Ilnumil shot Linil an angry stare as he felt a warm stream that had meandered through the grass dampen his tunic. Linil sighed and gave a sated smile to the heavens above.
They rangers passed the time by taking their turns in light kathedo trances, a state of meditative consciousness elves could achieve when sleep was unavailable or practical. Tension kept them from their normal sleep cycles, and the need for clarity was urgent. Kathedo was risky, but they trusted one another to keep them from falling too deep into the trance and getting lost forever. Nothing short of excruciating pain or loss of breath could free an elf who went too deep, and sometimes even those weren’t enough, but the benefits of the trance more than outweighed the danger.
A sharp breath from Katalas drew the rangers’ attention. He cocked his chin toward the southern sky where a flock of creatures could be seen winging toward the Dreadcrest. Overhead, Mavros stopped his circling to hover above the peak and watch their approach.
Assured the Black’s attention was focused elsewhere, Katalas ordered the cadre to their feet and lead them deeper into the copse. Soon they were able to make out six dragons flying in rough formation, each of them a unique color. Five of the dragons glittered brightly in the sunlight, as if encrusted with sparkling jewels—red and green, blue and purple—and one a bright white like fresh snow. The remaining dragon seemed to devour light, diminishing the brilliance of his kindred when they ventured near. He wasn’t black like Mavros, but grey instead, like a cloud of soot carried on the wind. The others seemed to avoid him, almost as if they might be tainted if they ventured too close.
Waves of dragonfear swept over the elves as the dragons approached, driving the cadre to their knees. If not for their years of hard-won discipline they would have bolted in keening terror. Linil, though his breeches had finally dried, voided his bladder again. No one made fun of him, they were all making efforts to smother their own terror.
Mavros bellowed a welcome as the flock of dragons eased into a hover near the peak. They called out an answer, then shot into the air one by one. Each of them pirouetted in the air, turning to dive into the Dreadcrest’s smoky maw. The Black followed after scanning the horizon a final time before turning his own bulk to plunge into the volcano.
Four ashen-faced elves stood staring at their commander. His grim demeanor echoed their feelings. They were undone. The dragonfear had washed away but left them drained. When Katalas finally spoke, it was with bleak resolve.
“Gather your gear. We’re leaving.”
“Wait, all of us?” Linil asked. “This outpost hasn’t been abandoned in a thousand years.”
Katalas knew Linil wasn’t questioning out of insubordination, but out of fear. He’d always encouraged his cadre to think for themselves, so he didn’t call him out.
He looked each of his rangers in the eyes, measuring their resolve.
“You saw what I saw,” Katalas said. “The evil dragons have gathered in one place for the first time in millennia. By my count they’re all here but for one. Our duty is clear. We must report both this gathering, and the missing dragon. There’s nothing further to be gained by staying, and anyone who did stay would find a swift death. It won’t be long before the dragons themselves are sweeping the area looking for spies.
“This outpost has served its purpose. It’s time to go.”
The cadre set into motion, scraping together the bare minimum the would need for the journey home. They worked silently in the gathering darkness, and were jogging south toward home before the light of day failed.
Linil loped along in quiet thought as they wended their way through the marshland. Uncertainty gnawed at his mind.
“Katalas,” Linil whispered, “what does it mean?”
“Hmm?” Katalas asked.
“I…I’m not sure what I’m asking,”Linil said. “I still don’t understand why we’ve abandoned the outpost. What does this gathering of dragons mean?”
Katalas regarded Linil with compassion, knowing his words would bring the young ranger’s world crashing down around him.
“It means, my young friend, that Chashak has returned.”
7
The Helisso Mountains
White-knuckled and trembling, Tander held tight to the harness, stiff with fear. Vonedil sat before him, his posture loose and carefree, as if he had flown dragon back many times before.
They were flying!
