Copyright
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Reawakening
© 2014 Amy Rae Durreson.
Cover Art
© 2014 Catt Ford.
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.
ISBN: 978-1-62798-405-8
Digital ISBN: 978-1-62798-404-1
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
January 2014
Dedication
For my nephew Ben,
who was born in the same week
that I finished this book.
Acknowledgments
I am very grateful to A.L. Boyd for coming to the rescue of this bewildered Brit with good advice about deserts and their wildlife.
A Map of the Lands
Surrounding the Ala Sea
Chapter 1: Awakening
THE DRAGON came out of the cold north, riding the wind on vast golden wings. He had been sleeping for centuries, his dreams barely disturbed by the rise and fall of the great empires and realms of men. The mountains had grown wild around him; forests had hidden his resting place and had risen along the long ridge of his spine. Great spars of quartz had formed between his gleaming scales, and his claws had furred over with moss and lichen whilst sleep healed his wounds from the last great battle that had felled his brothers and nearly brought all that lived and loved in the world to naught.
Some shadow moving through the world had disturbed his slumber and woken him to the sight of his dark and empty citadel. Now, maddened by the cold air and the lifeless green remnants of his hoard, he threw himself south in search of warmth.
He eventually found a desert—where there had been an ocean in the days when he had last walked among men—and followed the wind down into rolling salt-pale dunes covered in shimmering films of shifting sand. He curled himself into the sand and sank down between the curves of the dunes, digging his claws in deep and rolling out his wings in a slow stretch.
He wasn’t ready for the long sleep again, not so soon, but flight had stretched muscles long unused, so he relaxed slowly, unwilling to move again. The hot sands slowly warmed his blood, and the sun blazed down from a gem-bright sky, heating his long back and drying out the damp wads of forest along his spine.
Breathing in the dust-dry scent of the wind, he tasted the desert. It fizzed with life: scuttling lizards, fleet-footed rats, and birds that hung on the wind. Cool oases added a tang of sweetness, and the prickly flowering plants of the high steppes and central mountains layered in more scents and flavors. Above all, the desert tasted loved.
It was not a human love, smutty and dense and urgent, but a bubbling, laughing love that had its roots in the bedrock and arched as high as the sky. It felt like his love for his hoard—the love of a creature of spirit and elements.
The dragons were still sleeping, though, and this desert was too young for any other solemn and daunting spirit to have arisen here. There could be no one here equal to him in power and dignity. Ignoring the clear sense that the place was already occupied, the dragon went to sleep, contemplating how pleasant it would be to claim this place and make it his new home.
He was woken by an itch.
It was only a little itch, nipping at the end of his tail. He smacked his tail down irritably, and it stopped.
Then it started again, above his right nostril. Then on his spine, at the back of his neck, on the soft scales in the fold beneath his knee.
Annoyed, the dragon woke to see that he was surrounded by tiny whirls of sand, spinning against the wind to attack him from all sides.
The dragon was, like all his kind, a creature of air and fire. Mildly amused, he took a deep breath, filling the great hollows of his lungs. Then, with a twist of his head, he blew the dust devils away.
They reformed almost instantly, as one dark whirl of wind, sand, and indignation.
“Go away!” the desert spirit demanded. “This is my country. I don’t want you here!”
“I like it here,” the dragon said, his voice creaking with long disuse. “Begone, sprite.”
“I am the Great Desert Alagard!” the spirit corrected, picking up more sand in its fury. “I span nations and spurn conquerors! I am the dry death and the devourer of souls! You are not welcome here!” Then it added, voice shrill, “And don’t call me a sprite, you overgrown lizard!”
So it was a courageous little spirit, even if it didn’t know it was outmatched. Entertained, the dragon deigned to answer it in kind. “I am the keeper of the hoard of Tarn Amel, dragon lord of the first hatching. I battled the Shadow on the field of Astalor and threw down the demon kings of Eyr. Shiver in my presence, and be humble.” And then, just because he could, he added, “Sprite.”
Little puffs of sand fumed out the side of Alagard’s whirlwind. “None of that makes you special. It just makes you old. Go away!”
“Old, wise, and powerful beyond your understanding,” the dragon agreed, dropping his head back down on his front legs. “And tired. I shall have you for my new hoard, little sprite, you, this land, and all the treasures that dwell within your bounds.”
“I am not something to be collected!”
The dragon closed his eyes and ignored the sounds of indignation flitting around his ears. It reminded him somewhat of the days of old, when he had dwelt in the midst of a great hoard and the lords of men had argued strategy and honor by his feet. After so many centuries of silence, a voice was soothing.
He was disappointed when the desert spirit flounced away, leaving only the kiss of the wind shifting the sand and the distant cry of carrion birds.
