Chaos Descending

by Toby Neighbors

  After leaving the workshop, Zollin gathered some vegetables from the wooden cupboard inside the cottage. He could have used his magic to slice up and even cook their dinner, but instead he took his time, first chopping then stewing the vegetables. Once he’d gotten the fire burning and hung the pot of vegetables over the flames, Zollin went back out into the twilight. He looked for Brianna, but she was nowhere in sight. The river that ran through the Great Valley was wide enough that it wasn’t unusual to see fishing boats drifting with the current or poling their way upstream.

  Zollin closed his eyes and let his magical senses flow out. He could feel the small insects in the grass, the water of the river flowing, and even the fish that swam in the cold depths. He selected a large trout and then cast one of the first spells he ever taught himself. He levitated the fish from the river. It thrashed in his invisible, magical grip, but even though he wasn’t as powerful as he had once been, his mind was much sharper, his concentration almost unbreakable. He didn’t try to hold the fish, instead he enveloped it, moving his spell around the struggling fish so that it couldn’t escape him.

  One quick, violent thought cast a spell that snapped the fish’s neck, killing it instantly and painlessly. Zollin had no desire to make the poor creature suffer. He just needed the meat for the stew he was making. Another spell stripped the fish’s scales away, and then with one delicate motion Zollin removed the tender white meat. The rest of the fish, including its small set of organs, skin and bones, fell back into the river where Zollin felt the remains being immediately feasted on by smaller fish.

  Zollin levitated the nearly two pounds of perfectly filleted meat toward him until it rested in his hands He held on to his magical senses for several seconds before turning back to the cottage. He felt tired and hungry. As soon as he got inside he seasoned the fish before dropping it into the pot with the vegetables. Then he scrubbed his hands. He enjoyed eating fish, and being so near the river made having an almost constant food source close to hand convenient, but he didn’t like the smell of raw fish that seemed to cling to his skin. He used aromatic herbs, crushing the tiny plants between his fingers and palms as he rubbed his hands together.

  Then, he set out two crystal glasses and poured wine for himself and Brianna. She would be back soon; he wasn’t worried about her yet. He sat near the fire, sipping his wine and stirring the pot of fish stew. He was comfortable, warm, relaxed, and yet, at the back of his mind, just out of reach of his consciousness he felt that danger was lurking.

  Chapter 2

  There was very little for a king to do in the high forest kingdom of the Drery Dru. They were an industrious race and could coax the mighty redwood trees of the Wilderlands to grow into any shape they desired. In the King Tree, Lorik had a lavish home. Most of the huge, towering trees that grew up in the center of the forest’s massive canopy contained small villages, but the King Tree was the largest, and the only tree with dwellings big enough for humans.

  Lorik had returned to the Drery Dru—or forest elves as they were known in Ortis—nearly a year before. He’d found the King Tree changed from his last visit, when he’d nearly died climbing the massive tree in order to find the Swords of Acromin. The tree had been a massive tangle of branches when he'd first seen it, but now it housed an entire city, grown by the Drery Dru in the upper section of the tree’s massive trunk. Just like the tree, the city grew upward, toward the bright sunlight above. There were curving stairs and wonderful homes and shops, although most of them were empty. Had Lorik been a proper king, he would have brought the finest artisans and nobles to the King Tree, but Lorik was alone. He had won the right to rule according to the Drery Dru, but in Ort City, the capital of Ortis, Yettlebor now ruled.

  Lorik knew that he needed to march south and confront the pompous, upstart king. Being cousin to King Ricard in Baskla did not make Yettlebor next in line for the throne of Ortis, but his well fed and even more well equipped army had caused all other contenders for the throne to back down. Ortis was in chaos since most of the population had been turned into the strange, mutated creatures controlled by the witch Gwendolyn. Most of those pitiful wretches had fled south, leaving Ortis a barren, lawless kingdom. The false king Yettlebor had done little to settle the land. He kept most of his troops in Ort City sending only the bare minimum to guard the Wilderlands, which was more about Lorik than about stopping another Norsik invasion.

