by Alison Baird
He was staring at the horned head and sprawled body of a dragon, asleep there upon the treasure mound.
Damion stood transfixed. He could see an eye now, covered by a thin ruby-red lid; and a scaly red-golden flank that rose and fell rhythmically. The windy soughing sound was the monster’s breath. He looked back at Jomar: the Mohara man too stood staring at the beast, now that Damion’s torch revealed it for what it was. Jomar gestured frantically and mouthed the word Run!
Damion hesitated. Jomar was right, he must flee before the creature woke. But what of the Stone?
The alabaster casket lay only a few paces away, encircled by the dragon’s body. The Stone of the Stars: he had risked death, even killed for it. How could he walk away and leave it now?
Damion took an unsteady step forward, then stopped. The casket was very close to the dragon, rather nearer the head than the tail; in fact, it lay not an arm’s length from the very jaws of the beast, and about the same distance from the nearest of the forelegs. But the dragon was asleep. It might just be possible to steal up quietly, snatch the casket, and whisk it away without waking the monster. If it did wake . . . but he must not think of that. The thing must be done, and done now. Slowly, he advanced. His heart, he noticed vaguely, seemed to be beating in his throat, of all places.
Behind him Jomar stood motionless, staring in disbelief as Damion drew closer to the dragon. The Mohara opened his mouth and then shut it again, knowing that if he called out the beast might wake. Laying his hand on the hilt of the Zimbouran sword, he eased it slowly from its scabbard so as not to make any sound, and moved closer to the dragon.
Damion was only dimly aware of Jomar’s presence behind him. The dragon’s tail, thick as the trunk of a small tree, lay in front of him: he stepped over it, into that dread circle, then stood still. What if it smells us? he wondered, sweating at the mere thought. He doubted Jomar could kill the dragon: its scaly plates looked as hard as any armor, and if he were to strike at it he would likely only wake it and seal his fate and Damion’s. The young priest hesitated a moment, then advanced again. Six paces away, a scythe-shaped talon flexed, scraping the cave floor with a sound like steel on stone. He shut out the dragon from his thoughts and vision, concentrating solely on the white box, measuring the distance he still had to go. You could hop, skip, and jump that in two seconds flat! he told himself. Come on—come on. You can do it!
There was no sound from Jomar behind him. Had the Mohara man given up and retreated? He hoped so—for the sake of the women, one of them must survive. He didn’t dare turn around to look, but continued to walk forward. Two paces more, and the Stone would be in his hand. He would thrust it into the travel-pouch hanging at his side, and run and run and run . . .
The dragon’s coiled body lay all around him, and he could not help but look at it now. It was perhaps the size of an elephant, but leaner, and very much longer. The huge head with its long jaws and scaled skin was reptilian, but there were the great yellow oxlike horns, and a pair of pointed external ears. Behind the head was a neck-frill, then a ruff of what looked like rufous fur: there was also tuft of red hair upon the chin, like a goat’s beard. The wings resembled a bat’s, but for their color and their size: great sails of semi-translucent crimson membrane, stretched over attenuated skeletal claws. They were half-furled now, lying in heavy leathery folds upon the beast’s back. A thick mail of lapping scales covered the dragon’s body, reddish-gold along the flanks and deep carnelian-red upon the back, with broad ventral plates beneath like armor of beaten gold. The row of knife-shaped dorsal scales ran along its spine from the base of the neck to the end of the tail, which spread in a multifoliate fan like the tail of a heraldic fish.
Reptile, mammal, bird, fish: it was like a peculiar mixture of all of these, and yet it reminded Damion more than anything of a gigantic insect. The giant red wings held a metallic iridescence like a butterfly’s, or like the wing cases of a beetle; a pair of long whip-shaped barbels projecting from the nostrils waved from side to side with a slow somnolent motion like antennae. The round, opalescent scale on the forehead that he had taken for a gem seemed to stare at him, like a third eye. Huge, strange, utterly alien, the dragon loomed before him, perilous even in sleep. He stared at it, fear and wonder blended in equal parts within his mind.
The casket! It was right there at his feet. Scarcely daring to breathe, he stooped and picked it up, feeling the warm blasts of the dragon’s breath upon his face. He longed to open it and look on the Stone, but it was imperative to get clear of the dragon first. He began the long backward retreat, still not taking his eyes off it, feeling his way across the floor.
