Legends

by Melanie Nilles

  Lusiradrol used it for some purpose only she knew. The harsh weather caused him no grief. He only objected that the weather would hinder the elder drakes from battling the Red Clan. If they could not confront and kill some of the beasts, more would survive long enough to multiply.

  Makleor bristled at the thought. Devious mind, in thy corners lies the key.

  Could it be that she had a clutch ready to hatch but wished to protect them?

  He hoped not. Wyverns grew fast, reaching full maturity within ten to twelve years. They could kill a horse by the time they reached two.

  The dragons of Eyr Droc grew all their lives but could not reproduce until they reached a century old. They also limited their hatchings to what their herds could support.

  The beasts of the Darklord had two limits to birth rates: Only the strongest female mated and the eggs usually numbered no more than five or six in a clutch.

  “This bodes ill.” If the eggs were ready to hatch, then the race had begun.

  Makleor hobbled through the corridor dimly lit with candles flickering in alternating wall sconces. His staff echoed steady taps on stone, and the chill of winter shivered down tired bones.

  He needed the walk to clear his head. Too many problems rose before him, a growing mountain of obstacles to overcome in the race to save their world.

  Nearly as bad, Vahrik gained a following among the younger men. They plotted a rebellion, starting with the felling of Tyrkam’s second, Dorjan, or as was his true name, Lêath. Tyrkam’s lieutenant suspected as much, of that Makleor was certain, but not even he could take on a full army alone.

  The rush of multiple feet pattered an echo down the corridor to him. The dark intents of the owners of those feet carried through the magic.

  Makleor touched the magic flowing around him and hid in the shadows.

  A group of young men led by Vahrik rushed past him down the hall. The son of Tyrkam held his head high with arrogance.

  Three others strode a step behind him, dressed all in black with gold accents. Their intent glimmered in dark, greedy eyes. Each gripped the pommel of his sword belted at his waist. On the opposite hip, they wore additional daggers curved like the scimitars of the Rivon.

  Makleor recognized them. The son of Tyrkam had appointed the rogue warriors his personal guards and confidantes, his shadow guards, as he liked to call them. They strode with confidence and purpose, killers stalking their prey.

  Hidden by magic as he had done many times with Tyrkam, Makleor followed. He slipped from shadow to shadow like an eel through water. They led him up the stairway to the next level, the highest since the wyvern crushed the top two floors of the keep.

  After sending his trio to be sure no one lingered in the hall, Vahrik directed them to one of the doors.

  They opened the door a crack with the faintest of noise and used hand motions to communicate their directions. Stealthy as cats cornering a mouse, they crept into the room, where slept the one man who threatened Vahrik’s newfound power—Dorjan.

  While Vahrik waited outside, the three shut the door behind them with barely a snick of the catch.

  Makleor waited, a smirk on his face. Vahrik underestimated his prey.

  The burly old warrior could hold his own to any number at once. Dorjan had joined Tyrkam years ago, after confronting him on the road to battle. The red-haired warrior handily defeated the bandit Tyrkam in a one-on-one fight, to which Tyrkam offered him a position helping to train the young men who sought to join him. Dorjan had no interest in power but agreed.

  Why would a man of his blood join forces with Tyrkam? He proved many times, almost to a fault, that his loyalty lay with Tyrkam. Not what Makleor would have expected of one such as Dorjan.

  * * *

  They came. His waiting would end. The insolent child at last made his move. Dorjan counted more than one set of feet not silent enough, but he would take them all. They would not have him.

  Sighing heavily as one does in their sleep, Dorjan masked the slide of his hand under his pillow for the dagger. His other hand grasped the pommel of his sword beside him under the covers.

  His ears marked their movements surrounding his bed. They stepped with caution, as if they expected the possibility of his actions. That meant only one set of individuals—Vahrik’s personal guards.

  In the dark of the room, since the fire had long died, Dorjan grinned. He was ready.

