by Joseph Lallo
The soldiers of the audience instantly leapt to their feet. They flowed like a tide over the walls and into the pit. The dragon's massive maw erupted with flame that licked the ground and pushed back the soldiers. A low sweep with her tail cleared the area behind her. Taking a step forward so that Myranda was directly beneath her, she continued to defend her friend. Myranda's aching mind pushed her confusion and joy aside. There would be time for that later. For now, they had to escape. Her vision was filled with Myn's black gold belly scales. Around the edge, lit by the orange light of a burst of flame, she saw the tattered remains of her left wing. A spell hurled by Bagu splashed across Myn's hide and she recoiled in pain. Myranda didn't know if she had the strength left, but it was her absolute last hope. She swept together the scraps of her spirit and sculpted a healing spell. Slowly the shreds of leathery flesh began to pull together. The crystals tore hungrily at the spell, but Myranda continued. Darkness began to creep in around her. She struggled to keep her mind about her as the last of the ruined wing became whole.
Myn flapped her restored wings. Gale force winds swept over the soldiers, knocking them to the ground. Long unused muscles worked like never before. The dragon scooped up her dazed companion and leapt with all of the force her massive legs could muster. She rose skyward and set her eyes on the horizon. Icy wind rushed past Myranda as she struggled to keep her loose grasp on consciousness. Rooftops, treetops, and open field streaked by her half-lidded eyes and shrank into specks below her. The dark sky and Myn's dark form blended. The only sounds were the whistling of wind, the heaving of breath, and the leathery flap of wings.
It wasn't long before the sound of other leathery wings joined in. Myn peered back. Keen eyes spotted the forms of a veritable fleet of dragoyles among the darkness. She wheeled and soared high into the clouds. The black beasts followed. Soon the world was a haze of gray as they swept through the very clouds. Drawing on instincts developed over generations, Myn maneuvered blindly yet precisely until the vast flock of dragoyles was ahead of her. She could have then dropped below the clouds and made her way to safety. She had other plans.
These men had stolen her away. They had held her, tortured her, changed her. They had hurt her friend. Escape was the last thing on her mind. She drew in close and puffed up her chest. An intense column of flame blasted from her mouth, roasting the riders of half a dozen of their attackers. The others scattered and wheeled. She was twice the size of the largest of them. None lasted long against her. Slashes of claws, whips of her tail, blasts of flame, and devastating snaps of her jaws made short, vicious work of every last pursuer.
The dragon continued onward until the first rays of the sun peeked over the mountains. With the brightening sky, the clever beast knew that it would not be difficult to spot her. She picked out a dense stand of trees and touched down on the ground. As gently as a mother caring for one of her own, Myn placed the shivering form of Myranda on the ground. She sniffed nervously at Myranda. The young wizard tried to pat the creature reassuringly, but she could not stop herself from trembling. The massive creature stood over her ailing friend and lowered herself carefully to the ground, folding her claws over the human's form and gingerly pulling her closer in a sort of embrace. When Myranda was properly nestled in her grasp, Myn let loose a burst of flame.
Myranda could feel the heat rush through Myn's veins, taking the chill instantly from her. Surrounded utterly by her friend, hearing only the distant, deep thump of the massive creature's powerful heart, Myranda for the first time in ages felt something she thought she would never feel again. She felt safe. She drifted into a deep, exhausted sleep. Myn released what could only be described as a sigh of contentment as she felt the tiny form of Myranda slip into slumber. A deep, fundamental happiness filled her as she too drifted into a blissful sleep, finally whole again.
#
Deep in the capital, far to the north, a feeble old man sat in a large, ornate chair. On his head was the crown worn by his forefathers, the Crown of Three Kingdoms. For two generations now, it had been the only crown of the North. It was the very one that had adorned the head of the King of Vulcrest on the fateful day when he lost his life just a few paces too far south and began this endless war. Rescuing it from the Tressons had been the first, and in many ways the last, great triumph for his people in this war. Now it sat on his head. To his people, it was the symbol of his power. For the sake of hope, they were allowed to believe it. Within the castle walls, though, there was no doubt where the true power could be found.
