by B C Penling
Below them was a forest, quilted elegantly by the artistry of yearend. The woods had begun their annual transformation. From green leaves sprouted a spectrum of dazzling colors. Golden hues of the great, towering oaks beside the fiery red plumes of the sprawling maple, announced their end with an unmatched beauty. The leaves had seen their prime and passed it. Their lives were now waning and soon they’d fall like soldiers in battle. Acorns had already started littering the forest floor, awaiting a squirrel or cockatrice to bear them away for their yearend store. The leaves rustled in the winds that sent their addictive scent, both sweet and sorrowful, lofting into the chill air.
Lana thought of home. Having never seen the glorious farewell to summer before, she couldn’t help but remember the undying wood surrounding Arbortown. It was enchanted and guarded by faeries. The leaves never fell and the branches appeared to paint the sky. The trees stayed young, disease free, and leaved year round. She spent many hours in the wood watching animals and riding her horse. She saddened again. Had she escaped being slaughtered or had she fed the army of ugly Warisai? She knew she’d likely never know what happened to her horse, Lus. Lana missed burying her face in her thick black mane while caressing her dappled gray neck. She wiped tears from her eyes and blinked harshly.
"How are you doing?" Zen asked Lana over his shoulder, distracting her wandering mind.
“Can I stretch my legs for a little?” Lana replied.
The edge of the trees drew closer below them and soon the landscape was covered in sand. The mountains ahead didn’t seem any closer than they had been an hour before. Zen stopped flapping and glided to the Gour’s golden ground. He flared gently, flapped, and his hind feet met with sand. He slowly lowered the front half of his body until his hands joined his feet. Then he crouched, pressing his belly into the warmth of the sun-warmed sand.
Lana slid from Zen’s back as graceful as she could and stretched. The beginning of the desert was obvious by the sudden ending of trees and the start of rolling sand dunes that spanned as far as her eyes could see. Lana stood for a moment and watched the wind propel ripples of sand across the dry desert. The Gourts were much taller than she expected. Their needles were clearly visible, even from the distance she stood.
“Pretty big, isn’t it?” Zen asked.
Lana looked at him and nodded. She started walking, paralleling the woods and marveling the vastness of Gour. At the bottom of the shallow dune descending from the woods was a lake. It was broad and placid despite the strong, warm breeze blowing from the Gour Desert. The lake made her feel uneasy. The white clouds in the sky drifted atop the black surface, ghostly gray and slow as a funeral procession. She gazed at it absorbedly.
"The Dead Lake of Gour," said Zen. The sudden break of silence made Lana startle.
"What's in it?" she asked.
Zen shrugged then said, "I wouldn’t get any closer to it. It tends to draw you in if you’re emotionally vulnerable or mentally weak. What’s in it, nobody alive could tell you.”
"What happens when something touches it?" Lana asked.
A red deer exploded from the tree line. It sprinted, terrified, from its pursuer and took no notice of Zen or Lana as it bounded past them. The buck ran straight into the oily shallows of Dead Lake and stopped. Its eyes went wide and its nostrils flared. It tossed its head in a silent cry of terror and stiffened. The buck was frozen in place.
The lake came to life. It undulated like molasses, a sickeningly slow rolling boil, around the animal. The darkness of the lake bubbled higher. Inky snake-like lines inched up to his flanks and spread like spilled milk. It crept onto his rump and along his back until it met at the shoulder with the blackness that consumed its front legs. His eyes searched wildly for an escape but escape he could not. The lake had taken hold. The tarry waters ascended the stag's neck, veiled his fearful eyes like a lunar eclipse, and blanketed his antlers. He looked like an onyx statue, shiny and reflective. Slowly, he sank through the surface, void of sound and ripple.
"Horrible, isn't it?" Zen said as the tips of the buck's antlers disappeared. Lana didn’t reply. She stood facing the lake, staring at the spot where it was swallowed. She wished she hadn’t seen it happen.
“It’s fear that led it to the lake. It was being hunted,” he said.
Lana looked at the wood. She heard the men approaching but was too enraptured by Dead Lake’s actions to notice sooner. She caught a glimpse of slight movement. She flinched anxiously.
“Zen,” Lana whispered. “What if it’s…?”