  Word had spread quickly that there was a king on the throne in the Wilderlands. Lorik was known as the protector and defender of Ortis. Most of the people not captured by the witch’s monsters had fled north, so they had not seen or heard about Lorik’s victories—first against the Norsik raiders, then against the witch’s army, and finally in Baskla. Some of the stories were gross exaggerations, Lorik knew, but since he had not come down from the King Tree to dispute the wild claims, he was quickly becoming a legend among his own people.

  “You look downcast, my love,” said Issalyn as she walked slowly along the balcony that looked out into the center of the hollow treetop.

  Lorik was standing rigidly near the railing that lined the walk way. He could see the elves moving quickly about their business. Many of the little people came to the King Tree to continue growing the tree into useful forms or conducting business. Lorik had a special love for the forest elves. They had opened the way for him to become the man he always knew in his heart he was meant to be, and yet he felt no satisfaction in his achievements.

  “Just thinking,” Lorik said.

  “Brooding, from the look of it,” Issalyn said. “You worry too much.”

  “I’m not worrying,” Lorik lied.

  “Of course you are. You weren’t meant to hide away from your kingdom, my love. Don’t you understand that?”

  “I understand that if I go south it will mean more fighting and more death, perhaps even of the people I love most,” he said, trying, as he had done dozens of times before, to explain why he felt he couldn’t leave the forest.

  “Yettlebor is no king,” Issalyn said.

  “But he will not simply leave Ort City,” Lorik said. “What kind of ruler would I be if I plunged the kingdom into yet another bloody conflict?”

  “You would be justified,” she argued. “You fought for King Ricard’s daughter, and now his cousin sits on your throne. You have every right to take it back.”

  “Yettlebor has an army, and even if I could match his numbers, one messenger north into Baskla would bring King Ricard marching south to his cousin’s aid.”

  “So you are afraid,” Issalyn said.

  “You know I am not,” Lorik said, his anger rising.

  “Then you simply do not wish for me to be happy.”

  “How could you not be happy? What is it you long for that you do not have here?”

  “Subjects,” Issalyn said.

  Lorik wanted to argue, but he knew Issalyn was right. The idea of having subjects was almost ludicrous to Lorik. He had spent most of his life as a teamster, hauling cargo from the Marshlands into the kingdom proper. He wasn’t a noble, and the thought of being a lord, let alone a king, made him strangely uncomfortable. And while he was a king in title among the Drery Dru, he wasn’t their king. They were a peaceful, industrious people who were more than capable of governing themselves. The King Tree existed to be a link between the forest elves and the men of the Five Kingdoms, but it was slowly becoming nothing more than a hollow tree.

  “You need to go home,” she went on. “You need to be around people. You need problems to solve. You’re wasting away here.”

  Lorik understood what Issalyn was saying, and even what she wasn’t saying. She needed to be around other people. She was bored, and despite the luxurious lifestyle they enjoyed among the Drery Dru, everything was different. The food they ate was delicious, but there was no meat. The elves drank a sweet wine, but there was no ale. They spoke a different language, even though many also spoke in the common tongue of the Five Kingdoms, but all their songs and stories
were in their own song-like language. Lorik loved to hear the elves, but Issalyn had grown tired of living in the magnificent redwood trees. She was a queen, and while Lorik couldn’t imagine any palace being as opulent or as beautiful as the King Tree, he understood that Issalyn longed for the familiarity of her old home.

  And while Lorik wasn’t wasting away, he was not the same man he’d been when he first met the Queen. His battle with the necromancer in Baskla started a slow, gradual decline in the magical enhancement to his body that the elves had given him when he found the Swords of Acromin. He was still a large man, still strong and capable, but the bulging muscles were less pronounced now, and his stature had shrunk somewhat. He no longer had to duck his head to pass through the doorways of his home in the King Tree.

  “If I go, it will only cause more harm than good,” Lorik said. “Yettlebor will see it as a threat.”

  “So we’ll send an emissary to prepare him,” Issalyn said. “I’ll go.”

  “You’ll be in danger,” Lorik said.