Then a little voice by his front claw piped up, “Thief! Thief! Thief!”
The dragon raised an eyelid enough to spot a little desert rat. It saw him looking, and squeaked before darting back into its hole.
He closed his eye again.
“Thief! Thief! Thief!” hissed a snake, sliding insolently over the tip of his tail.
“Thieeeeef!” whistled the wind, spitting sand against his side, between his scales and into his eyes. A wide-eared desert fox jeered it at him, lizards chittered it, horned toads belched it, and all the while the wind blasted sand at his sides in relentless gusts, lulling him into relaxation before it raged at full force again.
So Alagard commanded the loyalty of the creatures that lived in his country. It made him all the more appealing as an acquisition. The dragon prized things that commanded love.
Amused, he shifted away from the blast of the wind a little and went back to ignoring the jabber
of the little desert creatures. When the wind came at him from a different angle, he shifted again, burrowing into the warm sand like one of the little lizards chattering by his knee. The eternal fire in his belly, which would burn for as long as he lived, had dimmed to a low flicker during his centuries of slumber. Now, as his body grew warm and he soaked in the love of the desert animals for their guardian spirit, his flames began to burn higher. By the time the desert night fell, bringing the cold, blazing stars and countless night creatures to add their voices to the chorus of reproach, he was beginning to feel aware and alert, shaking off the sleepy instincts that had driven him south.
What had become of the men who had followed him? he wondered. What had happened to the world after the abyss had swallowed the demons of Eyr and torn the earth asunder? Had the realms of men survived, or had humanity been cast back to its primitive beginning? Did anyone remember that dragons had once filled the sky and walked the earth in the guise of men, with great armies at their backs? Could others of his brethren have woken before him, or was he alone in these later days?
What had the power to break him out of his sleep?
All the while, bit by bit, he shifted away from the nagging wind. It wasn’t until his tail snagged around an acacia tree that he realized how far he had come, right to the western edge of the desert.
“Alagard!” he roared in indignation.
He hadn’t meant to put a note of summoning in it, but it dragged the desert spirit to him in a bedraggled cloud of dust and fury. When it saw him, though, it let out a distinct snicker. “That’s right, lizard. Keep heading that way. Out, out, out!”
The dragon drew breath to blow him away and storm back into the desert. Then he reconsidered. Now that he was more awake, he recalled winning followers before. At first, before his name resounded through the world of men, it had not been so simple. Once, he had known how to court allies and win supporters. He needed a new hoard, full of precious things, and he could build one around this fierce spirit, if only he could win him.
Feigning humility, he lowered his belly against the ground and slid his long neck forward to curl around his brave little whirlwind. “I will leave you to your peace.”
“Hah!” Alagard crowed, spinning faster in glee. “And so you should.” Then it added, a little sulkily, “I thought you had more fight in you, lizard.”
“I will return,” the dragon promised.
“What? No, no, no!”
“Yes,” the dragon vowed and blinked at him lazily. “And when I do, I will win you. You will give yourself to me gladly, and I will possess you and all that is yours, as the new heart of my hoard.”
Smirking, he rose up on his hind legs and extended his wings to their full extent so the air cracked like thunder. As he launched himself into the wind, he could still hear the little desert spirit sputtering and fuming behind him, and he laughed as he flew back north.
Chapter 2: Mourning
HE RETURNED to his old home, wondering if anything remained of his hoard. It was a gray and quiet day, and mist clung to the ragged edges of the earth where he had shaken himself free. No one moved across the ground, save a few yellow deer that scattered in terror at his shadow. So the deer, at least, remembered, even if there were no men here to ask why the mountain had moved.
There had been a full garrison here when he had collapsed into sleep. His energy had been drained by the battle with the Shadow, the immortal king of the dark lords who froze men’s hearts and devoured all that was joyful and precious in the world. He had been the last of his kindred left standing, lingering long enough to be assured that the tearing of the earth would not wipe out the men who had followed them into war.
The human captain of his hoard had promised to keep watch over him, despite his orders to leave. He had known he would not wake for generations, and Killan deserved better than to live out a mortal life watching him sleep.
But Killan had kissed him, whilst he still had the strength of will to hold to his human form, and murmured, “I have fought enough wars, lord. Let me rest awhile with you, and I will be content.”
He could not enter the old human garrison in this form, so he summoned his will and reshaped himself, remembering the body he had worn of old. The world was too thin and fragile for dragons and demons to war in their own dread forms. It was the one law that flame and shadow had agreed upon: in battle, they wore the forms of men so they would not tear the world asunder. Even that law had been broken by the Shadow, before the end.