The great doors of the entryway were pulled open by the team of masked soldiers that stood guard. Through the towering doorway passed a small, meticulously dressed man, a pair of silver staffs adorning his back and glinting with the gleam of gems. The king watched in silence as the man known to him as General Demont marched through the great hall. The sound of his purposeful footsteps echoed off of the vaulted ceiling of a hall designed to be the site of vast celebrations. Save for the occasional honored funeral, it had been unused since the coronation. The General, a stern look in his eye, quickened his pace, walking past the king without so much as a glance. A few steps more brought him to a door.
Demont opened the door, finding the room beyond pitch black. He closed the door behind him. A dozen candles hissed to life, casting their yellow glow on the form of Bagu, his face a scarred mass of anger. His eyes gazed intently at a massive sand timer. An unnatural, halting stream of grains tumbled toward the bottom. Only a few healthy palm-fulls of sand had yet to fall. Whatever the device measured, it was nearing its end.
“Well . . . “ he said, fury dripping from the word as it left his mouth.
“The dragoyle riders were defeated. Myranda is out of our grasp,” Demont said.
Bagu's fingers locked around the arm of his chair, the wood groaning under his grasp.
“A Chosen one . . . just seconds from death, has escaped. What do you have to say for yourself?” the senior general fumed.
“What do I have to say for myself? This is none of my doing!” Demont objected.
“None of your doing? You had in your stables a dragon that belonged to the Chosen One, and you didn't think it was worth mentioning?! You allow me to reunite a divine warrior with a powerful ally and the resulting escape is none of your doing?!” Bagu raged.
“If the intelligence provided by your precious Epidime is to be trusted, then that could not possibly have been the Chosen One's dragon. She traveled with an infant dragon, the size of a dog. The beast my creatures brought back to me was adolescent if anything, nearly full grown. There can be no confusion on that matter. And as for allowing you to unite them, I warned you not to use the black dragon. It was not a weapon, it was a target! A brute! A blunt instrument! I plucked that beast from nature and shaped it to my needs to serve as fodder for proving my beasts. It was never under control. It was never meant to be controlled. This is on your head. You were the one who wanted an example made of her,” Demont stated.
Bagu released a long, angry noise somewhere between sigh and hiss.
“Can you track the beast?” he asked.
“Faintly, and not at all if she manages to remove the enhancements,” Demont replied.
“She will seek to free the others. Have you recovered the soul gem from the other human?” Bagu asked.
“The largest piece, yes.”
“Kill him.”
“We've not yet located the smaller piece. Without his aid-”
“Kill him!” Bagu demanded.
“ . . . As you wish,” Demont relented.
#
Elsewhere another figure navigated a large, dimly lit tunnel. There was the overpowering stench of brimstone and a thick coat of soot clung to every surface. Ahead, a faint glow signaled the end of the path. Desmeres approached a nearman, his face undisguised and his hands gripping a staff that marked him as one of the rare spell casting variety. It was guarding a web of bars that crisscrossed the tunnel with no apparent door. After flashing a medallion emblazoned with
a handful of indecipherable symbols, the creature gave a nod. The staff was raised and the web seemed to come alive, shifting and twisting like a family of serpents until the way was opened. Twice more he was forced to reveal the medallion and await the parting of bars before he finally reached a large, natural cavern. The air was thick with smells that burned the nose and stung the eyes, and combined with the stifling heat it made it difficult to breathe. A channel had been carved into the stone floor of the cavern from which an ominous red glow radiated. Thin black wisps of evil smelling fumes hinted at what lie at its bottom. The channel formed a ring around an irregular shaped stone spire that jutted up from the molten rock below. Attached to the spire was an assassin.
Lain's hands and feet were not secured to the stone. Instead, they seemed to disappear into it, as though the spire had swallowed them and hardened. His head hung limply, his chest painfully drawing in the occasional wheezing breath. The telltale lines of a whip's lash stripped his flesh. Wounds trickled, and blood-soaked bandages cocooned the upper part of his chest and one shoulder. As Desmeres approached the edge of the channel, the head lifted to show faded, cloudy eyes that tried and failed to identify his blurry form. A weak sniff brought nothing but fumes that burned at the lungs.