  “No,” she argued. “I won’t be. Yettlebor may be a grasping, power-hungry despot, but he is no fool. If he hurts me, there can be no doubt that you will destroy him. What he needs is a way to gracefully concede to your right as king. The first step is to meet with him. You can do that, right?”

  Lorik didn’t want to say yes. He wanted to keep Issalyn with him in the King Tree, to hold on to their languid, peaceful life among the Drery Dru for as long as possible. But he knew that if he forced Issalyn to stay, she would only grow to resent him. He had put off the inevitable as long as he could. Now, he would have to face the responsibilities that lay on his shoulders whether he liked it or not.

  “Yes,” he said, trying not to let his own resentment show. “Of course I can do that, but surely we can send someone else.”

  “Who?” Issalyn asked. “The Drery Dru will not go, and there isn’t anyone else.”

  “I can send Stone and Vera,” Lorik said.

  “That’s not prudent and you know it,” Issalyn said. “I like Stone and Vera, but they aren’t exactly diplomats.”

  “They know me better than anyone. Vera is my oldest friend.”

  “Yes, I know that. Your family took her in when her parents died. She’s like a sister to you, but that doesn’t make her the right person to represent your interests to the king.”

  Lorik didn’t respond, even though he wanted to. Issalyn turned away, but Lorik could see her ears turning red and guessed that her face was flushing. She had called Yettlebor the king, and Lorik was not so smitten that he didn’t realize the true meaning behind her words.

  “Go, and have safe travels. I will be along shortly,” Lorik said.

  Issalyn’s whole body was stiff. Eventually she hurried away, choosing not to say anything at all. Lorik watched her leave and felt the inevitable shifting of his world. He’d felt it before, when Vera and Stone left the Marshlands and Lorik had been left behind. Now he was being spurred into action by the same feeling of unease that had seized him when the Norsik invaded. He would have to march into his enemy’s lair and face the demons he knew were waiting to bring everything he cared about crumbling down around his ears. But at least he would have a few days of peace once Issalyn left. And he would get to see Stone and Vera again. His friends had chosen to build a home in the fertile land just south of the Wilderlands. Perhaps they might even join him on one last foolish adventure.

  Chapter 3

  It was getting late and Brianna knew she needed to go back home, but she was flying on the back of a dragon named Sorva, sailing around the pinnacles of enormous mountains and dashing through puffy white clouds. It was exhilarating to Brianna, who had no fear of falling. In fact, she often jumped from one dragon to the other. The entire pride was flying together, matching speed and staying in a tight formation with no need to communicate. The dragons were in perfect sync and there was a feeling of ecstasy being part of the group.

  Brianna loved her life. She had welcomed the months of languid pace after being in danger and constantly on the move for nearly a year. She had enjoyed building the house, although she didn’t play a very big role in its construction. And she loved Zollin, although she had to work harder of late to convince herself that her feelings were real. The truth was, pregnant or not, she’d grown bored and was now thrilled to be going on a tour of the Five Kingdoms. The pride of dragons weren’t as keen about the idea, but Ferno insisted on going. The big green dragon was still very protective of Zollin, and Brianna loved that about the powerful beast.

  Tig, the small blue dragon that had lost its twin to Bartoom, a giant black dragon enslaved by a wizard in Osla, didn’t want to come. The small dragon still seemed to be in mourning, and Brianna worried about Tig. It was possible the dragon might never be okay, but there was nothing Brianna could do to ease the beast’s pain. She had conceived all the dragons in the Five Kingdoms except for Bartoom. Using her power as a Fire Spirit to melt the rock of a mountain, she dove deep into the center of the massive monolith. Then, in the very heart of the mountain, she’d found the gold to make each dragon’s heart. Her creation of the incredible creatures was a fevered dream to her now. She hadn’t slept or eaten, or even taken the time to rest between making the dragons. She formed their bodies from solid rock around hearts of gold. It almost seemed like a dream to her, but each of the dragons around her was living proof of her work.

