by Jason Jones
“Breath slowly! Stomp your feet, and head in!” Gwenneth shouted from above their heads, eyes flaring white now as an entire tree was forced away with her eyes, right before crushing them all.
Just as Saberrak went to speak his argument, white light entered his nostrils and mouth. Some form of the arcane was pulling fresh air from the storm into his chest. Then the same occurred with Shinayne, then James and Zen. None rose from their cowering positions as the cursed hurricane continued to strengthen, pushing them down while threatening to draft them up should they stand.
“Get up, now!” She yelled. Gwenneth raised her arms, hovering in the gale, and a barrage of thousands of bones and skulls were directed away, surely sent by this willful storm of ages.
As they stood, hesitantly, orange flames licked and swirled at their feet, harmless fires that looked as claws and burned into the very ground. Their legs were heavy, arcane energies weighting them down, as each step produced a quick cindering mark into the cursed earth. Step by heavy step, through a storm that not even the loudest roar would pierce, the four companions trudged ahead. Gwenneth floated over them, yet Saberrak kept one hand on her robe, just in case.
By the hill with the ruined outpost they climbed, Shinayne nodding to them that this was where they had been before. Mouths opened for air, yet the drum and howl of wicked wind smothered any attempts at sound beyond its own. Thunder roared above but was an echo by the time it reached the ground. Gwenneth stopped, nearly half an hour of focus and she still had strength left, yet she pointed to a chasm that blocked their path.
Azenairk nodded and pointed too, remembering the wide watery trench filled deep with the dead from last night’s scouting. He crouched at the edge, flaming boots licking and burning his stationary spot into the ground. There were no bones, no water to be seen, only the horrid whipping of winds and imbedded bones barely revealed as the stone and earth was torn away by the storm.
Zen looked to the others, knowing that if they were to turn to the right, the winds would likely stop them in their tracks, arcane might or no. To the left, should they search for a bridge, would see them whipped with the currents of air and likely taken far beyond where they wished to go. Their only success had been pushing forward, keeping low, and knifing right through the unnatural storm. Going directly along or against it, even dropping into the trench with it, would likely be more than Gwenneth could counteract. The dwarven priest got to his knees, put his hands around his hammer and moons, and prayed louder than he ever had before.
“Vun vathur onri uthgav ir ven!” He pounded his fist to the earth as his friends took knee and watched. Only Gwenneth remained still above them all as she forced more arcane energy toward deflecting the worsening barrage.
Earthen roots of golden sandstone crept and grew from the edge, overlapping like vines of rock, slowly forming a bridge wide enough for ten men to walk abreast. Five feet, then ten feet out, then it began to slow and dissolve as the winds tore it to pieces and dust. The gale in the trench shot yellow for a moment, throwing the remains of the dwarf’s attempt across his face in a defiant warning. Thunder boomed, the wind screamed, and somehow the storm seemed to laugh at them.
Azenairk looked at his friends, receiving only desperate weary nods of thanks for his efforts. He gritted his teeth, looked up at the storm, and pounded both fists into the ground. He dug his fingers into the earth, yelling his prayers to Vundren even louder. His mind focused.
I did not make it this far to be stopped by a ditch and a nasty breeze!
“I said, Vun vathur onri uthgav ir ven! Vun vathur Vundren cathduran agaste onri uthgav ir ven!”
Zen twisted his fingers more in the ground, raised his head to the unseen sky, and repeated the chant as long as he could before taking another breath and continuing.
The golden rock shot forth again, fifty feet across, serpentine rock layering over and over, and this time shooting down into the trench as well. Supports of sandstone dove into the base of the thirty foot windswept chasm, and the bridge went out twenty five feet now. The storm raged, whipping the edge of the growing divine stonework with skulls uncounted. Pieces of stone broke off, then were covered by more sandstone vines as Zen pounded relentlessly upon the ground.
