Then he heard the rasp again, as the dragon's tail slid across the floor toward him. He screamed at the sight of the pale, milky scales. The tail coiled around the ankle of his unbroken leg. The man tried to kick it, but his broken leg was useless; the pain at his attempt to move it hit him so hard he went limp. As the dragon's tail pulled him further into the cavern, the man's broken leg bent double at mid-thigh, the jagged bone digging painfully into the big muscles along his leg, the tendons stretching then snapping. The man screamed, but his mind had already shut down the pain receptors that would have registered the agony of his broken leg. Fear gripped the man even more tightly than the dragon's tail, and his heart began to flutter in his chest.
The area where the dragon lay was gold, too, but here the floor and walls were wet with condensation, the air heavy with a musky, reptilian scent and the smell of sulfur. It was warm beside the beast, which lay still in the darkness. The tail had shifted around the man as it drew him near, so that it began pushing him forward rather than pulling him. For several minutes the man lay in the dark, fear squeezing his heart so hard it was difficult to breathe. Finally, when nothing happened, the man calmed down slightly. The drop in his adrenaline allowed his brain to receive the pain signals from his mangled leg, and he moaned in agony.
The dragon was relishing his unexpected treat. The man reeked of fear, sweat, and blood. He could hear the ragged breathing and the man's strong heart beating quickly in his chest. The dragon, whose eyes were still closed, could imagine the taste of warm blood flooding into his mouth. It made his mouth water, and his forked tongue flicked out into the air in anticipation. It had been a long time since the dragon had tasted flesh, and human flesh was a special treat. Humans were the only species that posed a danger to the dragon, and he often found it necessary to roast them with his fiery breath before eating them. This one he wanted to savor.
The pain was so overwhelming that it took a minute for the man’s other senses to come back. He could feel the heat from a large creature beside him. Even though the cavern was shrouded in darkness, he could sense the looming body coiled beside him, hear its deep, even breathing. On the smooth floor he felt a thick layer of ash, although he mistook it for dirt. He couldn't keep the moans of agony in check as they washed over him again and again. He knew he was dead, even if the creature beside him didn't kill him, his leg was ruined and he would never be able to climb back down the mountain. As rational thought fought through the fog of pain, he realized that he had a choice. He could die quickly, or die slowly, racked in agony from his broken leg, which would only become worse over time as the wound festered and he suffered from dehydration.
He still had the small knife. He had forgotten about it, but he hadn’t dropped it, not even when the beast’s scaly tail had snapped his leg like a twig underfoot. Now he would use it to end his suffering. He laid the blade on his good thigh and fumbled with his heavy cloak, which was fastened with leather thongs he kept tied tightly so that his garment didn't impede his climbing. It took several moments for his trembling fingers to untie the laces, the effort made his head swim and sweat poured from his head and stung his eyes. Finally he could reach inside the cloak to his neck and chest. He picked up the knife; it was only about as long as his hand from palm to fingertips. The grip was simple wood and the blade a dark grey, but it held an edge well. He stroked the blade with his thumb and felt the skin part with a flash of pain.
The dragon smelled more blood as he felt the man struggle beside him. He had been enjoying the panting and groaning noises, now he sensed something else. The man had cut himself, the dragon realized. Normally he wouldn't allow his prey to rob him of the joy of the kill, but his heavy sense of slumber still lay on him, and the man would still be delicious and nurturing if he were dead. When a dragon hibernated, the world changed. Now the beast was curious to see what type of courage this man had. Would he strike at the dragon in a futile attempt to slay him? It was laughable, but it would be telling to realize that the courage and strength of the human race had grown while he slept.
The man had planned to slice his own throat, but the small cut on his thumb was aching and throbbing with every beat of his heart. He wasn't sure he could kill himself. It might be easier to stab the creature and let the vile thing do the killing. It appealed to him, to strike a blow in his defense, even if it were a futile effort. But the beast might not kill him quickly, either; it might merely strike him with that awful tail—at least, he thought the snaky appendage seemed like a tail. He lay undecided, fear of more pain battling with his fear of death. There was no easy choice, but finally he decided to take his own life. It was the surest way to end the suffering, he thought to himself.
The blade trembled in his hand. He laid it on his throat and, despite his body's response to the overwhelming pain from his broken leg, he could feel the menace of the cold steel. His throat felt weak and soft under the blade, and he could feel the pulse of blood through the thick veins there. Just a sudden slash, he told himself, and he could fade away. But his arm felt frozen, heavy, and immovable. He shuddered as his body struggled with his injuries and fear. Do it, he told himself, just end it, now!
The dragon slowly opened one eye. The cavern was too dark to see in. Most dragons can see well enough at night, but their eyes become accustomed to the bright flare of their fiery breath, and with age they lose their night vision. The dragon turned its head sideways and blew a thin gout of blue flame toward the ceiling. The fire turned red, then orange, and finally yellow as it danced and flowed around the roof of the cave before winking out. The light danced across the golden surface of the cavern, and the dragon could see the man lying beside him, his leg folded at an unnatural angle. The man had a small knife to his throat, his hand was shaking, his eyes opened wide at the sight of the dragon.
