the dragon had been respected, not feared, in its day, but he also sensed that its day had passed. The dragon gave an impression of immense age. The skin on its wings was pebbled and cracked, and the tufts of hair about its face were snowy white. As he listened to the creature’s breathing, Amsel realized that, despite its tonality, it was labored and weak. He felt a sadness each time the dragon sighed, a sorrow unlike any he had known.
Then he noticed the manacle. It encased the dragon’s front paw and was connected to a heavy metal chain. The chain itself was fastened to a stalagmite that had been sculptured into the shape of a terraced building on the cavern floor.
Amsel drew in his breath. By the scale of the edifice, it had to have been built by human hands! He anxiously examined the rest of the cavern, wondering at the same time why the creature would be chained. There were arched passageways running through the side of the cliff, and wide stone steps ran down the cavern wall to his left. Throughout the cavern, the stone had been covered by the glowing lichen. Only in the area around the dragon did the stone seem bare; the lichen had obviously been eaten in the creature’s search for food.
“I don’t think he’ll be of much help,” Amsel murmured. “I wonder where the other dragons could be?” He started to walk along the edge of the cliff, looking at the dragon instead of his path. Suddenly he stumbled on a loose stone and it rolled over the side.
Amsel held his breath as it plummeted toward the cavern floor. It hit a lichen-covered boulder with a dull thud, but the sound was magnified a hundred times by the acoustics of the high stone walls. There was a sudden change in the dragon’s breathing. Then a deep snort resonated through the cavern. Stepping forward slowly, Amsel peeked over the tip of the cliff.
A dark blue eye looked up at him. The dragon was awake!
Amsel saw the creature lift its head. “I’ve come within a hairsbreath of being eaten by a coldrake,” he whispered, “and now I’ve awakened a starving dragon!”
The dragon lifted its head higher and roared, a noise which sounded to Amsel as if a door to history itself were being opened. Frightened, Amsel sought refuge behind a rock. The roar was repeated again and again, its echoes filling the cavern. Amsel covered his ears. How, he asked himself, could a creature so old possess the strength to bellow the way it did?
Amsel thought he detected a pattern to its sounds. He listened closely to them again and took a tentative step forward. Peeking out again, he glimpsed the dragon struggling against the heavy manacle. The clanking of its chain was lost in the deep, sonorous sound of the dragon’s voice. The creature could not reach him, but it continued to roar slowly and deliberately. The cadence was like that of words.
“I . . . smell . . . manscent!”
Amsel listened in astonishment. They were words!
“I smell manscent!”
Amsel looked at the creature in shock. The slow bellowing voice seemed to be talking in a language like that of the Southland!
“He said something about man,” Amsel muttered. “If he repeats it, I think I will be able to understand.”
Amsel stepped closer to the edge of the cliff and leaned out bravely. As he did, the dragon thrust its head toward him and bellowed again.
Its warm breath washed over Amsel, and he was surprised to find the odor pleasant, though overwhelming.
“You . . . have . . . returned!” The dragon’s words reverberated around the walls.
“Returned?” Amsel muttered. “I have never been here.” He peered out at the dragon and cautiously repeated the words aloud. “I have never been here!” he shouted. “I am from Fandora!”
The dragon was silent for a moment; then it lifted its head as high as it could. “Slowly!” it bellowed. “Your words are too shrill! Breathe them slowly.”
Amsel shouted the words again. At this rate, he thought, my voice will soon be gone. Then, as his last words faded in the cavern, Amsel added, “I seek your help on behalf of the lands of Fandora and Simbala!”
The dragon watched him and repeated the names in a slow, somber tone.
“Yes!” cried Amsel. “That is correct! Fandora and Simbala!”
The dragon lowered its head slightly. “I have never heard of them,” it rumbled.
“They have been attacked by the coldrakes!”
The dragon raised its head again. “The coldrakes?”
“Yes!” Amsel shouted.
“Come down,” said the dragon.
Amsel blinked. The dragon wanted him to come closer to the cavern floor!
“Come down!” roared the dragon again. “Men built a way long ago.”
Although he had observed the stone staircase earlier, Amsel made no effort to reach it immediately. He glanced at the dragon’s long yellow teeth. If he was in range, the creature could eat him in a moment. Should he risk a descent to the floor of the cavern? He was convinced the coldrakes’ attack on Fandora and Simbala had just started, and that Johan’s murder would be followed by more if they were not stopped soon. If the creatures had plans to attack the humans, then it would take creatures as large as a dragon to prevent the coldrakes from journeying south. Regardless of his own safety, he had to find a way to engage the dragon’s help. Threat or no threat, he had to learn the truth and discover a way to end the war.
If I stay far enough away, he thought, the dragon would still be unable to reach me. With that precaution firmly in mind, he approached the stairs.
By the time he reached the bottom, the creature seemed to have returned to sleep. Amsel stepped delicately on the soft, glowing lichen. He felt as if he were standing on the surface of the moon, by the way the floor radiated beneath him. It had a calming effect as he walked forward.