His fist now held his symbol of Vundren, the other grabbed his warhammer, and his friends watched as he unleashed blow after chanting blow onto the ground he knelt upon. He stood, eyes squeezed shut and brow furrowed as he prayed, and then began to walk. His arms out wide, yelling into the storm, chanting to Vundren as he walked. The bridge he had divinely created was beyond sight across the chasm, at least fifty feet out or more. Step by step he walked, and he still chanted, as his form started disappearing into the cursed storm of wrath.
Gwenneth, fearless in her concentration, hovered across first and then set down to the bridge. The streaming current over the chasm the storm had created, were now too strong. Not seeing Zen ahead, not able to voice a word, the prodigal wizard watched the west for more bombarding debris. She walked, blindly following, and looked back to James and the others. They were right behind her, watching her steps. One by one, each holding onto each other, the four traversed the crafted sandstone bridge, searching for their dwarven friend.
Before they were halfway, the earth shook and the storm howled even louder. It seemed angry that anyone would dare venture this far in. Gwenne held Shinayne’s hand, then the elf held James, who in turn was being held tight on the shoulder by Saberrak. The four crouched now, small steps only, and even Gwenne’s arcane energies were being met equally by the vicious winds. Then, as sudden as a flash of lightning, a strong hand reached Gwenneth and pulled on her arm that held the staff. Barely making out the stocky dwarf through the gray and dark black clouds that raced over them, she tugged the others, and crawled ahead with Azenairk’s assistance.
It stopped. The wind was behind them as if some barrier held it to the trench and outward alone. Fresh air, light breezes, and bright gray light welcomed them as they set foot beyond the sandstone bridge. They could breath, they could hear again, and the five companions stood reunited and looked south to where they had fought so hard to reach.
Shinayne’s aquamarine eyes widened, Saberrak stood tall and unstrapped his greataxes, and James wiped his face and beard twice in disbelief. Gwenneth felt tears welling in her green eyes and a smile of victory and curiosity crossed her mouth. Zen, smiling and unblinking, turned to his friends. It was silent, here beyond the storm, barely a whisper of breath or wind made noise.
Zen watched their eyes gaze from east to west, across the surrounding sandstone peaks just a mile ahead and towering over the valley, just as his eyes had minutes ealier. A sandstone road lined with white bricks twisted through the entire city to the peaks, landing high up the mountainside to a set of ornate golden doors as tall as two men, and each just as wide. Atop the peaks were dozens of small manorhomes of decorated stone, and even two castles with domed keeps and towers were built into their high curtain walls that lined the cliffs of the Kaki Mountains.
Lower into the city itself, there were temples, none less than one hundred fifty feet high and some still stood twice that or more. To the eastern edge, the spriring crenallations and building designs were intricate, detailed to age old perfection, and everything seemed built around dead trees of great size. The elven district it was for certain.
In the near center of myriad homes and shops by the thousands, several streets ended around a tower of green and gray swirled marble, smooth and thin it was, reaching into the gray skies. The center looked to hold open theaters, a temple district of seven towering cathedrals surrounding three others and connected by a maze of bridges, and each of the ten holy places looked different in architecture from the next.
Their eyes followed to dwarven districts, stables long empty of steeds, canals that ran dry, and even giant gardens that held but dead vines and empty pots as large as wagons. To the western edge, more homes drifted into ruin, keeps crumbled into disarray, yet on
e structure still stood proud over the long lost city.
A bronze set of four domes with crescent moon engravings protected an open plateau of pillared sandstone. The raised dais was nearly one thousand feet across, shaded by the domes above, and held seats of stone pews enough for tens of thousands. The seats formed a semicircle around a higher stage of stone and pillars, and pure golden chairs by the dozens, all in curved rows, could be seen from even this distance. Part castle, part auditorium, and part defensible keep, the western palace looked to be watching over its ruined city with an ages old eye, and ancient vigilance.
No one could speak, none of them moved more than was enough of their necks and eyes to take it all in, over and again. Desolate, all was silent but for the whispering storm only feet behind them, yet it sounded as if it were miles away. The thunder faded as if it were not truly thunder, and only their slow deep breaths made much noise in the golden sands and stones of a ruined city.
