Stone Dragon (The First Realm)

by Testamark, Klay

  They walked arm in arm down the meandering path, stopping to enjoy a topiary animal here and there.

  “Is it likely, you think?” she asked.

  “That he’ll find a missing heir? I shouldn’t think so. Still, there is a prophecy, so better safe than sorry.”

  They looked at a topiary dragon, which reared up like the real thing. You expected it to snarl and breathe fire any moment.

  “I hope this doesn’t call for some pruning,” he said.

  “Sometimes things need cutting,” she said. “Otherwise they lose their shape.”

  “Is the shape so important?”

  She looked at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve spent centuries cultivating our garden, and I should hate to abandon it now. Sometimes the situation calls for the hedge trimmer and sometimes it calls for the scythe.”

  “I would hate to lose the city’s best builder.”

  “Would you rather the city lose its Lord? That would be a true loss to the city. We are so close to accomplishing our goal. Our supporters rule Pithe, Vergath, Mithish, and Lamemheth. Only Corinthe in the north remains adamant.”

  “I will not crown myself king,” he said, but he was stroking his chin.

  “What’s a crown got to do with it? We shall merely create room for a prime minister. The best man will inevitably fill that space.” She looked at him and smiled. “My husband, you will inevitably fill that space.”

  Chapter 5

  “Shiiiiiit!”

  I jumped away from the dragon and fell on my arse. I and scurried back, my mind reaching for every bit of defensive magic I knew. Flame wall? I’d burn all the oxygen! Ice wall? Not enough moisture!

  The floor rose up in front of me, coming to hundreds of sharp points. A palisade of stone rose up, every jagged edge pointed at the dragon. Razor-sharp stalactites jutted from the ceiling, ready to impale the huge reptile if it so much as blinked.

  …

  It didn’t. What I thought was a living, breathing dragon was in fact a gigantic statue.

  “Oh, very funny, Valandil. Ha ha. Oh, ha ha ha. Is this my graduation prank? You really went through a lot of effort. That statue looks so lifelike.”

  “Look again, my apprentice,” Valandil said, his face serious. “Use your other senses.”

  “What, did someone paint Angrod is a wanker in ultraviolet paint?”

  “Use. Your. Other. Senses.”

  I shrugged and opened my Sight.

  —and backpedaled further, for I’d glimpsed a living aura inside the stone. “Holy hell, the dragon’s alive!”

  The Sight is not like hearing or smell. No sense organ gives us this ability, although it relies on all of them. The Sight is nothing less than applied synesthesia, using one’s existing senses to make sense of information gained through magic.

  If you’ve ever heard a song that made you see fireworks, or eaten something that tasted like music, you know what I mean. Elves can turn it on or off and some scholars say we evolved it to deal with the monotony of a long lifespan. A person can only have so many new experiences, but the Sight can extend the novelty for a long while. It’s an excellent way to get new perspectives.

  I’d Seen a stone dragon wrapped in electricity. It crackled and flowed throughout the monstrous body, drawing patterns on its skin and shining brightly through its bones. It was alive, and yet it was entirely stone.

  “A petrified dragon,” I said. “Amazing!”

  “The prophecy calls for at least one dragon, and as far as I know this is the last one alive.”

  “I wouldn’t call it alive,” I said. “It’s basically frozen. Who did this?”

  “A powerful elven mage did it in the fifth century as a favor to the dragon. Take a look at its back.”

  I walked around—and grimaced. It was a grisly sight, even though everything was bone-dry and marble-white. Gigantic claws had torn long wounds into the dragon’s flesh and huge jaws had bitten out great chunks. The bone showed in many places and the spine was nearly severed.

  “Wyverns,” Valandil said, and I winced. They were related to dragons, but smaller. They couldn’t talk and lacked the forelimbs of dragons, but they made up for it through sheer viciousness. This dragon had apparently run into a flight of them.

  “The mage wasn’t skilled enough to heal it, so instead he turned the dragon to stone, preserving it against the day of its resurrection.”