The dragon’s eye opened.
Damion froze.
For what seemed an eternity he looked into the great, unlidded orb. Its pupil was black as obsidian, black as the darkness of the mountain’s heart, surrounded by a thin ring of gold: it gaped before him like a hole opening onto unfathomable deeps. His head began to swim strangely: his feet were rooted to the floor.
“Damion!” The cry came from somewhere behind him; it was Jomar’s voice. He shook himself free from the spell and stumbled back, as if from the edge of a precipice. Shoving the casket into his travel-pouch, he turned to flee. Jomar was at his side now, sword raised against the menace before them.
With a slow, almost leisurely motion, the dragon raised its head, and opened its wings with a leathery rustle. The tremendous span of them seemed to fill the cavern, an overarching roof of shimmering scarlet silk. Then it folded them again and began to crawl forward, its huge bulk gleaming dull red in the torchlight, mimicked by its tremendous shadow upon the far wall.
Jomar gave a yell, but the monster ignored him, its attention all upon Damion and the casket. Slowly, slowly it moved forward, with the slinking deliberate motion of a cat intent upon its prey. The long stalking was somehow worse than any sudden charge, though at any moment Damion knew it could become one, an onslaught of violence swift and terrible as a thunderbolt. He retreated, it advanced, all in a horrible near-silence broken only by the monster’s rumbling breaths.
Damion dropped his torch and ran for the adamantine sword. He flung himself toward it, falling and rolling, his hands closing on the hilt and lifting it even as the dragon lunged at him. Its jaws sprang open. Warm breath blew into Damion’s face, carrying not the rotting-meat stench of a carnivore’s mouth, but a sickly-sweet, cloying aroma that made his head swim and his vision blur. As he stumbled before it the monster lashed out with a foreclaw: it did not strike him, but the sword was knocked from his hand and went clattering along the ground. He staggered back, staring wildly about him.
“Run!” Jomar shouted, rushing forward with his own sword held out.
The dragon halted, crouching. As he stared up at it, the creature laid its ears back and slitted its eyes, looking for an instant more feline than reptilian. The mane of fox-colored fur seemed to bristle. From its jaws issued a series of hissing snarls that sounded eerily like speech, a mad incantation in some arcane tongue. The great eyes flashed, all darkness and fire, as though they were themselves vast, malevolent gems unearthed from the mountain’s depths. It glared—not at him, but at the crystal sword. The blade was glowing, not with any reflected light, but with a pale blue-white radiance of its own. The adamant burned, as if with an inner flame.
Damion, overcoming his own amazement, lunged for the weapon again and made a thrust with the blazing sword-blade. The volume of the dragon’s hissing increased, and it drew back. Then with a shout Jomar seized him by his other arm, dragging him back.
“Follow me!” he yelled, gesturing to the far wall of the cave. There was an opening there, an entrance to yet another cave or tunnel, just visible in the torch-glow. An entrance too narrow for the dragon’s giant body . . .
They ran for it together, sprinted down the passage beyond as the dragon bellowed after them, the cavern resounding with its rage like the crash of surf in a sea-cave. They fled down the passage, leaving the horrific sou
nds far behind.
WHEN THEY WERE TOO EXHAUSTED to run any farther they collapsed panting against the side of the tunnel.
Damion,” said Jomar as soon as he could speak, “I take back everything I ever said about you. No, shut up—I’m trying to apologize. I was wrong about you, priest. That was the craziest, stupidest, bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Damion was warmed by these words, but honesty compelled him to say, “It wasn’t really I who saved us, you know. It was the sword itself that did that. There’s a kind of . . . power in it.” He looked at the weapon in wonder. The strange blue fire had died out of the blade, leaving it once more clear as glass.
“I know, I saw it. Now where’s that box?” asked Jomar. “Let’s have a look at this Stone we’ve risked both our lives for.”
Damion took the alabaster casket from his pouch. Though it was small, it was quite heavy. He hesitated, almost reluctant to open the lid. When he did so, he would look on what no man now alive had ever seen. Would it be a wonder, like the adamantine sword—or a mere gemstone like any other?