The creature's body was pale white, with traces of darker designs across its skin that shinned in the strange light of the dragon fire. Its head moved closer to look at him, the eyes barely open but full of malicious intent. Its tongue flicked out and brushed the man's face. The beast’s tongue had a rough, sandy surface that was abrasive, and the man threw his hands up to cover his head while squeezing his eyes tightly shut.
"Well?" came a deep voice, an inhuman voice that rattled deep in the beast's thick chest. "Do it!"
The man screamed, his bladder failing him, and he tried to scoot away from the dragon.
"Pathetic," said the dragon. His mouth opened wide and snapped off the man's head, allowing the hot blood to pulse into his mouth. Then he chewed, the skull snapping and splintering between the massive jaws. "But..." the dragon said out loud to himself, "delicious."
Chapter 1
“Dig deeper, Zollin,” Kelvich urged. “You have to find that reservoir of power that’s inside you.”
“I told you that I won’t.”
“Don’t be foolish,” the sorcerer chided.
“It’s evil, I don’t need it.”
“It’s not evil. Magic isn’t good or evil, I’ve told you that. The wizard may be evil, but not the magic.”
“You also said that magic is alive.”
“No,” Kelvich corrected, his shaggy white hair fluttering in the cold winter air. “I said that it has a mind of its own. There’s a difference.”
“I felt it,” Zollin said. “It was intoxicating, but evil. I wanted to destroy the town and everyone in it.”
“That was just your emotions. Your father had almost been killed. Trollic was threatening everyone you cared about.”
“I know what you’re saying, and it makes sense,” the young wizard explained. “But it was more than that. It was hateful and cruel. I know it.”
“But how can that be?” Kelvich asked. “You are not hateful and cruel, so why would your magic be?”
“I don’t know, but it was.”
Zollin was trying to move the heavy timber beams into position for the bridge that would replace the one his father had burned when the Skellmarian’s had a
pproached the town of Brighton’s Gate. It had been part of their defensive strategy, one that had saved the town after Zollin used his power to break the ice along the river that separated the valley from the northern mountains. But that power had exhausted Zollin, and it wasn’t until his desperation to save his father, who had fallen into the icy river, had taken over that he had been able to tap into the well of magic that was inside of him. Kelvich had been right; he had been operating on the overflow of that magic, what felt like a hot wind inside him. But when he tapped into the magical core, he felt as if had stepped into dancing flames of magic. It was amazing, by far the most powerful thing Zollin had ever experienced, but it was also frightening. He knew, as he plumbed the depths of that hidden reservoir of magic with his inner eye, that he could do whatever he wanted. The stone buildings felt like dry, autumn leaves he could crunch under foot, the people were like smoldering candles that he could extinguish with a breath. It had been exhilarating, but then the dark thoughts had come, lust for death and destruction that seemed almost irresistible. He had pulled back from that power, and the desire to destroy had subsided. Now he knew he could tap into that well of magic at will, but he was afraid to.
“I don’t know how to help you, Zollin.”
“Perhaps I don’t need help,” he said. He had been fighting depression since the battle with the Skellmarians. “I just need to finish this job and then...” he let the thought trail off.
“Leaving won’t help,” his mentor said.
“How do you know?”
“These people would be dead or enslaved if you hadn’t saved them.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Don’t I? You didn’t bring the barbarians down from the mountains, Trollic and his miners did that. Brighton’s Gate was a ripe plum with no defenses. They would have been overrun in a matter of minutes. The miners wouldn’t have helped. I couldn’t help them. It was your father’s strategic plan and his willingness to work with these people that made the difference, and your power. Why must you fear it?”
“I can’t explain it to you, I just know.”
“Alright, son,” came Quinn’s gruff voice. “Can you drive that post through the ice?”
Quinn had worked for days with one hand; his left arm had been crippled in his duel with the Skellmarian chieftain. Once Zollin had regained his strength, he’d healed it in less than an hour. Since then, Quinn had been planning to rebuild the bridge he’d burned. He had designed a system so that the townspeople could raise and lower the new bridge as the need arose. It wouldn’t be as wide as the original, whose stone pilings were being used to support the new bridge, but it would aid the town in its defense from the Skellmarians.
Quinn was convinced that the raiders who had attacked the village were merely a foraging party and that a large group would be coming. It had been difficult to convince the town elders that the threat was still imminent, but he had finally done it. After celebrating their victory, of which the town really had no part, they got back to work fortifying their defenses.
Zollin was raising two large pine trees that had been cut and trimmed to serve as the supports for the pulley system that Quinn had designed to raise the drawbridge. He would not only need to lift the pine posts, but drive them down through the thick ice and then into the soft mud so far that the posts would be secure enough to bear the weight of the bridge. Quinn was planning to install support ropes as well, but the key was Zollin’s ability to position the heavy posts.