  “I’m assuming you’ve tried waking it up.”

  “Of course I have. I’ve been trying for years! Transmutation at that level is a lost art, however. For all my experience, I could do nothing. Then again, maybe I’m not the man destiny has chosen.”

  I crossed my arms. “I have to tell you, Master, I don’t feel particularly chosen. You don’t really think I can bring him back, do you?”

  “Indulge me,” Valandil said, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Just make a serious attempt, and I will release you from all of your obligations as an apprentice.”

  “All right, old man,” I said. “But only because you bribed me.”

  I walked around to the dragon’s head and looked into its calcified eyes. Then I began the Working.

  * * *

  I remember the first time I saw Valandil build.

  It was early on the construction site. It was cold, too, so I wore a coat. A crowd was waiting to see the master at work.

  Valandil paced the site, inspecting the raw materials piled around the lot. The little family that had hired us was right beside me. The wife was smiling, the husband was beaming, and the little girl was hopping up and down. Everyone sipped hot chocolate and waited for the action.

  Valandil shrugged off his robe and tossed it at me. I caught it and he walked to the middle of the lot. His skin was gray and somewhat loose, but the muscles beneath spoke of wiry power. He reached the center of the site and planted his feet in the earth.

  The mounds of gravel, sand, and dirt turned into fountains. They simply fell up and the builder-mage vanished in the dust cloud. In less than a second he’d dug the foundations with magic, and now everything was drifting down. I couldn’t see it, but I knew that sand, slag, and gravel were mixing to form concrete. Water leaped out of the nearby ditch, overflowed its banks, and capering across the grass.

  Valandil held the entire design in his head: Everything found itself falling into place. There were sparks as iron ore turned to steel in mid-air, then twisted into wire. The walls grew, layer-by-layer—thin, light, and extremely strong. We could see Valandil moving as though underwater, pushing and pulling at the swirling clouds. He was like a potter, only he worked with his entire body as he turned in place and shaped the house around him.

  Sand became ropes of glass and became part of the walls. The walls steamed as the heat was pulled from them. The famous white sand returned to the earth as flakes of ultra-hard glass. The flakes blew against the walls and melded into a beautiful gloss.

  Still Valandil worked. He danced around the building, adding details there and there. The muscles on his back strained against themselves. Sweat ran freely. It took fifteen minutes more, but he finished the house to thunderous applause.

  It was a Working of a master, but it was nothing compared to the transmutation of living flesh. Shapeshifters just reconfigure their tissues, and even the best doctors can only accelerate the body’s natural healing process. Turning flesh to stone (and vice versa) was the highest of high magic. It gave you the means to conquer death, to become something like a god.

  And Valandil, who always said my spells were sloppy, actually thought I could do that?

  * * *

  I stared into the dragon’s amber eyes and willed it to life.

  …

  I focused my mind upon the dragon’s form, calling up the powers that resided in the space around me. I tensed, adding my own strength. The air thickened with magical potential.

  …

  I was sweating. My face was red. Sweat ran down my forehead and my irises grew and shank ind
ependently of each other. I thought I caught movement in a corner. Still nothing.

  …

  “Keep going,” Valandil said.

  I took another tack. I focused my Sight upon the rocky horror. Incredibly, the long-dead mage had preserved the dragon’s cell structure even as he mineralized the flesh. It looked like I had a chance to revive this gigantic lawn ornament. I concentrated on the structure and my mind opened like a flower.

  There were trillions of cells in the dragon’s body, and for a long moment of agony I could see them all at once, everything working and humming and ALIVE. I saw everything. Everything. For a time I forgot myself, so intense was my need to dream a dragon into the waking world. I saw a fossilized heart pump crystallized blood through arteries of glass. I saw brittle bones move and fragile muscles flex—I saw myself clenching my hands and crying. The ground steamed around my knees. The air grew hot and my tears boiled away. I saw the heart, that red beating fist, as it pumped fire through arteries of sand. I saw… I saw…

  I think I screamed. For sure I fell back, clawing at my eyes, trying to get at the afterimages of a billion billion animal cells. I screamed and toppled, and just before I blacked out the dragon reared its head and shattered its neck. The head fell free, smashing into the ground in a thousand pieces.

