Stone Dragon (The First Realm)

by Testamark, Klay

  “I wish they wouldn’t play such noise,” Valandil said, finishing his plate.

  “It brings in the young crowd.”

  He frowned. “Since when did our society become obsessed with youth? I expect you will change that once you take the throne. I have news, by the way.”

  I was having a sip of wine, so I gestured for him to continue.

  “I’ve just heard from our allies—they’re willing to support us once we go public with your lineage. And I’ve just devised a family tree that avoids any recent scandal.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “Did you know, even without the maid Rosemary you were high in the line of succession? If we suppose a few of your great-great-grandfathers were born on the wrong side of the blanket, your name rises to the top.”

  I stared at him. “So by making bastards of my ancestors, you make me the biggest bastard of all?”

  “Think of the glory,” said Valandil. “I’ll be announcing it at the Lord Mayor’s Ball. Wouldn’t that surprise Findecano?”

  I groaned. I’d been getting on so well with Meerwen.

  “Chin up, my dear apprentice. And I must thank you for the meal—that was an excellent fish.”

  “Caught it myself,” I said.

  * * *

  In a curtained booth across the restaurant, the spy finished his rare steak and listened to the pair of fools. Although the place buzzed with music and conversation, it was simple for him to internalize his water magic. He was seeing in black-and-white, but his senses of taste and hearing were excellent.

  The spy shook his head. They didn’t know shit about running a conspiracy. He would report what he’d just learned and with any luck Findecano would give him permission to kill at least one of them.

  He smiled and wiped his chin. He wished it would be the both of them, because then he could make it look like a lover’s quarrel, and those were always good for diverting suspicion. Everyone would be too scandalized to question the evidence.

  Chapter 8

  The Royal Ball was okay, if you like extravagant luxury. All of the city’s glitterati wore their finest and their flashiest. Loads of silk brocade and lace, miles of fur and velvet, and everything garnished with rubies and pearls. And that was just the men.

  We were in the biggest hall in the royal palace. It glowed from the light of a hundred chandeliers. Each was gilt bronze (dwarves being expert goldsmiths) and boasted dozens of gas lamps. The light was warm and bright, the better to show off the costumes and the food.

  Normally I consider Biggo’s to be the height of cuisine, but jaded elven aristocrats demand so much more. Delicacies from all over the world, prepared with only the most expensive ingredients and served in ornate arrangements. There was roc pâté, slow-roasted wyvern, and wild halfling steak. The smell around the buffet tables was so rich and thick you could almost put it on your plate.

  For dessert, there were one thousand choices, each an epicure’s dream. There were marzipan swans, candied scorpions, and chocolates filled with brandy and venom. There were butterfly ices, civet cakes, and mango floats covered in gold foil. To keep everything from melting there were mages dressed as waiters—they stood behind the tables and extracted the heat from the dishes.

  Tari Elanesse kept things casual. Apart from a few opening speeches, there wasn’t much of a program. It was more of a giant cocktail party—everyone was free to circulate from the tables to the dance floor.

  Valandil came striding up to me, more than a little drunk. “Angrod, my boy, it’s good to see you. In less than an hour I shall make the announcement that will change history.”

  “Have you been hitting the rum balls?”

  “You could be more enthusiastic, but it doesn’t matter. Once you are king you can do anything. Within reason, of course. You can’t neglect the kingdom and you’ll have to produce a royal heir. An heir and a spare, if you can manage it.”

  I wrung my hands. “I don’t see how this can work.”

  “Oh, but it will! Appoint me as your personal advisor and I will always be at your side. We will establish a dynasty to last ten thousand years!”

  “Urgh,” I said. I was getting a headache again. Valandil patted me on the back and wandered toward the champagne. I would have headed to the gardens, but then Meerwen was before me.

  “Hello,” she said. “You clean up nicely.”

  I bowed. “And you look stunning.” She wore a light blue dress. Her short hair was embellished with a silver tiara.