Zollin had his staff in one hand; his willow belt had been destroyed and he wasn’t sure he had the strength to do what his father was hoping for without delving into the power he now feared. Kelvich, the sorcerer who had become Zollin’s mentor, stood looking on, as did several of the townspeople. Mansel was there as well, his sword hanging from his hip as it always was now. He had been lauded as a hero by the citizens of Brighton’s Gate for defeating Trollic’s assassin. Zollin, on the other hand, hadn’t been shunned, but was certainly feared. People refused to look him in the eye and would even leave the room when he entered. He had begun spending more and more time with Kelvich in the little cabin in the woods. His only regret was that he didn’t get to see Brianna as often as he wanted to. She had been working hard, too, and while she wasn’t rude, she seemed preoccupied. Zollin had suspected that she and Mansel were lovers, but he had no real proof. She didn’t seem anymore attentive to Mansel than to Zollin.
He pushed the thoughts of Brianna from his mind. Dwelling on his feelings for her would not help him lift the log pole. He concentrated on the long post until he could feel every fiber of wood. He willed it to rise into the air and immediately felt the weight of the big pole. It was easily twice as tall as the inn he’d helped his father build in Tranaugh Shire, his hometown. The pressure of the weight felt like tight bands circling around his chest and squeezing his head. He opened his eyes and saw that the pole was rising up from its prone position, but the pointed end, which Mansel and Quinn had shaped using heavy axes, was still on the ground. Electric, blue energy crackled and popped up and down Zollin’s staff. He could feel his inner magic churning and longing to connect with the power of his staff.
“Can you lift it?” Kelvich asked.
“Don’t know,” Zollin said through clenched teeth.
“That’s it, nice and slow,” Quinn said, reminding Zollin of his apprentice days, working for his father to learn carpentry. He had been a hopeless student, woefully unskilled with his hands. When he had discovered his power, it had been the most exciting thing in his young life.
He grunted under the strain of the heavy pole and could feel the weight pressing the pole down into the frozen ground. He hoped that if he could lift it over the ice and then let it fall in the right spot, the pole’s massive weight would do a lot of the work for him.
“Okay, move it over the riverbank,” Quinn ordered.
Zollin tried to lift the pole, but it was too heavy. It was taking all his strength just to keep it from falling over.
“I can’t do it,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Don’t let that pole fall,” his father called out. “We can’t afford to waste good timber.”
It was the mantra he’d heard all his life. He hated it, but he hated the thought of letting his father down even more. As he grew up, they had rarely seen eye to eye, but over the last several weeks, he’d seen all his father had sacrificed for his sake. Quinn had risked his life more than once to protect his son, and Zollin was determined not to let him down.
He could feel the magic inside of him, yearning for release. He finally gave in, and the flames of power billowed up like smoke from a bonfire. The tree was still heavy, but it was manageable. He raised it several feet off the ground and moved it quickly over to the spot his father had marked on the frozen surface of the riverbed. He let the post fall while maintaining his control around the timber. It was like letting his staff slide through his hands. The post punched through the ice with a crash and lodged in the soft mud below. Even though the sheer weight of the pole had driven the post several feet into the riverbed, Zollin knew he needed to drive it down further. He pushed with his mind, willing the post to force its way deeper and deeper. Sweat poured out of every pore, but within minutes the post was firmly planted beside the new bridge.
“That’s good,” Quinn called out. “Great job, son.”
He and Mansel went to work untying the thick ropes that had been wrapped around the post to help support the towering beam.
Zollin stood in the flames of magic power, reveling in the feeling of strength. The world seemed to fall away from him, and he could feel the distant sparks of the other wizards. Two were in the west and another was far to the south, all three seemed stationary. Two more were moving north, slowly approaching. They were much too far away to identify, but there was something about them that made Zollin uneasy. He knew instinctively they were searching for him. It seemed like everyone was.
“Alright, let’s move
the other pole,” Quinn said.
“He may need a break,” Kelvich explained.
“No, I’m okay,” Zollin said.
He lifted the other tree, this time the work was much easier. He rammed it down into its place in one swift motion, wrapping the tree up in his power to keep it from splintering under the impact. The job done, he released his hold on the magic.
“That was amazing,” Kelvich said, his face flushed as if he was drunk.
Zollin didn’t answer; the effort to control his power had left him exhausted. He sat down on the snowy ground and hung his head between his knees. Kelvich handed him a bottle of wine. The rich liquid burned its way down Zollin’s throat to his empty stomach, and he felt the heat of it roll out through his whole body. The magic had felt like powerful flames, but the wine felt like a warm bath. He savored the feeling until Kelvich supplied a cold chicken leg left over from their supper the night before. Zollin bit off a large hunk of the flavorful meat and swallowed it half chewed. Then he washed it down with more wine.
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