  * * *

  “Angrod? Can you hear me, boy?”

  I opened my eyes. Valandil loomed over with the lantern, looking concerned.

  “How long was I out?”

  “Not long. I just elevated your legs.”

  “My throat is sore. What are my legs resting on?”

  “A piece of dragon.”

  I tried to sit up—and instantly regretted it. I lay back, suddenly dizzy, and automatically drew strength from the ground.

  The background magic exists all around us, but it’s helpful to frame it in terms of the four elements. If you’re working earth magic, you draw power from the earth, and so on.

  I lay there, eyes closed, as my mind reasserted itself and the nausea fell away. I got to my feet without help. My feet had indeed been resting on a bit of dragon. The head and much of the neck were scattered all over the floor. I opened my Sight and looked at the rest of the body.

  “It’s dead,” I said. “No more aura. So much for prophecies.”

  The old man looked like he might cry. I’d have patted him on the shoulder, but we weren’t that close. He shook his head. “Centuries in stasis, only to end up like this.”

  “I tried, Master. Can’t say I didn’t make an effort. Hey, maybe this was what they meant by a dragon bowing to me? You must admit, its head can’t get any lower to the ground.”

  “Did you see how it moved at the end? Almost like it was coming to its feet… how do you feel?”

  “Like my brain grew two sizes. It’s worse than a Monday hangover.”

  “We should be going. I’m going to need my supporters more than ever. To build your case. We’ll need to establish a clear line of succession, one way or another.”

  “Oh, joy.”

  We left that dark and lonely cavern, now a tomb.

  * * *

  Master and apprentice were long gone when the spy made his move.

  He walked in absolute dark, trusting in his Sight to keep him clear of the debris. This far underground the temperature gradients weren’t enough for him to see by infrared, so he relied on echolocation. Clicking his tongue, he found the tunnel entrance and started for the surface.

  Now the cavern was a tomb.

  * * *

  Findecano Elanesse opened the door to his study. It was night, and dinner was long since over.

  It had gone smoothly, as his wife’s dinner parties tended to do. Connections had been made, alliances maintained, and truces reaffirmed. The food had been good, too. Afterward he had spent a couple of hours discussing things with his wife. They chatted until it was time for his private meditation.

  The study was in the tallest tower of the house. He stared out of the western window, which overlooked the sea and gave him a view of the moonlight on the waves. It was a colorless sort of light and he much preferred the glow of a bustling Drystone. The lighthouse, further up the coast, was a beacon in many ways.

  He took in the view for a moment, then turned to his personal library. He took a book from the shelf and ran a hand over the buttery leather. He opened, the book, stroked his beard—and hurled a bolt of power. It smashed into empty air and suddenly the spy was on the floor, half-frozen and chattering.

  “H-hold it, milord, hold it! Ch-chill out!”

  Findecano glowered at him. “Dragon-slayer. Mage-killer. King’s assassin. What do you think you’re doing, standing veiled in my private chambers?”

  The spy got to his feet, brushing ice from his cloak. “I was only keeping operational secrecy. Wasn’t sure you’d be alone.”

  “You may be my agent, but I haven’t forgotten who trained you. The Elendil Order does not play well with others.”

  “I said I was sorry, milord.”

  “No, you didn’t. Never mind. Report.”

  The spy recounted what he had seen in the cave by the sea. Findecano poured them cups of wine and heated them in his hands. The two elves sat across from each other, in front of the fireplace and sipped from the steaming cups.

  “So you’re saying the old crackpot finally found his prince?”

  “And it’s his own apprentice too,” the spy said. “It seems Valandil suspected a royal connection even before he accepted Angrod.”

  “And now the lad knows? This is unfortunate.”