“Come on, open it,” urged Jomar impatiently.
Damion lifted the lid, holding his breath as he did so. There was a silence as the two men looked into the casket’s interior.
“Empty!” said Damion in despair.
19
The Moon Gate
LORELYN . . . LORELYN. ARE YOU THERE?
Lorelyn raised her head at the summons. The voice spoke to her as it had done before, in the castle cellars: not verbally, but communicating directly to her mind. “Mandrake?” she replied, speaking aloud. “Where are you?”
Very near. In a moment you will see me.
Lorelyn sat bolt upright, listening. There was no sound in the main room of the ruined guesthouse or outside it, save for the soft slow breathing of Ailia, who had lain down for a rest on a blanket and had fallen into a doze. Greymalkin had gone—out hunting, probably. Lorelyn felt very alone.
Presently she heard a soft footfall in the stone corridor outside. She sat up, peering through the half-light at the dark figure that approached and paused in the doorway. She could not see his face in the shadows. His silent summons brushed at her mind, a mental caress, conveying urgency and concern for her. Lorelyn, you must come with me.
“Why are you using the mind-talk when you’re right here in the room with me?” she asked, suspicion stirring.
He spoke aloud, but softly. “Hush—don’t wake Ailia. I must talk with you, Lorelyn. Will you come outside with me for a while?”
She hesitated, glancing at Ailia’s pale, exhausted face. It would be a shame to wake her. “All right—just for a moment,” she said, reaching for her travel-cloak.
They walked out into the street. The sky was heavy with clouds, and a few flakes of snow fell around them and settled on their heads and their cloaked shoulders. “Lorelyn, the Zimbourans are not far off,” said Mandrake. “I have seen a large force of them approaching the mountain. We must leave this place.”
“The Zimbourans!” she exclaimed. “But we can’t leave yet—the Stone, we still haven’t found the Stone. What if the God-king—”
“The Stone is gone, Lorelyn. It was taken from Trynisia centuries ago. You will never find it; but neither will your enemies. You have no reason to linger here.”
“Where can we go, though? We’re not really safe anywhere on this island. Unless you can take us all back home . . .”
He turned to face her, laid his hands on her shoulders. “I can take you to the island of Eldimia, Lorelyn—the land where you were born. Where descendants of the Elei—your people—still live.”
“Eldimia! You really can take us there?” Lorelyn asked. He nodded. She searched his face with her eyes. “Mandrake, tell me—do you believe I am the Tryna Lia, too?”
He sighed heavily. “Yes, I do. I have known it for some time, in fact, and I hoped to free you from your fate by taking you somewhere safe and hiding you. I see now it was no use. I have been trying, like a fool, to fight against destiny. I will fight it no longer.”
“So you’ll take us away on your sailing ship? I must go fetch Jomar and Damion—they’re exploring a cave in the mountainside. And Ana still hasn’t turned up—”
“I will not take Ana to Eldimia—nor any of the others.”
“What!” She stepped back, shaking off his hands.
“Lorelyn, try to understand. Ana must go back to her own people, to the Nemerei. They need her. And Damion and Ailia have friends and family in other lands. Jomar can go with them. He will have to make a life for himself, now that he is a free man, and he wouldn’t care for Eldimia.”
She backed away, looking at him warily. “That’s nonsense. How can the others get back to their homes without a ship? We can’t just leave them here!”
He glanced away from her. “I am not alone in this land. I have allies and servants here. They will convey your companions back to the Continent, at my bidding.” Mandrake moved a step closer. “Will you trust me? Your enemies are drawing nearer as I speak. Ana cannot help you now. Believe me—I don’t want you to die.”
His tone was gentle and persuasive. Yet still Lorelyn retreated. “Who are these servants of yours? Are they here?”
He raised his right arm, pointing skyward. “One is coming now. Look!”
Lorelyn looked up, and gave a cry of alarm. A dragon spiraled down out of the clouds, a swooping shadow, huge wings spread in a motionless glide.
“Do not be afraid,” soothed Mandrake, taking her hand. She tried to pull away, but he gripped her fingers tightly. “He won’t harm you.”
“He—?”
“Trust me.”