“Warisai?” he interrupted. “It’s not. I would be able to smell them. Plus I’d be calling them names much worse than hunters. It’s just a couple of men.”
Lana looked at him uncertainly. “Will they be…?”
A figure emerged from the forest. It was a man just like Zen said. He was wearing a thick duster and tall boots made from deer hide. His green pants were wool, same as his brown tunic beneath the weight of the long coat. He held a bow in his left hand and strapped to his back was a quiver filled with arrows tipped with brown and red cockatrice feathers. When he saw the elf and dragon his face went from determined to surprise.
“Lonnie!” he called over his shoulder. “Have a look at this!”
Lana exchanged looks with Zen. A few seconds later another man, slightly younger than the first, emerged from the forest, breathing hard. He was dressed not much different than the other. “Well, you don’t see that every day.”
“Pretty uncommon, I agree,” Zen said. “If you’re looking for the deer, you’ll need to find another.”
They looked at Zen with accusatory eyes.
“It jumped in the lake,” Zen said.
The men sighed and exchanged glances. “That’s the second one this week, Rore,” Lonnie complained.
“Winter will be here faster than you know it,” Zen said. “Do you need any help?”
Rore looked at Zen. There was a twinkle of admiration in his surprised eyes. “That’s an awfully kind offer, wyvern,” he said.
“I’m a dragon,” Zen corrected. “I only live with them.”
“Oh, my apologies,” Rore said shortly. “Well, I appreciate the offer but I think we can manage.” He patted Lonnie on the shoulder. “My brother and I will hunt farther to the south and away from that.” He thrust his bow at the quiet, seemingly innocent looking lake.
“Take care, dragon,” he said. “Thanks for offering.”
“No trouble,” Zen replied, nodding his head. “The best of luck to you both.”
Rore slung his bow over his shoulder, waved his hand at them, turned on his heel and entered the wood. Lonnie followed after a courteous smile.
“Are you ready to fly?” Zen asked Lana. “You aren’t too cold, are you? It’ll be colder once we’re over the mountains.”
“I am,” Lana replied, looking at the Bledsoe Mountains with apprehension.
A twig snapped in the forest, drawing her attention. “Here,” Lonnie said, stepping out of the wood. “Have this.” He jogged across the dune, taking off his leather overcoat. “It’ll be warmer than your dress.” His voice trailed off after noticing the dried blood. He looked at her with a hint of terror in his eyes. “You lived there…” His voice broke off.
Lana’s eyes began to tear.
“Yes,” Zen answered. “Please don’t press her further. She lost everything.”
“Take this,” he said, sympathetically. “It’ll keep you warm.” He held out the coat for her to take. “I have another one in my pack. Please, take it. You need one more than I need two.”
She took it with both hands and could only smile at him.
“Thank you,” Zen spoke up. “You’re very kind.”
“Take care of yourself,” Lonnie said gently to her. He nodded to Zen and jogged back into the woods.
“We’ll fly when you’re ready,” he said to her. “The suns will set before we know it and it’ll be much colder up there.” Lana donned the deer hide coat and walked to Zen’
s side. He crouched and she climbed and sat astride.
Zen trotted swiftly across the dune and unfurled his wings. Lana clutched Zen's mane and waited for him to take to the sky. He leapt gracefully from the ground and flapped effortlessly. He turned southwake and flew low over the forest.
Zen was thankful to be airborne. They were fairly close to Bledsoe Keep, a few hours flight through chilly mountain air. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Lana looking comfortably warm. Zen tried his best to fly smoothly whenever he had a passenger, especially if he wasn’t wearing a saddle. Elves had crafted them during the Fae War of 610. Wyverns wore them to carry elf messengers from one battlefield to another. Zen was lucky enough to inherit his father’s saddle and even luckier to have it fit him well. It afforded him the chance to be an elf escort. One he wouldn’t have had otherwise.