Gwenneth stared at the green marble tower. Shinayne looked to the east and over the peaks, hoping the lost elven city of Tintasarn may also lay hidden beyond the Kaki Mountains. Saberrak watched the streets for motion, back and forth, never having seen construction nor size the likes he saw before him now. James looked to the temples, seeing the wrethed leaf of Seirena next to a feathered cross of Alden, the balconies connected by bridges from the seven to the three. His blue eyes caught statues of Gods and Goddesses that seemed to beckon, though were as still as their crumbling stone. He smiled and looked down to Zen.
The dwarf was moving his mouth, teary eyed, but it was hard for him to speak. He whispered to them, holding back the swelling emotion in his throat, letting a few trickles of tear escape his eyes as he spoke.
“I guess the dwarves and history books was wrong, for I see the city o’ Mooncrest, aye I do, and the doors to Kakisteele up beyond. Vundren be praised it exists, it truly exists, and we are here, though I still don’t believe me eyes. Someone had better warn whoever be here, that the last Thalanaxe has returned.”
He chuckled softly and felt four hands touch his armored shoulders, he was not alone, and Azenairk Thalanaxe looked up to the sky. He hoped his family could see him now. He thought of his mother, his brothers, and thanked Vundren he and his friends were alive.
“I am here father, we made it, aye we did. Just as I promised ye’.”
No one spoke still, for it was his moment, his words that should grace the air of this place first and foremost.
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Her longsword was too heavy, her steps stumbled and she fell again, her steel helm tumbling across the soft moist ground. Katrina left it there, her attention was ahead, to the dark stain of days old blood that marked the hill. Crawling, starving, the queen of Willborne made it to the top and licked the small splattered puddle. It was Rynnth, she knew the taste, she felt the sensation on her tongue. It was fresh too, perhaps two days at most. Katrina was close again. Her mind and will felt not the pull of the blood any longer, just a festering hate that would not sit idle.
How long she had been tracking the ancient and injured dragon, she did not know. Days, weeks or months, through sunlight and moonlight both she had followed her prey. South through the Misathi Mountains, southeast into the Hallowmoors, she had found her there many days back. Trolls were trying to scavenge what they had thought was a dead dragon, and Katrina had waited to strike. The battle had been bloody, the trolls by the dozens had burned to ash, but she had cleaved deep into a wingbone before Rynnth took flight. When she crashed again to the swamp, the queen of Willborne took part of her tail, three claws, and severed the useless wing from the dragon’s body before the wyrm swam deep into the swamps.
Finding her way out, living off of moss, snakes, and cranes, Katrina now had a flightless adversary. Still, the trek due east had taken its toll on her. Hot summer humidity plagued her with bugs and lice. The foul moisture of the swamps left her consumed with trying to make fire so that she could boil water and not die of thirst. Trolls hunted her while she followed bloody signs of the dragon eastward. The swamps gave way to higher ground, fogs and mist rose in the mornings and evenings, and she knew now that she had passed the borders of her kingdom. Why Rynnth would lead her back to Willborne, she had not a clue. Yet, determination and cause would not see her falter, and Katrina continued her stalking steps closer to the dragon she had vowed to kill.
Her attempt to stand and look from the hilltop was excrutiatingly painful. She looked below her armored plates, moved her shield to the side, and saw that a clawmark on her calf was dripping green and yellow puss. Red lines went in three different directions across her swollen leg. She saw the tip of a maggot worming around what was only a scratch from days past. She bent over, plucked it out, and winced as four more poured out with the release of warm white liquid down to her ankle inside her boot.
Katrina wiped her hand in the small pool of still moist dragonblood, and smeared it across the infected wound. She grit her teeth as it burned and soothed at the same time. Her eyes flared red, not that she could see it, but she felt it in her vision. Her hand went for the wineskin, the one she had lifted from Veuric after she had killed him. Cupping her hand, Katrina scooped and poured the blood into the skin container, filling it halfway. She shook it and swirled the canteen in her hand, then drank, just a swallow.