She could not free her hand. She watched wild-eyed as the dragon planed down and alighted in the plaza. The chill blast of wind from its wings lifted Mandrake’s long hair and made his cloak billow up as though he too were winged. Releasing her hand, he walked toward the huge, copper-colored creature without fear. Its black mane and beard flowed in the wind as it turned its great head to look at him. She saw the cold glitter of its eye. Lorelyn cried out again, this time in utter amazement. The monster stood before Mandrake tame as a horse, softly blowing through its nostrils. He stood, wreathed in its steaming breath, and laid his hand upon the scaly neck.
“It’s not possible,” she breathed.
“And why not? Did Ana not tell you I was a sorcerer? You have always been eager for adventure. Would you not like to ride a flying dragon, and be taken to the fabled land of Eldimia?” He advanced toward her again, holding out his hand.
“No!” she cried. “I won’t go and leave my friends behind, in danger!”
She turned and began to run. But he was swifter: he came up behind her and caught her by one arm, then seized the other hand as she spun around and tried to hit him. The gentleness was gone from his voice and hands. “I am sorry. But you really haven’t any choice,” he said.
AILIA WOKE WITH A START from a shadowy dream. She sat up for a moment blinking, wondering where on earth she was, then groped for a candle and tinderbox. The trembling light brought little comfort. She found their current quarters disturbing, shivered to think of all those empty chambers in the guesthouse—those cold, silent, history-haunted spaces. Even in her sleep she was uneasily aware of them. She held the candle up. Then she saw that Lorelyn was not in the room, and had not set out any bedding for herself.
Perhaps she just wasn’t sleepy, and has gone out for a breath of fresh air instead, Ailia thought. But worry stirred deep inside her. Looking around, she saw no sign of Lorelyn’s travel-cloak.
The fire that the men had set in the huge fireplace had died down to a few sullen embers. On the mantel a carved monster’s head, like a heraldic lion with curling ram’s horns, seemed to watch her with a sardonic expression as she paced and fretted. “Oh, Ana, why don’t you come back?” she moaned. “I’m no good at all at this sort of thing. Ought I to go and look for Lori? Whatever shall I do if . . . if the men don’t come back?” H
ow long had she been asleep? Had Damion and Jomar been gone a long time—too long, perhaps? There were times when a vivid imagination could be a curse, she reflected, as appalling visions of disaster filled her mind. Ailia knew she was getting, in her mother’s phrase, “all of a swither.” There was no point in assuming the worst. It was likely Lorelyn had just grown tired of trying to sleep. But she would go and look for the girl anyway, just to set her mind at rest.
Ailia walked down the outer passage, the flame of her small candle making the darkness behind and before her seem all the darker. However, when she went outside she found that she no longer needed it. A light snow had fallen, but the night sky was cloudless now and many stars were out. She set the candle down on a stone block and stood looking about her. The mountain’s two peaks were hooded with white, and their deep seams and shelving strata supported long thin drifts like lines of pale script. The snow-clad city looked as though it had regained its marble pavements, and its worn masonry glittered with jewels of frost; in the clear cold air the Mountains of the Moon beyond showed every detail, every fold and crevice and shadow of their forest-mantled slopes and their jutting icy crowns. A half-moon hung low over the northern battlements, looking so large and so near that it was easy to fancy she really stood at the threshold of Heaven itself, within reach of the First Sphere. High above was the constellation of the Lantern Bearer, with the polestar in his hand. As she gazed, there came a red glow from behind the mountains like a great fire, and then up rose an ice-green shaft that shimmered, elongated, turned into a wide wheeling shape that spun across the zenith: the aurora borealis, brighter and more vivid than she had ever seen it, despite the pallor of the sky. It must be directly overhead.
It was all so beautiful that her fears left her. She watched the auroras until their elfin glow faded, leaving the sky to the stars and the falling halved moon. No wonder the Elei had believed themselves divine, living so close to the sky! Here, on a mountain’s summit, one was as high as a human could go: only a winged thing, a bird or dragon, could go any higher than this. And then she remembered the tales of the Elei’s winged ships, and what Mandrake had said about them riding on the backs of tame dragons. Oh, for a flying ship or a friendly dragon now, to take her up, up into that shining sky!