The cold winter air struck his human flesh like a scythe, molding the still battle-damp rags he wore to his cold bones. Ripping them off, he saw ancient bloodstains suddenly dry and turn black under the bite of the wind. He drew in a quick breath, raising a flame to flicker over the corded muscles of this form. He had modeled himself on one of his first followers, a man whose name even he could barely remember. He had been one of the hill lords of the north—tall, long limbed, and ferocious, with white-gold hair that had fallen in snaky twists to his elbows, and eyes that had been wide and sad and blue, as if he knew he had been born too soon for all the things he wished to learn about the makings and workings of the world.
Naked, the dragon walked into the caves below the mountains, pressing his feet into the moss that had grown up over the polished marble steps. He would need clothing before he made his way back to the warmth of the desert, and an excuse to be traveling that would let him slide over the border before the fierce little spirit noticed he was back.
The great hall was dark, the high stone sconces empty. His flame sent shadows flickering across the vast arched roof, making the corners seem darker. It had been their place of celebration once, the home to which they returned when the snow blocked the passes and the campaign stopped for the winter.
He could no longer hear even the echo of their wassailing. Walking forward, he felt the wind sigh past him, keening its way into the mountain and making his flames flare forward like tattered ribbons, the only brightness in the dim shade.
Something turned under his foot, small, hard, and painful. He picked it up and rubbed the moss off its dulled edges. It was a chess piece, a polished bone king, with goggling eyes and his hands wrapped fiercely around both ends of his sword. The dragon had played against Killan with a set like this, on evenings when there was a lull in the battle and they could sit in his tent with furs across their laps, Killan’s feet curled against his thigh and their cheeks close.
He took it with him, following the steps down into the lower halls. His fires had kept the whole mountain warm once, through the long winters. Children had run laughing through these caves, and pretty round-cheeked girls had giggled at the sight of him and ducked away, whispering to their friends behind their hands. He had known them all by name once, every warrior and healer, every child and crone, the cooks, the smiths, the farriers, every man and woman of his host.
Now cold water dripped off the roof above him, and bats went rushing ahead at the light of his fires. There was no one left to smile and bow and return his greeting.
He came to one of the treasure chambers next. This part of his hoard endured, gold gleaming against gold, stack upon stack of torcs and crowns, busts and gilded armor, captured standards, and all that remained of polished lyres and harps, their strings rotted into dust.
Once, he would have lingered here for hours, touching the precious things with eager hands, breathing in the pride of their creators and the love their owners had felt for them.
They were just metal and gems now, and everything else he had collected so zealously was dust—the paintings, rolls of poetry, roughly hewn toys put away when boys came of age and went to war, painstakingly embroidered baby’s gowns, and little cloth bags of milk teeth and locks of hair, kept by old mothers until the day they died and then cast aside by their grown children, who had treasures of their own.
Everyone who had loved these things was gone, and without love, they had no meaning. They would not succor him.
His
footsteps slowed before he reached the lowest halls, but he forced himself on.
The catacombs were full, though they had been half-empty when he had gone to sleep. On every shelf and in every alcove, bones were stacked in intricate patterns, overhung with silver flares of lichen and green moss. He tried to calculate the generations by their number—how many had lived here after the war?
He could not make sense of it, though, could not fit together the scattered pieces into whole bodies. Were they part of his hoard, or later generations gathered here in the shadows of their forefathers?
The corridor led him at last to the open air, to what had once been the great, smooth landing platform of his citadel. Its edges were rough now, cracked and heaped with fallen stones, and remnants of snow gathered over it in slushy late-winter smears.
At the center of the platform stood a great cairn, flat topped and crowned with snow. Its stones were wind worn and ancient, and had not been here when he had last walked into the mountain from this place. As he stepped toward it, his foot caught on a low plinth, and he hissed in annoyance as his stubbed toe throbbed.
He kicked the snow off the plinth out of irritation first and then saw the tracery of letters etched into the stone under a brown web of dead vines. Once he had cleared it off, he could only read one of the alphabets carved into the rock.
That was enough, and he knelt before the cairn with burning eyes.
Here rests Killan, first of kings,
Best of men, battle lord,
Dear to his people, the dragon’s shield.
“Dearer still to me,” the dragon promised him and rose. There was nothing more for him here.
He was not ready to travel in his human form, however, not yet. He had not lived so long to be brought low by cold and hunger, not when he was already so weak from the loss of his hoard.
The citadel had been abandoned long enough that nothing edible remained in the kitchens. Instead, he returned to his larger form and reminded the yellow deer why their ancestors had learned to run from great shadows in the air. His appetite sated, he switched to his human form and scavenged his way through the caves.
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