“It is me, Lain. Desmeres,” he said solemnly.
Lain's form shuddered almost imperceptibly at the sound of the name.
“It . . . looks as though they have finally found a cell you can't escape from,” he remarked, venturing a peek at the magma shifting along the distant floor of the channel over which Lain hung.
A painful breath left Lain.
“You and I knew it would end this way for one of us. It will please you to know that you did manage to teach them their lesson. I was paid in full for my services,” Desmeres said.
“You won't live long enough to spend it,” Lain wheezed.
“No one could live long enough to spend that much gold,” he replied.
“Why did you come here?”
“We spent seventy years as partners, Lain. I owe you at least a final visit,” Desmeres answered.
A raking cough shook Lain.
“ . . . the others?” Lain asked.
“Captured. All of them,” Desmeres stated. “Although . . . “
Lain's eyes shifted to him.
“They don't trust me, Lain. As is to be expected. They only tell me what they think I need to know. Still, it would take a fool to miss the fact that something is going on. Troops are moving, reinforcing forts. It must be the forts where the others are kept. They are all being carefully protected . . . “ Desmeres explained, stopping suddenly.
His eyes turned to a half seen form in the shadows, then to the bandages on Lain's chest.
“Everyone except for you . . . Something has happened and it has got them worried. I've got a feeling that they will soon have a new task for me. Hopefully it will be a few days more before they contact me. I've nearly finished some . . . items. Things my wife convinced me to make. It would be a shame if they moldered in one of the storehouses rather than finding some use,” Desmeres mused.
Lain released another breath and let his head lower once more.
“Well. I'd best try to find what there is to find about this final Chosen. I don't suppose we will meet again. Good luck to you,” Desmeres said.
He quickly set off, his back tingling with expectation for a blade.
#
Elsewhere, under a slowly brightening sky, Myranda stirred. Even after a short day and a long night, the black pit of sleep was slow to let the world in. As her mind crept back to her, thoughts clashed. She knew that she was outside, but why was she so warm? She knew that she could scarcely be in any more danger, but why wasn't she afraid? Her eyes opened and beheld the answer. Myn was already awake. She held Myranda carefully against her, all the while keeping a vigilant watch with every available sense. Myranda pushed gently at the grip and the dragon obligingly released it. The shock of cold air that reached her now that she was no longer protected swept the last trace of sleep from her mind.
The dragon stood, its head rising to nearly the treetops. As the young wizard's eyes shifted over the unfamiliar features of an old friend, the dragon suddenly remembered that it had been ages since she had performed her most cherished of duties. Instantly she vanished into the woods, heedless of Myranda's calls for her to stop. The enthusiasm of the bounding steps was the first thing, save the eyes, that Myranda truly recognized about her friend. Trees swayed like tall grass, accompanied by a creaking and snapping tumult that retreated quickly into the distance. In barely a moment the earth trembled with Myn's return, a deer clutched in her massive jaws. She dropped it on the ground before Myranda and looked about for a pile of wood to light. Seeing none and growing impatient, she turned to a sizable young tree and, with frightening ease, reduced it to splinters. The act had taken the merest swat of her massive claws. No sooner had the pile of wood settled than a blast of flame set it alight.
Myranda looked in awe at the results of Myn's traditional morning errands scaled up to her new size. As the glow of the vastly excessive fire cast its dancing light on the trees around her, Myranda's mind began to work. She would need something warm to wear, and quickly. For now she brought a few spells to mind to take the edge off of the cold that the fire had not. Her stomach reminded her vocally that she was well overdue for a meal, and the fact that a suitable candidate now lay beside her greatly amplified its complaints. That could wait a bit more. The gash that the worms had torn in her arm had been reduced to an abrasion, and her ribs and shoulder were sore but no longer broken. There were any number of things about her body that could have benefited from immediate attention, but none needed it. In short, she was in terrible shape, but not in danger. This was fortunate, because even if she had been at death's door, there was something else that was far more important to her right now. She took a few steps back and looked at Myn.