From this new position he could see the dragon more closely. He winced at the sight of the manacle around its paw. The metal was rusty with blood. Amsel was baffled. If the descriptions in the legends were true, and it certainly appeared as though many of them were, why had a creature as noble as a dragon been imprisoned?
He was now determined to find out. As he approached the dragon, he estimated the range of its neck and its claws. He edged as close to the creature as was safe.
“Hello,” said Amsel.
The creature’s horns seemed to move, but it did not open its eyes.
“Hello!” Amsel repeated.
The dragon raised its head slightly and one eyelid slid open. A mirror of midnight blue appeared, and Amsel saw himself in it.
“Come here,” said the dragon in a low, grumbling sound that Amsel both heard and felt. It tapped one claw on the mossy floor.
Amsel waited. Shackled or not, that claw was too reminiscent of the coldrake’s.
The dragon sighed. “Come here,” it repeated in a less imposing tone. “I will not hurt you. It will be easier to talk if you are near.”
Amsel took a deep breath. If he went any closer, he would be in range of the dragon’s claws. If he did not, the dragon might get angry. “Remember the legends you heard as a child,” Ephrion had told him. He took another deep breath and walked forward. He would trust the creature. The dragons of legend had helped the humans. Perhaps this dragon would, too.
“The coldrakes have attacked my people,” he said as he approached, making sure to enunciate every phrase in a deep, slow voice. “We need your help, dragon.”
The creature moaned. “Do not call me dragon,” it said. “That is a man-word.”
“I do not know your name,” replied Amsel cautiously.
He was now within range of its claws.
The dragon snorted. “We do not have names. That is a custom of man.”
“Rather more than
a custom,” Amsel answered. “There are so many of us that we must have a way to tell each other apart.”
“Then the humans have prospered?”
“Yes. There are thousands in Fandora alone—and it is quite small compared to the Southland.”
“The Southland,” said the dragon harshly. “That is the home of man.”
“It is one place where man lives,” said Amsel. “Fandora and Simbala are others.”
“You are not from the Southland?”
Amsel shook his head. Evidently the dragon had not heard what he had said earlier. “I am Amsel of Fandora.”
“Amsel,” sniffed the dragon. “That is an unlikely name for a man. Your name should be cold and painful, like the frost. Must I call you Amsel?”
“It is my name,” said the inventor.
The dragon moaned. “I will not call you anything at all.”
Amsel saw defiance in the dragon’s eyes, but there was also a loneliness deeper than any he had known. Amsel felt a sudden sympathy for the dragon. He was old and in pain. Amsel wished to help him, to relieve his torment, but he knew that the safety of Fandora and Simbala was at stake. He had to find the other dragons! He looked compassionately at the noble creature and said, “My name does not matter, but you must listen to what has happened!”
The dragon lowered its eyelids. “There is little man can say to me now, and there is nothing man can force me to do.”
“No!” cried Amsel desperately. “Listen to me! The coldrakes have attacked us! The dragons must stop them before hundreds more are killed!”
The dragon lifted its head slightly and inhaled the sweet air of the cavern. “I have governed my race and those without flame for centuries,” it said. “They would never defy my edict.”
“They have!” shouted Amsel. Then he realized what the dragon had said. This shackled creature was the ruler of the dragons? He had to convince him to help!
The dragon lifted its head suddenly and roared. “The small creatures are timid and without flame. They would not dare fly to the land inhabited by man!”
Amsel shook his head. “Children have been murdered. The coldrakes have attacked both Simbala and Fandora. They have even attacked me!”
The dragon stared at Amsel. “They would never attack,” it said.
Amsel showed the dragon the hole in his vest made by the coldrake’s talon. “You see!” he shouted. “They have done so! You must help us prevent them from returning again!”
The dragon did not reply. It observed Amsel, tapping its paw continually as it did. At last it sighed and lowered its head to Amsel’s height.
“What right does man have to demand anything of me? Man has murdered! Man has betrayed us! Man is a fitting partner to the ice and wind.”
Amsel would not be dissuaded. He stepped closer to the dragon’s head. He spoke loudly, with a pause between each word. “I have risked my life to come here! If you will not help me, then I wish to ask the other dragons. Tell me where to find them.” The dragon was silent. Then softly it moaned, “There are no others. I am the last of my race.” A sadness filled the tired rumble of its voice. Amsel gasped. “That cannot be!” he cried. “That cannot possibly be!”
The dragon shut its eyes as if to banish the man and the pain he brought. Seconds later, when they opened again, Amsel was still there.
“Leave,” said the dragon. “I wish to be alone.”
“You cannot be the last!” said Amsel. “The legends speak of an entire race of dragons—proud creatures living in a beautiful land of glowing caverns and forests. What has happened to them?”
There was a slow, rumbling sound, like an avalanche. The dragon’s neck rose above Amsel, and the creature roared. “They are gone! Murdered by the frost! Murdered by man!”
The roar echoed through the cavern and left Amsel in shock. He watched the anguished face of the dragon, and he knew that what he had heard was true. This was the last dragon and mankind, somehow, shared the blame. He shuddered and glanced at the manacle. There was a tale to be told that was not part of the legends, a tale that man had never heard.