  She tilted her head. “Are you sure? It seems everyone has eyes for the capran ambassador. Who would have thought to combine a plunging back with an open-front skirt?”

  “You must admit, Her Excellency has great legs. And who else has jewels set in her hooves and horns?”

  “Randy little goat,” Meerwen muttered. I was about to ask whether she meant the Ambassador or me, but then she smiled. “Would you like to dance?”

  “Of course,” I said. I offered my arm and led her to the dance floor.

  Unlike the halfling music from earlier that week, the soundtrack of this ball was strictly elven, and highbrow at that. It used no instruments invented less than a thousand years ago and all the composers were generations dead. Given our life spans, that’s saying a lot.

  The dancers flowed in precise geometries, sometimes in circles and sometimes in stars. Partners broke away, sidestepped, and paired up with new partners. They orbited and spun, leaped together and apart, linked hands and made lines.

  Mastering a single dance took decades, which was why only elves ventured onto the floor. The humans and the dwarves stood to the sidelines, looking on with admiration and envy.

  “You’ve got moves, Meerwen,” I said.

  “Thanks. You dance well too.”

  My headache was definitely worsening. What started as a low-key buzzing had become a pounding, as if something were trying to get out. It must’ve showed on my face, because Meerwen frowned. “Is something wrong?” she asked. “Am I doing this okay?”

  “It’s not you,” I said. “I don’t feel well.”

  “Do you want to stop?”

  I shook my head. “I can last through this dance. It sounds like it’s almost done.”

  I saw Valandil heading toward the stage. He had a scroll under his arm, no doubt evidence for when he proclaimed me as the next king.

  Stupid old man, to think he could bend a dragon to his will. I should’ve killed him in that cave.

  What?

  I was sweating in my formal outfit. My skin itched so hard it was almost crawling off my back. Colored shadows swam behind my eyes. I was suddenly hungry, but when I glanced at the buffet it might as well have been a pile of rocks. I turned my attention to my dance partner. She looked tasty.

  “Angrod? Are you okay?”

  I swallowed, trying not to drool. Sweet, sweet flesh. I wanted to tear off her legs and eat them raw.

  “Angrod?”

  Distantly I noted that my master had climbed onto the stage. The music had stopped and he was already activating a voice-amplification spell. It was a simple enough bit of wind magic, but he still went for the old joke: “Is this thing on?”

  I was shaking and cramping, but managed to hold together as the crowd turned to the stage.

  “As you recall, I was advisor to the last king, Galdor Lissesul. He was a wise, fair sovereign who treated everyone with respect. Most people don’t know he formed the council that currently governs Brandish. He created it with the express purpose of making sure that no single person was all-powerful. It is a testament to his foresight that our country has survived so long with an empty throne.”

  “But that will change.”

  He took a beat to glance around. Findecano and Tari Elanesse stood to one side, their faces unreadable. My master continued:

  “As you know, His Highness was executed by a mob during a famine. It was a most shameful treatment of a great man, one who had spent his last days searching for a soluti
on. I was there when they killed him, and I shall remember it as long as I live. I wept that day, I am not ashamed to say, and I wept again when I heard of Prince Errol’s death. I despaired that we would descend into anarchy. I despaired that we would forget our laws and our traditions. I despaired, at the thought that our country might never again be a kingdom.”

  “Today I despair no longer. After laborious research, I have determined that House Lissesul survives—to this day!”

  Shocked silence, then a rising murmur as everyone started talking. Meerwen and I were the only ones not speaking, but then she said, “Is this true? Did you know about this?”

  “Only… this… week…” I said, and Valandil said, “And that’s not all. Ladies and gentlemen, there is a member of the royal family in this very room!”

  There was a crash. I turned and saw Elrond in his guild robes. He’d dropped a bottle of his best peach champagne. Valandil was still speaking:

  “Imagine my surprise when the heir to the throne turned out to be my own apprentice!”