Sidero pumped his wings hard as he fought to gain altitude and take them out of the range of archers. Once they were high enough to catch the rising thermals, Sidero settled into a soaring glide. He turned a tight circle and used his keen sight to look back down on the city. Tander looked and saw the bard’s home engulfed in flames, a beacon lighting the night.
“I’m sorry for the loss of your home,” Sidero’s head snaked around to glance at his passengers.
“You can’t lose what’s already been taken away,” the old man’s smile was remorseful. “I was welcome no longer.”
“But your instruments…” Tander’s grip tightened on the harness.
“Are of no consequence, my boy. I’m an old man possessed of a failing voice and stiff fingers. Few listen to the prophecies any longer. I’ve done all I can, now others must press on in my stead. Others like you, Tander.”
Sidero circled the town a few more times, gaining height on each orbit. “It’s regrettable they’ve turned from the truth.”
“They have their own truth now, a most dangerous truth.”
“Dangerous?” Tander asked, “Dangerous how?”
“Because it’s mostly true, but the foundation is false and unstable. Their faith is empty and rings false, for it is a faith based on a lie.”
“But once their faith is put to the test they’ll find it wanting,” Tander said.
“Yes,” Vonedil sighed, “but by then it will be too late.”
Tander sat back and dwelled on the bard’s words. There was something strange going on here, something deeper than his father’s disapproval of Vonedil. What was it? His quiet rebellion against his father had grown to this, forcing him to leave behind the only life he’d ever known.
“What if my father’s involved?” Tander whispered.
Vonedil shook his head sadly. “Then it’s too late for him as well.”
“No! Take me back, I have to warn him. I have to talk to him.”
“I’m sorry,” rumbled the dragon, “the danger is too great.”
“Think, lad,” the bard implored. “There’s little doubt your father is connected. He sent his guards to dispose of me. Who knows what plans he has for you, or what he will want to do to you once he learns of your role in my escape. Your own life will be in danger.”
“My father wouldn’t harm me,” Tander insisted.
“Before tonight, did you ever think he would order my arrest?” Vonedil snapped a little more forcefully than he’d meant to.
Tander rocked back, eyes wide at the accusation. He tensed as he looked down, having forgotten they were high in the air. He tightened his grip on the harness again as waves of nausea washed over him.
It wasn’t only the height making him feel sick. Nothing made sense any more.
Silence fell and the hours passed as they flew. Home fell away behind them and the jagged crags of the Helissa range loomed ahead. Tander tried to relax and enjoy the adventure as much as his heart would allow.
Vonedil was fast asleep, leaning forward to sprawl across the dragon’s long neck. Tander thought he might strike up a conversation with Sidero, but held off in fear they would wake the bard. He knew he owed the old man an apology. Vonedil had been more of a father to him than his own flesh and blood.
Riding the dragon was intoxicating once he got over the terror of flight. He recalled the stories he’d heard as a child, and remembered the thrill when one would circle over the lake. Had that ever been Sidero? He told himself to remember to ask once Vonedil was awake.
The stories said that the iron dragon, though among t
he smallest of his kind, was arguably the strongest. Sidero was dense and muscular, and seemed to be carrying far more mass than a beast of his size should carry. His iron scales added to that sense of solidity.
In full glide, Sidero’s wingspan was as wide as his body was long. The membranes tapered into a rough triangle shape that attached themselves to his body all the way to the tip of his tail. Flexible ribs thrust out from the dragon’s side to support the thick wing sail. A short fan similar to the wings ran up the center of his neck from the edge of the riding harness up to his regal head crest.
Tander thought Sidero was like iron inside and out. The dragon was hard and protective in his thinking, yet Tander sensed a malleability as well. A willingness to think the best in someone new. A willingness to form a bond of friendship and loyalty without hesitation. He already felt accepted by the dragon and was glad.
Sidero would make a formidable enemy.
The dragon dipped a graceful wing and banked north. They flew parallel to the snow-covered peaks that clawed at the night sky. They reflected just enough starlight to offers glimpses of the inhospitable valleys below.