The dragon lowered its head once more.
“The frost killed and man betrayed,” it moaned. Its eyes were distant and sorrowful. Peering at Amsel, it spoke of the history of the frozen lands beyond the caverns.
“Long ago this was a warm land. My race lived at peace here. As the ages passed, the cold winds came. We moved slowly south, leaving our old land. When the frost followed, we were forced into these glowing caverns. The coldrakes, as you call them, no longer lived among us. They were hardier than we and remained in the cold land to the north.
“Time passed slowly, but the cold winds would not leave. Soon our eggs were unable to hatch even in the land to the south of these caverns.”
The dragon pulled its chain unknowingly as it talked. “Those that governed before me sent scouts to the land south of the sea to see if it could become our home. They discovered a warm land there filled with forests and lakes, and only on the highest peaks could be found the frost.”
“That could be Simbala,” said Amsel. “It is a land directly south of yours.”
The hoary old head nodded ponderously. “We stayed there only a short time, for the land soon became too hot for any of us to survive.”
“The seasons,” said Amsel. “It grew hotter because the seasons changed.”
“We knew only that we could remain in that land no longer. An edict was issued to the coldrakes to protect them from journeying south. Many of us returned to these caverns, while our scouts were sent farther south to seek help from the creature who called himself man. We knew man had survived in many lands, and we hoped that his secret would help us to defeat the frost.
“In the southern lands, man was friendly. Yet he knew of no way to defeat the frost. Our scouts remained, hoping to learn something that would help in our survival.”
“There was no secret,” said Amsel. “Man is different from dragon, as the north land is different from the south. You can survive where we may not, just as a seaworm is able to live under the sea.”
“We did not know these things in that time. We were frightened. Fewer young were being hatched. We brought man to these caverns in the hope that he could help us protect them against the frost.”
That might have been possible, thought Amsel. The men could have taught the dragons how to keep the cold from the eggs through a careful use of coverings and heat. He did not know if this had actually been attempted, but obviously the creatures had not survived.
“Our scouts were sent to other lands, to the east and west, to search farther for a home, but few returned. Man remained in our caverns, studying us, learning our secrets. There was still hope that man would discover a way to stop the cold winds, but another age passed and we grew fewer in number. Other men came from the south with plans to help us. None did. The last scouts were sent to the west. I became head of those who still survived, and it was in my age that no young were born at all. Many perished from the cold. It was then that man deceived us.”
“Deceived you?”
“Man had learned the secrets of our race. He knew of the jewels that had been passed down from each age to the next. There were eight jewels, each from one of the heads of the eight who had governed us in ages past.”
“You are from the ninth age of dragons?” asked Amsel.
“I am the last,” the dragon bellowed. “I am the last of my race. I betrayed the others to man.”
Amsel looked at the dragon in consternation. “You said that man betrayed you.”
The dragon signaled his understanding with a short, deep sigh. “We were frightened, for there was little food to be found, and what man had shared with us was almost gone. They told us once again of their plans to help us survive. If they could see the jewels containing the history and secrets of our past, they said they might learn something that could defeat the wind.” The dragon groaned. “This was forbidden, forbidden by an edict as ol
d as the early ages, when we lived in the land to the north. In my desperation I permitted man to study the jewels, revealing to them myself the secrets of our past. I hoped only to help those of us left to survive, but man deceived me. They used the jewels to learn our vulnerabilities and they trapped me in this faceless jaw. I could not escape.” The dragon looked back at the manacle around his claw. “They left us then, taking with them the jewels. Our treasure, our heritage, was gone and I had been betrayed. Their contents were not meant for mankind, and if man made use of them, they could cause harm. Yet they ignored my warning.”
Amsel looked at the dark, corroded metal of the manacle. “Why did not the other dragons help you escape?”
“They tried,” said the dragon, “but the jaw would not open. They struggled to find food, to discover a place where the young could be born. There were very few that remained in the caverns. When they left, I was alone. Almost an age has passed since man left these caverns, and still the others have not returned. I should not have trusted man. He was a creature who cared only for his own survival.”
“No!” cried Amsel. “Did not some of the men attempt to help you?”
“Man betrayed us,” said the dragon. “Man steals and man lies.”
“Man dreams!” shouted Amsel. “Men who dream only of wealth might have stolen the jewels, but all men do not dream thus. I care only to end the war of my land.”
“Man murders,” said the dragon. “We learned of war in the Southland. It kills like the frost.”
Amsel was silent for a moment. He thought of how the Elders had put his tree house in flames. Yet this did nothing to dissuade him from his belief. “Was there not a time when dragons used their flames to survive? To fight for their land?”
“No!” roared the dragon. “The flame was never used to kill or harm. It has been used only for matters of justice.”
“Were there never dragons who deceived or who disobeyed the edicts of your predecessors?”
“There were few,” said the dragon, “and those were punished. There were times when some sought to mate with the coldrakes, but they were punished. No young were ever born.”