Zen had a lingering suspicion that his exclusion of certain events and activities was because Elder Wringa held the biggest grudge ever since the Hasting Paste incident; after which, she accused him of putting it on her perch. Needless to say, his laughter at the entirety of the joke, and watching her limbs dance vigorously, caused her to have a hateful eye toward Zen. So much so, that he couldn’t do anything in Bledsoe without someone watching. With eyes everywhere, there were constant complaints. Without his adoptive father around to cushion the brash judgment, he was at their mercy and punishment often. Let it be known that, as much as Zen would have loved taking credit for such a prank, it wasn’t him. The claim goes to Kyshta, the most obnoxious and utterly brainless wyvern in Bledsoe Keep.
Below them, not too far, was a wide river. Its water ran red as blood and flowed just as fast. The rampant, arterial river wound its way south at the foot of the Bledsoe Mountains. The rocks at the shore were stained red and the trees close by were dead. A metallic odor was permeated into everything nearby. The Creeping Death was once, and not long ago, just a stream. Now, however, it was a raging torrent that widened and deepened a little each day. Cursed with poison by the Malworn during the Fae War, the river hasn’t recovered but worsened over the years.
Zen continued his low flight path towards a looming snowcapped mountain range. Although the valley at its foot was experiencing the first hint of Yearend, the mountains were at the beginning of their frigid winter. Lana gasped when they crested the first mountain. Before them was a wide, deep and winding canyon. Its splendor was astonishing. The towering cliffs, snow dusted, paralleled them on both sides; a haunting reminder of cataclysmic events in years past.
Gusting winds kept them aloft like a feather on a summer breeze. Zen busily moved his wings to spoil lift and buffer gusts. He maintained a steady, slow ascension. Lana, windblown and teary eyed, hoped they would land soon. The nagging wind was tiresome and, as she held on to Zen, numbingly so. Her body trembled with cold as they climbed higher in the range and she became even more grateful for the coat the man had given her.
For almost an hour he traversed his way through peaks and crags. Within the highest peak, named Bledsoe after the leader of the wyverns, was a warren of tunnels and caverns where the wyverns resided. Ever since the Fae War ended their only desire was to be left alone most of the time.
Zen rounded a sharp curve and met no resistance from the wind. Lana brushed the hair out of her face and let out a breath of relief. In a protected alcove ahead was a large, splendid courtyard with numerous colored ice sculptures depicting wyverns and elves. The cliff beyond the courtyard had been carefully carved into elaborate arched entryways. Within them were hung large doors which were closed to keep out drafts.
"Welcome to Bledsoe Keep, Lana." Zen smiled.
CHAPTER 4
THE COUNCIL IN THE KEEP
Wyverns were basking in the doleful light from the suns. They noticed Zen’s arrival but with most intrigue, noticed the elf. Zen ignored the muttering and stares from the lazy wyverns and walked straight to the doors. He put his shoulder into one and it yielded to his weight, swinging open lightly as if it were made of nothing heavier than snowflakes. They entered a massive room with vaulted ceilings studded with precious and semi-precious stones. Every shade of color was crafted into the ceiling, walls, and floors and created a vast mural of wyverns, elves, flora, and fauna. It was a spectacular sight, especially when sunlight hit them and set sparkling fires within.
At the far end of the entry cave was an old wyvern perched upon a cushy pillow. She sat proudly, her wings tucked neatly beside her. Behind her was a mural, etched and bejeweled, the width of a wyvern’s wingspan. Each leaf and blade of grass was a sharp cut emerald. Trees’ bark was tiger’s eye. Serenely sittings elves, picnicking in a glade, were accompanied by many magical creatures; including a red, a blue, and a yellow wyvern. They were made of rubies, sapphires, and citrines; their eyes were different shades of amethyst.
The old wyvern was discussing something with another wyvern that was older and rather larger than Zen. He trotted across the atrium, drawing her stern gaze. She examined him irritably since anything faster than a walk wasn’t permitted inside. Her brow furrowed and her face grimaced when her eyes landed on Lana. Her glare seemed to burn straight through her.
"I do not believe that he intended to set it on fire," the female wyvern said, crossly. "You know, as well as any wyvern here, that young ones lose control of their flame glands whilst sneezing or coughing. I do understand how upset you are about losing that tapestry. However, I don’t think punishment of an involuntary action would be neither fair nor just."
"And there is no way we could ever obtain a replacement," the male wyvern said, half a question and half a statement.
"Taurn, I am afraid the chance to obtain another is slim to none, being as old as it was. If we do happen across another, you, of course, shall be the first one to know," she said in response and closed the discussion.