When Sidero turned west again, Tander looked up to see a gap ahead, a cleft where the waning moonlight shown bright between a twin pair of mountain peaks. The dragon’s neck seemed to stretch out and he tucked in his wings. They dropped from the sky, and Tander’s breath was stolen away.
Faster and faster they fell toward the gap until they shot through the pass to emerge on the western side of the range. Tander breathed again when Sidero unfurled his wings, using an updraft of warm air blowing in from the ocean to recover their lost altitude. His sharp gasp drew the dragon’s attention, and Sidero craned his neck back to find Tander staring in wonder at the far horizon.
“What is it, boy?” Sidero asked.
The setting moon’s light shone in the boy’s eyes as he watched its reflection on the ocean’s surface. Wonder filled his face as he looked out at the never-ending water.
“I’ve never seen the ocean before,” the boy whispered.
A deep rumble shook the dragon’s body. Tander interpreted it as a laugh.
“Wait until you see it in the light of day,” the dragon said. “The ocean is vast and makes me feel like a speck.”
“I’ve never been this far from home before,” Tander said. “Only across the lake once or twice.”
“My young friend, I have a feeling your adventures are only just beginning.”
Sidero turned south and soared down toward the tree line. Vonedil stirred and sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“Ah,” the old bard said as he peered about, “we’re nearly there.”
“Where are we going?” Tander asked.
“To my home,” Sidero answered. “A place I share with others who share my view of the world.”
The dragon pulled his flight away from the central range and the winds rose up around them in a swirling gale. Tander and Vonedil held tight to the harness as the opposing winds buffeted them. Suddenly, Sidero plunged into a heavily wooded valley, following the silver path of a river below.
“Hold on!” Sidero called over the zephyrs.
He jerked his head back and his leathery wings filled with air. They came to a near stop in midair, hovering few a few seconds over a rock outcropping that jutted from the trees. Then light as a bird, Sidero touched down on his hind feet.
“Yer late,” a rough voice sounded from a shadowed cave.
“My passengers weren’t at the rendezvous,” Sidero seemed unsurprised as a brawny dwarf strode onto the landing. “It took a measure of action on my part to extricate them from their situation.”
“Passengers? You only went for one.”
Sidero folded his wings to reveal the pair riding on his back. Vonedil waved a greeting at the dwarf who ignored him to lay a cold stare on Tander. The dwarf’s face turned sour.
“Who’s this then? Another lost whelp?”
Sidero bared his teeth in what Tander thought was a smile. “My friend, when you find a Blade Bearer in need of rescue, you don’t refuse.”
“This pup’s a Bearer?” the dwarf’s eyes went wide. “We’re doomed.”
Vonedil frowned. “I’ve had a hand in preparing the boy, Bita. He’s more than up to the task ahead.”
Bita rolled his eyes. “Oh, that gives me loads o’ confidence.”
Bita looked back at Tander to find him staring back in confusion. He knew they were talking about him, but about what, he couldn’t fathom.
“Get down, boy,” Bita ordered. “I gotta get that harness off so I can go warn the cooks they’ve got another mouth to feed.”
Tander scrambled off and helped his tutor to the ground. Grounded once more, Vonedil pulled Tander aside and said, “Watch this.”
Sidero rose up on his hind legs and unfurled his wings. An appalling sound filled the landing, like the sound of a thousand bones breaking. Tander watched as Sidero’s wings melted into his sides. The dragon’s body seemed to deflate, reshaping itself into a humanlike shape as it shrunk.
The terrible cracking sound finally subsided and Sidero turned to look at his guests. Though shaped like a man, he’d retained his dragon’s head and iron scales. He stepped forward out of the harness where it had fallen to the ground around him, and Bita moved to take it.
Sidero was still imposing. He was taller than an elf but muscular and broad, broader than the stockiest dwarf. He bared his teeth as a saurian smile creased his face.
“How?” Tander asked.
“Dragons are shapeshifters,” Sidero said. “Didn’t you know?”