  Everyone turned to me, the incoming journeyman in his white formal robes. I hunched over, dripping sweat, and hugged myself as if it would do anything. I wasn’t much to look at.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I present Prince Angrod, formerly of House Veneanar, but now rightfully recognized as a true son of House Lissesul. Starting today, a new age dawns on the First Realm!”

  Meerwen backed away from me in shock.

  Then everything went to hell.

  * * *

  “Aaargh!”

  I fell to my knees, my stomach burning. I was mortified. Much as I didn’t want to be a prince, this was no way to come out as one. My guts turned to ice and my brain to flashing lights. I slumped to the ground, the world smelling like shit and blood. Blinking furiously, I rolled onto my back and thrashed. My vision juddered and my arms flailed. I was reminded of the fish I’d caught the other day. Foam bubbled from my mouth. Gods, what a way to start a dynasty.

  “Stay back, folks,” Meerwen said. “I’ve got this under control.”

  After a thousand years the fireworks in my brain went dark. Then the smoke cleared. I started coming back to myself. Everything was still shaky but I had enough motor control that I could push myself up.

  “You all right?” she asked.

  I smiled weakly. “I’ll be fine. S’just stress.”

  Then the PAIN hit me. I arched my back so much I stepped on my own head.

  “AAAArrruugrch!”

  I bit through my tongue. The inside of my mouth tasted coppery, and sweet. My skin bubbled, at least it felt like it was bubbling, each blister full of scalding pus. I’d have clawed my face off if I had motor control. I was screaming, howling, smashing my head on the cold marble floor. Anything to black out on the tearing in my guts.

  After nine million years the white-hot nails withdrew and I got my body back. I blinked, and I could see. I’d puked my guts, and what had been expensive grub was now just a smelly puddle on my face.

  “Angrod?” Meerwen said. “You’re going to be okay.”

  The wings tore out the back of my suit.

  If you’ve ever spent an hour with your elbows on a table, then leaned back and stretched your arms, you’ll know what it felt like. Only this was happening to a third pair of limbs halfway down my back. Felt completely natural, as if I’d had them all my life. A bit like hands, if the fingers were stretched and leathery. The skin was pink and shiny with blood.

  This wasn’t the last of my problems.

  Just when I was trying to stand, something forced me down. I fell to my hands and knees—the marble floor cracked beneath me. The seamless marble floor cracked, as if I’d gained hundreds of times my own weight.

  “Angrod? Angrod?”

  “G-get away, Meerwen. Get away!”

  I was growing, but my torso was growing faster. My clothes were being shredded, of course, but then so was my skin. My eyelids and mouth stretched as much as they could, then tore at the corners. My arms grew so long the skin split at the elbows—it looked like I was wearing gloves of my own skin. Glistening underneath were hard white scales.

  “What’s happening to me?!”

  I shuddered, my muscles tensing and twitching. I bulged out of my clothes, the muscles swelling like boils. They flexed, breaking bones and tearing tendons. My bones knit together and then snapped apart. Knit together and snapped apart. Did I mention the pain? No?

  “Aaeeeaarghaarhraa help meee!”

  I writhed on the floor, stretched on the rack of my own body. The guests had fallen back in horror. People were screaming, men and women were pushing for the exits. Meerwen stood her ground, but her hands had turned into fists.

  “Oh, gods!” I said through a mouthful of fangs. My jaws jutted forward and I was growing a snout. It poked through my stretched lips—my fucking nostrils were poking through my lips. My scalp was pulled down my neck and down my back. My tail lashed the air. My pants exploded, and then my shoes. I took a moment to mourn my shoes—I’d bought them just for the party. It rained bloody toenails before the talons forced their way out.

  Everything went black. I shook my head, and then everything looked different. Everyone glowed in their own personal mana pool, but the ambient magic still streamed into me. Me! My body sucked up all the loose energy—enchantments failed across the city. Lights flickered, as transmutation spells stopped turning lard into illuminating gas. Scrying pools collapsed, cutting off communications and splattering their users. At the buffet table, all the desserts began to slump.

  My last thought when I blacked out was, At least I don’t have to be king anymore.