The dragon was massive, larger than her mother had been on the fateful day of her birth. Her scales, her claws, even the inside of her mouth were black as night. Here and there a gleam of gold or a streak of red fought valiantly to be seen, but the black by far overpowered it. There were things about her that were out of scale. Muscles bulged in her forelegs and neck. Her claws were long and cruel. In her great mouth, the teeth ran the gamut from stiletto sized spikes to stout triangular white spear heads. Each was accented with barbs that hinted that they would not so much slice into something as tear into it. The row of scales that ran along her spine seemed to have grown and twisted into a vicious serration. At the tip of her tail was a veritable morning star of spiked scales. Every inch of her was a weapon now.
“Myn . . . my dear sweet little Myn . . . what did they do to you?” Myranda whispered painfully.
The beast lowered its great head, easily as large as Myranda. The young wizard wrapped her arms around the noble beast's neck as best she could and squeezed tight, tears rolling down her cheeks. Myn lowered herself to the ground and angled her head pleadingly. Myranda knew what she wanted. She reached over the dragon's head and rubbed and massaged as best she could without cutting her hands to ribbons. Myn shuddered in ecstasy, her long, powerful tail lashing about and putting deep gashes in any tree unlucky enough to be in its path.
Suddenly Myranda's fingers found their way to something that should not be there. It was cold and rough. The flesh around it was swollen and tender, so much so that Myn pulled away at even the light touch of the human's fingers. Myranda tried to get a good look, but it was as black as the scales and hard to make out. Still she tried. It was certainly metal. There seemed to be a row of recessed holes around its rim, with metal studs protruding from them. It reminded Myranda very much of a horseshoe, save for the fact that the shape continued until it met in a point. As the light of the fire and the strengthening sun fell upon its surface, Myranda could just make out some crudely carved runes. Even to her still recovering mind, the object resonated with magic.
&nbs
p; In the gaping center of the ring-like ornament on the dragon's head, the flesh seemed pitted and burned. There was a residue of something, something that burned at Myranda's fingers. It could have been dragon blood, which stung quite a bit where it touched her sensitive flesh, but Myranda instantly knew that it wasn't. Dragon blood didn't burn like this. This burning didn't stop at her fingers. She could feel it in her soul, tugging and twisting at it. This was the work of the D'karon.
“Myn . . . this . . . thing here. It hurts you, doesn't it?” Myranda asked.
The beast's eyes turned to her with a clear affirmative.
“And they put it on your head, didn't they?” Myranda continued.
Again it was clearly so.
“ . . . This is going to hurt, but it has to be done. Hold still, I am going to remove it,” Myranda said.
Myn carefully pressed herself against the ground. The dragon's eyes flinched and shut tight as Myranda's fingers probed the edges. The wizard tried to cast a spell to soothe the beast's pain and put her to sleep, but the amulet affixed to her head seemed to turn the spell away. The tingling burn in her fingers grew quickly past the threshold of pain as she found a grip and pulled. The whole of Myn's body shook. Amid the burning of her fingers, a sharp, stabbing pain in her palm accompanied each tug. She could feel the enchantment reacting to her, trying to tighten its grip as she struggled against it. The metal lifted away slightly, releasing a trickle of blood. It was a mixture of black and red, as though the D’karon’s modifications ran through her very veins. The pain in her palm was constant now, and the burning intensified everywhere the blood touched. Myn dug her claws into the icy ground, just barely managing to stop a roar of pain in her throat.
Myranda could feel the spells associated with the piece coiling up her arm, attempting to work its terrible effects on her as well. Before her eyes, streaks of black wound along her veins. Her far from recovered mind was ill equipped to force them away. Her clawing at the metal grew more desperate. Myn jerked in pain and the piece slipped from her fingers. Panic began to creep up Myranda's spine, and panic is the enemy of concentration. Desperate thoughts flickered through her mind. She needed a better vantage, and a better grip.