Tander could only shake his head. How many fantastic things could he see in a single day? Sidero turned toward the cave mouth, motioning for his guests to follow. Vonedil had to prod Tander into motion.
Tander soon discovered why Sidero had diminished in size. The cave was too small for him to fit inside, and narrowed rapidly until they were forced to walk single file. Sidero’s head nearly scraped the rock ceiling overhead.
As the moonlight shining in from outside began to fail, they came to a bend in the passage that led toward a warm glow. The cave opened up into a deep cavern illuminated by thousands of torches. A railed walkway spiraled down into cavern, connected by dozens of rope bridges criss-crossing the gap.
Sidero paused at the landing and turned. Without warning, he launched himself into the chasm, sprouting wings with a peculiar snapping sound as he fell away.
“See you at the bottom,” he laughed.
8
Madhebah
Kitrinos winged his way towards the marble encrusted city of Madhebah. Mavros the Black had passed down orders from the Evil One himself via dragonorb. While the rest of his dark kindred gathered within the Dreadcrest, he had been diverted to take care of a potentially devastating impediment to their master’s plans.
Dragons are a prideful race. Unique creations of Onúl, their number was sixteen. Elves and dwarves could be counted in by the hundreds of thousand, and humans infested the world in their millions. Dragons lived above and apart.
Splintered from their kindred since ancient times, the dark dragons tended towards a haughtiness unfamiliar to their pious siblings. The pride of Kitrinos was greater still, bordering on a kind of self worship. He wasn’t so foolish as to believe himself an equal of the higher powers, but he knew he was special among his kind.
For all of dragon kind’s uniqueness, he was something else altogether. Only he had been born with a lovely, long, coiling serpentine body. All the others were trapped in stubby lizard-like physiques. Only he had been born with magic based not upon some kind of elemental force of nature, but rather a power ethereal, if not supernatural.
Above all this, Kitrinos was the only dragon who should shapeshift into any living creature. His brethren couldn’t manage such a feat. While shapeshifters all, they could only mimic humanoid forms, and even those lacked perfection. Only Kitrinos could morph with such facility as to completely suppress his swi
rling irises while in another form. His art was so finely-crafted that no one from those inferior species could ever be aware of his infiltration if he so desired.
Clearly a dragon above all dragons.
Kitrinos broke from his self-adulation as he neared Madhebah. He spied a giant standing off to the southeast, standing watch.
“So,” he mused to the open air, “my coming is important enough to warrant a watcher.”
A low rumble shook the air around him as he laughed to himself. “Oh, I’ll make this quite spectacular.”
Zalas and company made furious preparations in the hour after the mage’s appearance. He laid out urgent instruction for Juno regarding local operations while Tenna made a mad dash home for clothes and supplies. Now she sat at his desk sipping water between heavy breaths.
Onahim and Cedsul worked to gather and prepare weapons and equipment. They sharpened blades, filled quivers, and packed rucksacks. The old mage paced like a panther nearby, muttering impatiently that they were all taking far too long.
Satisfied with arrangements, Zalas retrieved Nephali from its crate, cradling it like a newborn babe as he ran his hand across its watery surface. His reverie was broken by another of the mage’s impatient growls.
“Who’s this old hobo, and why are you listening to him?” Tenna whispered.
Zalas sat the sat back in its crate and turned to rummage through a cabinet for a suitable scabbard. “He’s my oldest contact,” he explained, “and a magician of some measure. He’s enough of one that he claims to be old Doulos himself.”
“Do you believe he is?”
“I’m not sure what to believe, to be honest. It’s true he has some power, and not enough sense to mind his own business, but that’s been to my advantage over the years. He knows things no one else knows. I searched for clues of the seven Swords for years and never found anything conclusive until he came along. Thanks to him, I’m holding one in my hands.
“Despite my misgivings about his sanity, he’s proven himself so far. I’m willing to follow his lead for the time being.”
The Foundlings (The Swords of Xigara) Page 5