  Chapter 9

  I opened my eyes and heard the screaming. People were streaming out the doors and diving from the balconies and into the gardens. Odd, that.

  The second thing I noticed was that everyone was smaller. Here I was, on all fours, and still I towered over them. The ceiling was a closer too, and I made a note to avoid the chandeliers. Whose idea was it to hang them so low? Fucking dwarves.

  The third thing I noticed was how angry I was. “Shonofabitch,” I rumbled. I twisted my neck back and forth (this was easier) and took in the scene. The two elder Elanesses seemed rooted to the ground. Valandil gazed up at me, mouth slack.

  “What are you looking at?” I said.

  “You seem to have turned into a dragon.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous. You’ve been hitting the maple-sherry gelato, haven’t you?”

  “That’s not the point. The point is that you’re a dragon now.”

  I stood up straight. It wasn’t as easy as I remembered, and I had to grab onto a nearby a railing. I looked at it—my claws hooked around a second-floor balcony.

  “See what I mean?” Valandil said.

  “Whatever. I’ve always been tall. And how am I talking? Dragons never had lips or vocal cords.”

  “Notice how your lips aren’t moving? That’s because you don’t have any.”

  I gnashed my teeth, a sound that filled the hall. I noticed I was using magic to talk—a variant of the voice-amplification spell. “Still doesn’t prove a thing.”

  “What about your wings?”

  “I’ve always had them. Since I was a hatchling, in fact.”

  “Somebody’s in denial,” Findecano said. His wife clung to him.

  “Hey, hey, nobody’s in denial. So I look a little different in some areas. Big deal. I’ve been under a lot of stress. So my skin’s a little weird and everybody looks like food. Haven’t you had one of those weeks?”

  “Angrod, you’re a dragon,” Meerwen said.

  “Not you too!”

  I got down on all fours—I always think better that way. I looked around. “Where’d everybody go? The night is still young.” I blinked, then shook my head. “Look, if I were a dragon I would be able to breathe fire, right? And I’m damn sure I can’t. Never could. Not even after that time I ran away with the circus.”

  Findecano and Tar
i slowly edged off the stage.

  My thoughts drifted, but then the wind changed and I was back on course. I remembered I was angry, fucking furious, and it was suddenly a good idea to see if I could breathe fire.

  I turned to my master. “Make a fool of me, would you?” I stabbed a claw in his direction. “I’m onto your game, old man. This is nothing but an elaborate jest, starting with that nonsense about me being a prince.”

  Part of me thought this was wrong, all wrong, but another part was shouting fight fight fight. I was drunk with anger and maybe rum balls, because who counts cookies, even if they’re alcoholic cookies? I stalked closer to the stage. “Did you think you could make me do something I didn’t want? I am not your pawn, little man. You have pushed me one square too far.”

  Findecano’s hand lashed out, but the local magic field was completely depleted. Sparks escaped his fingers, but that was all.

  I turned to him. “You think to burn me with your pathetic cantrip?” I growled. “It is I who will burn you.”

  I reared, triangulating on him and his mate. I gathered my breath and waited for them to twitch. Tari blinked, and I threw my head forward and spat white-hot plasma.

  * * *

  Several things happened at once.

  The Lord Governor turned to shield his wife, for all the good it would do. Meerwen tackled me around the neck, but without her magic she only weighed as much as any elf girl.

  As the plasma left my mouth I thought, Shit, I really AM a dragon.

  And Valandil Telerunya, former royal adviser and my mentor, stepped into the line of fire with his arms outstretched. With the last of his power he shielded the two people behind him, giving them time to tumble off the stage. Then his magic failed and he died instantly. At least, I hope so. His skin boiled off, his flesh turned black, and his skeleton fell apart. I was a gigantic blowtorch—nothing could stand before me.

  Four combat mages came in through the skylights and smashed into the ground around me. They must’ve come in high, gathered their energies, and dropped through the no-magic zone with full mana reserves. They crackled with power. But then, so did I.