  She didn’t control the dragons—they were fiercely independent. The pride was something they formed for kinship, not control. She couldn’t force them to come south or to carry her on their strong backs, and she wouldn’t even if she could. The dragons saw her as one of their own, an elder—even though she was still in her teens—but not really a mother, and certainly not their master. Brianna had seen Bartoom, the great black dragon, forced to follow the evil wizard Offendorl’s will. Bartoom had resisted for days, but in the end, the beast was powerless. It was a situation that haunted Brianna. She knew her dragons were safe in the highlands, and she was zealous about preserving their independence. Still, she needed at least two to carry her and Zollin south.

  Sorva was the only black dragon that Brianna had made. Before her time in the mountain, she had spent several days with Bartoom, who was an ancient and extremely powerful dragon. Brianna had not wanted to recreate such a unique creature, and so Sorva was different in many ways. The scales along Sorva’s body were glossy black, just like Bartoom’s, but that was where the similarities ended. Sorva was smaller, though still a large dragon, stretching thirty feet from head to tail and ten feet tall at the shoulder. Sorva had a broad, flat head with large eyes and even larger nostrils. Where Ferno, the green dragon, was thick and powerfully built, Sorva was really only large in the hind quarters. Sorva could jump high into the air using only the back two legs. The front legs were more delicate and graceful. The talons on Sorva’s rear legs were large and useful for grabbing and ripping prey. The front legs were more dexterous and the talons longer.

  Sorva had carried Brianna after Selix had fallen in battle. She had taken Brianna south to Osla to find Zollin after the final battle with the witch’s mutated army. And then Sorva had carried her north again, but now the black dragon seemed reluctant to leave the highlands. Brianna didn’t want to force any of the dragons to come with her, and she knew that if she asked they would all come. What she wanted was a willing companion for the journey. There was no telling what shape the southern kingdoms were in, and she needed a ferocious steed, not a reluctant slave.

  The pride of dragons was flying south again, and Brianna could see the Great Valley in the distance as twilight fell. She wondered what Zollin was doing and felt a pang of guilt at her trepidation to return. She was carrying his child after all, surely that should have made her feel more affection for him. Instead, she felt a growing apathy. She loved Zollin, but he was different since the great battle and not just because he was no longer a powerful wizard.

  Zollin had recovered from his battle with the
witch very slowly. Not in the physical sense, but emotionally. It was as if his sense of adventure had completely deserted him. All he talked about was the cottage and mundane things around their small home. Brianna had tried to be content, and for a while she had been, but eventually she simply grew bored. She felt bad for manipulating Zollin into thinking the trip south was his idea, but she didn’t think he would have agreed to go otherwise. She wanted him to want to go, to want to face new challenges with her at his side, to explore the world before other concerns tied them down permanently.

  The dragons dove down into a narrow pass, changing formation so they could fly single file. The pass twisted and turned, making the flight perilous and at the same time exhilarating. Just like the dragons, Brianna loved flying through the narrow canyons as fast as possible until they finally came to a small clearing with several small caves where many of the pride nested when they were in that part of the extensive mountain range.

  Sorva slowed as they circled the clearing and then landed gracefully in the center. The dragon’s big, black head turned on the long neck and it looked at Brianna with large brown eyes that were flecked with green, gray, and blue. A mental image appeared in Brianna’s mind. She saw herself riding Sorva and Zollin riding Ferno. Brianna couldn’t help but smile.

  “I’m so glad you’ll come,” she said, stroking the dragon’s thick neck. “We leave the day after tomorrow, at first light.”

  Sorva nodded, then growled, “Two days.”

  The dragon’s voice was rough, almost like the sound of glass being ground under a boot heel, but the dragons rarely spoke verbally. They understood words but preferred to speak using mental images. Sorva’s words were a tribute to Brianna, a way of showing respect among the pride.

  Brianna smiled and nodded, then slid down off the rough scales. Most of the other dragons were still circling above, but Brianna didn’t wait for them. She jogged back along the well-worn path that led around the large hills that hid the clearing from the Great Valley. Then she climbed to a small cleft that gave her a view of the river, her cottage, and in the distance, the lights from Brighton’s Gate.