Zen remembered the tapestry Taurn had received from his father as a gift. It was dated back to the founding of Bledsoe Keep and was one of the highest prized possessions. Zen's adopted father's heritage line did not have anything of great importance or historical value. Therefore, they were low in wyvern society.
His gift from his adoptive father was not at all as fantastic as Taurn’s gift had been. But he was grateful nonetheless to receive a hand-carved rose his father said a relative chiseled from jade. Although it had little to no meaning to the rest of the kin, it had a great deal of sentimental value to Zen.
Zen bowed low to the old female as Taurn walked moodily past them. His low bow was returned by the female with a hoarse clearing of her throat.
"Zen," she said dryly. "Safe in one piece, I see, and with company."
The way she said company made Zen's heart flutter anxiously. "Yes, Elder Wringa," he said respectfully.
"You are aware, I am sure, of the protocols against bringing guests to the Keep without prior consent and approval of the Elders," she said with an accusatory tone.
"Yes, ma'am, I am well aware of the protocols and for breaking them I apologize. I do, however, have strong reasons as to why we have come without forewarning and permission." He kept eye contact with his Elder.
"Follow me then, Zen and uninvited guest, and you may present to the Council your arguments." She turned with a swish of her tail and stepped down from her cushy perch and led the way down a long, wide and tall hallway.
The hall wound its way past many corridors, sitting rooms, and closed doors as it trekked deeper into the wyvern lair. Where the light waned and darkness took over, the way was lit by fire. The colorful flames were contained in bowls of different shapes and sizes. Within the flaming bowls were rolled up animal s soaked in scentless fluid.
They passed wyverns of all sorts that were sitting in rooms adjacent to the hall. Some took notice of the elf and others did not, or they did but didn’t care. Lana noticed that the wyverns were not like Zen. They were only bipeds, the ones she had seen; none had four legs like Zen. Her mother described the wyverns to her but they looked odder than she imagined and quite a bi
t more awkward. One walked passed them and looked strangely like a raven but had a scaly body. Her black, feathery wings were tucked gracefully at her side and her yellow eyes thoughtfully found Lana’s stare.
She glanced into another room out of curiosity and stifled her giggles when her eyes settled upon a bearded wyvern. He looked particularly funny to her and she thought he resemble a donkey with a mouthful of straw that was too large to chew or swallow.
Soon they came to a large room, clad in crimson, orange, and yellow, where many more wyverns sat chatting to another. Their voices echoed off the walls and ceiling of the spherical chamber. Most wyverns were resting on large cushy poufs of various colors. Lana knew they were animal hide sewn together, dyed, and stuffed with straw. Her kin had given one to the Keep for each time they attended the Conclave. Large orbs hung from the ceiling, inside of which were bright yellow flames that did their best to light the under-mountain lair.
The wyverns took little notice when they entered the room. Even so, Lana felt as if she were a mouse trapped in a room full of cats. She knew she could trust Zen but she was uneasy about the others. Zen felt Lana shrink down and grow heavier. He understood her uncertainty, feeling some himself.
"Elders," said the female wyvern, addressing a group of older wyverns lying on particularly puffy poufs, "We require a summit. If you will all follow me to the council chambers, we can address this matter." She finished with a slight bow and led the way through thick crimson silk curtains. At the end of the hallway past the curtains was a dimly lit room with black poufs and boring granite walls.
"Stand here, Zen." The female wyvern ordered, pointing with her wing to a small, oval platform that was only a few inches above floor level and well-worn. She took the perch opposite the entryway. The rest of the Elders filed in and took their poufs in a semicircle around Zen and Lana. They totaled eleven, six females and five males.
"Zol, we need Onute. Send Bresh to fetch him, wherever he might be," Wringa said.
Zol, a goshawk-like wyvern, turned to abide his orders and disappeared into the hall. To Lana, he seemed to be the youngest of the Elders. Most of the Elders were already lazily lying atop their poufs with distant but prying eyes fixed on Lana and Zen. Zen stood boldly in the center of the semicircle, feet square beneath him. He stared straight ahead with his chin up. His wings were folded firmly to his sides and his tail was rigidly resting on the stone floor.