  The spy shrugged. “So we kill him and the old man too. No worries—I can make it look like all sorts of accidents. The good news is that dragons are officially extinct. That was almost certainly the last one alive, and now it’s gravel. With your permission I will tell this to the head of my order.”

  Findecano nodded. “It’s good to be rid of those terrible reptiles.”

  “What about the old fool and the young fool? When shall we be rid of them?”

  “I will think on this,” Findecano said, and sipped his wine. “The timing must be right. You may go now.”

  “Yes, milord.” The spy finished his drink and got up to leave, but stopped. “I was wondering how you saw through my veil. I could’ve sworn it was perfect.”

  The wizard laughed. “It nearly was. You bent the light around you, synchronized your breathing to mine, and even smoothed the air currents—but you couldn’t stop your feet from pressing on the floor. I could feel your weight as if we were walking on a drum. You would have done better to stand next to something heavy, like the bookshelf.”

  “And then you wouldn’t have sensed me?”

  “No, but it still would’ve been the smart thing to do. I advise you to practice the rest of the week, because I’ll need you to shadow Valandil at the Governor’s Ball.

  “Will do, milord. I’ll be going now.”

  As Valandil watched, the spy exuded droplets from his pores. The pure water gathered on his skin and clothes, which remained dry. The water became a film, a bubble covering his entire body. It became a mirror. It turned transparent. The camouflage was complete.

  Valandil nodded in approval. As long as they both stood still, the spy was invisible. The distortion in the air bowed and the spy teleported away.

  The Lord Governor of Drystone shook his head and turned back to his book, How to Make Friends and Outlive Your Enemies.

  Chapter 6

  I woke up and groaned. It was as if an entire dwarven mining crew was digging for treasure in my skull. I could’ve saved them the trouble—there wasn’t anything valuable in there.

  I’d just managed to swing out of bed and start washing off the eye gunk when the water basin turned into a goddamn face.

  “Waaaugh!” I said, and fell on my arse.

  The sending was the head and shoulders of a beautiful blonde elf girl. It looked around, unseeing, and began to speak. “Angrod Veneanar? The Lord Governor wo
uld like to see you later. It’s regarding your audience.”

  “My what? The Lord Governor? What have I done?”

  It was Findecano Elanesse, no question. Only his office could get past the wards in every house. His people couldn’t spy on us, but they could scare the morning piss out of me. The secretary continued:

  “Remember, all graduating apprentices are required to undergo an exit interview at the Mage’s Citadel. Lord Governor Elanesse has graciously accepted the responsibility. He will await you at your earliest convenience. Say eight of the clock?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  She looked down. I’m sure she was just guessing, but for a second I thought she could see me. She smiled. “Thank you for your time.”

  The shaping of water splashed back into the basin.

  “Bloody hell,” I said. “I’m not going to wash my face in that.”

  * * *

  The Mage’s Citadel is in the Merchant’s Quarter, not because mages cater to merchants, but because that’s where the best restaurants are. It used to have its own district far from the rest of the city, but then the elder wizards got tired of the commute and relocated their headquarters. And when I say relocated, I mean the massive fortress had been teleported in one piece.

  It loomed over the shops and temples, a gleaming tower of arcane lore. Most buildings only had a thin superceramic coating, but the Citadel was plated in the stuff. Its walls laughed at catapults.

  Then again, considering how it was packed full of combat magicians, each worth a battery of siege engines, the armored architecture seemed rather overkill. What force would be foolish enough to attack it?

  I made my way down the cobblestoned streets—the citadel was warded against teleportation. Also, you don’t want to appear suddenly in a roomful of combat mages. I could already see them as I drew closer to the building. They swaggered in their gray and black robes, the air crackling with the spell-glyphs they held at the forefront of their minds. They looked at my white apprentice’s robes and sneered. Gods, but I hated them.

  All magic users know a few defensive tricks, but combat mages specialize in offense. They cultivate hair-trigger tempers, the better to channel destructive energies. They favor either fire magic, for obvious reasons, or air magic, so they can hover around shooting lightning.