  Cloth whispered of movement in synchronization.

  He gripped the cold, leather-wrapped pommels pressed in each of his palms in preparation.

  The tone of their breathing changed, but they made no other sounds in preparation to strike.

  Dorjan opened his eyes, aware of the shadow nearest him moving into position. Amateurs.

  He whipped his hand out from under the pillow, flinging the dagger at the foot of his bed. Before that one grunted from the implantation of the blade, he stabbed forward with the sword and caught the shadow before him in the gut. The man groaned in pain and grabbed at the blade in desperation.

  In the same instant, Dorjan rolled toward his sword and shoved the blade and its victim away. The man before him stumbled back.

  Behind him the other man stabbed down too late and hit empty mattress.

  In one smooth roll, Dorjan landed on his feet beside the bed and yanked his sword from his victim.

  The man gurgled and thumped to the floor.

  With his eyes adjusted to make out the outline of the last two standing, Dorjan faced them. The one nearest him lifted his hand, the outline of a dagger in it. He prepared to throw the bloodied dagger pulled from himself.

  Dorjan dodged the projectile, using his sword as a shield. Metal clinked on metal and the weapon rattled on stone behind him.

  With no other choice but death, the man rushed him. Dorjan easily subdued him again with a jab of his sword pommel in the man’s jaw.

  His eyes darted to the remaining shadow. That one stood unmoved.

  Dorjan focused his attention on the last figure. Something set the hairs on the back of his neck upright. This one had not attacked again. Why?

  After the second man crumpled to the floor, silence remained.

  The last man grunted with the strain of fighting something invisible.

  Magic; the old mage. It must be. Taking advantage of the aid, Dorjan swung his sword in an arc and stopped. Instead of a killing thrust, he turned the sword and jabbed the pommel into the base of the man’s neck, knocking him unconscious. The man crumpled to the floor in a still heap.

  Killing them might be more merciful than what Vahrik would do when he discovered the truth, but that was not his problem.

  In the renewed silence and cold, he shivered. He had worn most of his clothes to bed in anticipation of such an attack, but the cold of winter crept into the room with the death of his fire.

  The light of day would expose the unsightly mess he could only imagine. After this, Vahrik would not survive as the lord of this castle.

  Dorjan unlatched the door and pulled it open.

  Vahrik’s face outlined in flickering candlelight drained of color.

  Dorjan pointed the tip of his blade at the boy’s throat and stepped toward him, intending to threaten him into submission.

  Keeping a safe distance, Vahrik moved away with each step Dorjan took.

  “I- I- I followed them here. I thought they might try something.” His eyes fixed on the blood-stained sword. “I thought I overheard my father say something about not trusting anyone and intending that you should die once you returned.”

  The boy could lie worth a scrap. Dorjan tightened his grip in preparation to strike.

  The tap of a staff rang off stone.

  Both turned as the old mage hobbled into view.

  When he looked back at Vahrik, Dorjan realized the boy had wisely distanced himself. Curse you, old man, for interfering! “This matter concerns you not.”

  “Hmm? What matter? A walk I said to take. A walk to shake up old bones.”<
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  The mage’s good eye glinted from beneath his hood. He knew something. Had he frozen the third attacker?

  “No matter. Yes. Back to my room.” He waved his free hand as if to shoo them away. “No. Leave me alone.”

  Part of Dorjan wondered if Tyrkam was right in his suspicions about the old man. Had he purpose in his mad ways? The most cunning mind could achieve such a disguise.

  “To bed, to bed,” Makleor muttered and hobbled away.

  Dorjan shook his head and turned back to Vahrik. The boy stood at the end of the hall, a smirk on his face. Realizing his opportunity had passed, Dorjan returned to his room. Time to leave. Vahrik had staked his claim for power without denial. Had the storm not ended two days before, he would be trapped.

  Hopefully the messenger had not been delayed too long by the storm. The sooner Tyrkam knew of Vahrik’s betrayal, the sooner they could seize him before he gain further power.