Her body felt less fatigue, her aches and pains were lessened, and her hunger died away. A trick she had learned in the Misathi when she was a bound slave to Rynnth. It protected her from the flames, and now with her will strong and resistant, and the dragon’s weak and injured, she was a dangerous predator indeed. Katrina limped down the hill, picked up her helm and crown, and continued east.
The sun was burning her face every day as she marched alone after the dragon that had ruined her. Rynnth had made her queen, gave her power, but had also led to the deaths of eighty knights and captains from every noble house in Willborne, from the nobility that had survived her coronation that is. Faldrune, her minotaur bodyguard and mercenary enforcer, the one that dehorned Heathen the red of Valhirst, was dead as well. The selfish wrath the wyrm had forced upon her had left her and the dragon both defeated.
Now Katrina feared being in the very kingdom she supposedly ruled. Willborne would have vengeance upon her, dragon to blame or no, and that revenge would be painful and fatal for certain. She recognized her surroundings, though it had been some years since she had been this far west. The keep and council of her forefathers of Willborne was due east a week, Claumoore was southeast several days, and Haukendale was perhaps only a day to the northeast. The hills held valleys of marsh between them, scattered with streams and groves of willow trees, and cattails sprung by the thousands with every turn or descent.
She stopped, she felt it and heard it in the same instant. Katrina turned behind a tree and slowly drew her longsword, her shield hidden as best she could, and she listened. Garbled and muffled moans, then the crunching of bones, and the pitter pat of blood onto the ground hinted that something large was eating.
Wait for her to chew louder, make a move, then charge in Katrina. You can do this, she deserves death, and only you will have the chance to end it.
The queen spoke to herself in her mind, over and over, biting her lip to hide the chance Rynnth could still read her thoughts. The pain seemed to preside over conscious thought, another trick she had learned while captive.
The chewing was louder now, another body of another something, just down a stream and through some willow trees, she felt the blood tell her. Katrina was using the blood of the dying dragon to her advantage. Her eyes opened red, her head and body turned in a flash, and Katrina raised her shield and charged in.
“Aaaarrrhhh!!!” She screamed a battle cry into the grove by the bubbling tributary, hoping to startle the unsuspecting wyrm.
“Hhhhhsssssshh!!!”
Rynnth returned with a hissing warning, protecting her meal of charred human victims from the nearby merchant roa
ds. Though still massive, the dragon had more fresh scars than an army of men combined. Her one eye was but a rotted socket now, her tongue was little more than half a blackened strip of flesh, and the fangs on the left side of both jaws were gone. One wing was but a stump of bone protruding from her shoulder, her hind legs scraped uselessly behind, and her tail was missing at least twenty feet. Regardless of her weakened state, black scaled Rynnth’s mouth shot out flame for over a hundred feet, incinerating everything in sight, and she kept billowing until her breath gave out. When she stopped, all was black smoke and ash.
Stomp, stomp, stomp
Katrina had no hair left below her helmet line, her long braids burned off many times over now. Her armor smoldered, glowing hot in places, just like her shield and sword. Yet her flesh felt not the bite of the flames or heat, and she marched through the cinders and smoke, straight at the massive dragon. Her steps quickened into a rush again, staring through the billowing black as the injured wyrm had turned around once more to flee.
The queen of Willborne screamed another cry of hate, leapt up and dove off of a fallen tree, then plunged her hot blade into the spine of Rynnth. Her gauntlet grabbed the loosened and bloody scales, she pulled her blade free, and drove it down again into the back of her draconic foe.
The wyrm hissed and screamed, thrashing from side to side as she clawed and scrambled ahead with her front legs. Her tail swished now like a snake, and even her good wing was assisting in motion. A third piercing strike stung like nothing she had ever felt before, and then her lower half felt no more. Her legs, tail, and abdomen went numb, the queen she once controlled had cleaved her spine. She lowered her head and slowed, hoping she could lure her huntress close and whip her horned skull around and end this torturous battle.