  __________

  Vahrik and Lusiradrol

  From the window of the war room, Vahrik gazed out on the sun rising over the white landscape. Below in the courtyard, Tyrkam’s precious lieutenant raced out on horseback with a dozen other men. Vahrik sneered at the man, frustrated and angry that he had let him get away.

  “It’s better this way.” The silken voice chilled his soul.

  “You’d best be right about that.” Vahrik turned to face her.

  Lusiradrol smiled slyly. The black leather she wore accentuated her seductive curves, while the sharp claw holding her raven hair off her neck proved her true threat. She sat on the edge of the table with a casual air.

  Vahrik studied her. The dragon woman had appeared to him in the early hours after his attempt on Dorjan’s life failed. She made a good case for letting the old warrior live long enough to return to Tyrkam. Though he doubted her reasons, Vahrik let Dorjan go. He was powerless to argue with her.

  Now the castle was his and his alone. A group of those loyal to Tyrkam accompanied the red-haired warrior. Only a few remained. He would dispose of them at his convenience, but now for hers.

  “You promised me the princess.”

  “You promised to cut down the old forest.”

  Vahrik froze at the threat in her voice. They cut some of the trees, but after a couple of days, things went awry. Saws broke, tools went missing, and they spent more time on repairs than on cutting. They gave up when it proved too much work.

  “The forest is protected.” And that was the least of their concerns. Most recently, the storm stopped all outdoor activity.

  Her smile darkened with malice. “I know that! That’s why it must be destroyed.”

  A chill raced through his soul. “How?”

  “I trust you’ll find a way.”

  Lusiradrol slid off the table and glided towards him, stopping face-to-face, her expression hard. “I want it gone.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  A teasing grin crept up black-red lips as she traced along his jaw line. “Perhaps you need encouragement.”

  He was listening. “What do you have in mind?”

  “The mystery rider.”

  “You promised her more than a cycle ago.”

  She nodded. “I did. Have patience.”

  He clamped his jaw on the frustration boiling up. What took her so long? With her power she could give him any of what she promised in short time.

  “I’ve use for her yet before I hand her to you.”

  If that’s how she wanted it, he could play that game. “When I have her, I’ll clear the forest.”

  With a smile still on her face, Lusiradrol pressed her nail into his cheek. It cut with the sharpness of a claw in a line from below his cheek bone to the corner of his mouth.

  Not wishing to show the pain she caused, Vahrik stood unflinching. He refused to bow to her.

  “Do not make the same mistake as your father, little prince.” Lusiradrol backed off, the familiar menace on her face as she vanished in a plume of fire.

  Vahrik swiped his fingers across his cheek where a cool wetness dribbled down. In the morning sun shining through the windows, fresh blood shimmered from his fingertips.

  * * *

  With a dark scowl fixed on her face, Lusiradrol transported into the cavern.

  The fool. He would suffer with the rest. Once Tyrkam learned of his son’s betrayal, the two would keep each other busy fighting and hopefully kill each other in the process.

  They would take care of each other for her.

  Damn them!

  She eyed the sleeping queen taking up most of the cavern. The steady heat of molten flows warmed the sanctuary and cast an orange glow over the walls.

  In an area cleared of the natural obstacles laid the red queen. At the tap of Lusiradrol’s steps, she opened her yellow eyes.

  The firssst are ready.

  Perfect. Lusiradrol had chosen that cavern in the Dark Hills for the shelter of the first queen, the dominant female, soon after awakening her clan. The humans dared not enter the western mountains of Ayrule.

  In the old times, rumors circulated that the Darklord claimed the lower mountains as one of his domains. He established other such domains throughout the world on the other continents, but this one was significant to Lusiradrol, though she knew not why. The reason had faded through the years.

  Without a normal break for the cycle of the dragons, she insisted on as many egg clutches as possible. Two had been laid so far, with a third mating coming soon. Though the queen laid only five in the first, the second numbered eight. Soon, the numbers culled by the Majera would be replaced and more.

  “You’ve done well.”

  The dragon let out a deep breath. I am tired.

  “Of course, but this is necessary, unless you wish another to take your place.”

  A low rumble reverberated from the queen’s throat. She shifted her wings in agitation. No other isss worthy! I will not allow it!

  “Good.” What this queen did not know was the same as the other three in different parts of the world. With four breeding females instead of the usual one, their numbers would grow with a swiftness the enemy would not expect.

  At one time, Lusiradrol had been the dominant female, but with a heart as black as her scales, she bore an unquenchable desire to destroy the world. She never mated.

  Since her exile as a human, she learned patience and discovered a dark satisfaction from the subtle manipulation of the lesser species. Death was too quick. Watching them suffer fulfilled her desires more than she had imagined as a dragon.

  She had sent her clan out upon the world to feed and destroy as they wished, but they were spread thin with few surviving the Majera’s magic. He had killed almost half her clan beneath the weight of the cavern in which they had slept.

  She vowed revenge for his insolence.

  Lusiradrol stood over the first clutch. Each egg measured the length of her arm with a diameter of just under that. Various patterns of black and brown mottled the shells.

  While she stood over them, the faint stirrings of life scratched from inside. The eggs wobbled with the movements of the infantile dragons struggling to escape.

  Tapping came from within several. A couple succeeded and broke through the hard shells. Tiny snouts poked out, nostrils flaring at their first breaths of air.

  The queen lifted her head and watched her babies hatch.

  This was the first time Lusiradrol had seen eggs hatch, yet she had experienced it. In her mind, a similar scene played out in a cavern almost identical…

  A chilling laugh escaped him. The Majera were fools to think their dragons could defeat him and his creations. How ironic that they would face a twisted form of their creations, manipulated to serve him.

  He lifted the first egg from the pit in which he stewed his powers. With great care he had subjected them to the chaotic void that spawned him. Those forces absorbed into the eggs in the time since his demons stole them.

  Hatched dragons proved futile to change, but
the delicate embryos still in their eggs would be different. Imprinted on their minds would be the need to kill and destroy.

  He set the egg on the ground, watching and listening for the dragon inside struggling to free itself. A tiny crack threaded its way across the brown and black mottled shell. The infant inside pecked its shell until its nostrils poked out, flaring at its first breath. The fluids inside made red scales shimmer.

  None of the Majera’s dragons were red. Theirs were colors that blended into nature.

  The young dragon floundered, rocking its egg in its renewed struggle for freedom. It squawked and pressed against the shell, which split in half so the hatchling’s hind legs stuck out. It lay on its back, breathing hard from its efforts.

  Intrigued, the Darklord eyed his creation. The little dragon flopped until it righted itself, then pulled away from the shell over its head.

  The red dragon stood on four limbs, its sides expanding and contracting rapidly.

  Odd.

  The separate front limbs were gone. It blinked yellow eyes at him in curiosity, leaning on the three-fingered claws on its wings for balance.

  The dragons whose eggs his demons stole had no claws on the wings but instead separate front claws. Was this the only one affected in such a way?

  He pulled out two more wobbling with life and watched them hatch. The same characteristics as the first appeared on them also.

  After all nine hatched, he looked with satisfaction at his new creations. They watched him expectantly, a feeling of hunger projected from infantile minds.

  With a thought, he called his demons to find meat for the dragons. They returned later with several of the Majera’s newest creatures based on the corporeal forms they wore, bipedal abominations that spread like insects over the world—humans.

  The injured men tried to run, but the Darklord’s magic stayed their feet. The hatchlings were not yet fast enough to hunt, but pounced on them, feeding on the live meat with ravenous appetites.

  He smiled, foreseeing a day when all the creations of the Majera would be wiped from the world by his dragons.