by Meg Cowley
Ta’hiir dodged the blow. His sister, El’hari, following closely behind him, parried it. Somehow, her slim blade skittered across Brand’s thick steel, sending it slightly off course – enough to strike the stone beside her with an almighty crash. Then she was off.
Brandishing her twin blades, Erika gave chase, though she was no match for the elf’s speed. Ragnar drew back his axe as Ta’hiir rounded on Brand once more. Just as Ta’hiir’s magic began to cripple Brand, Rangar threw the axe with all his might. Ta’hiir leapt out of the way, cursing, the blade bouncing harmlessly into the dust. Ragnar ran for his blade, pulling his larger axe from his belt loop.
Aedon followed Erika. Two against two.
He did not see Brand falter as the unseen poison of the arrow took hold. The Aerian crashed to the ground, leaving Ragnar, the slow and combat-shy dwarf, facing the fresh-faced and brutal Ta’hiir.
Aedon sent his magic shooting after El’hari, pulling her inexorably toward them with all his strength. The distraction was enough. Erika pounced upon the she-elf. She gathered El’hari’s mahogany hair in her fist and yanked it with relish. El’hari squealed and started to fall, but at the last second, she pitched her weight and sent Erika tumbling instead.
Erika crashed to the ground, rolled, and leapt to her feet, but El’hari danced around her, nicking her with cuts and grazes that Erika was not fast enough to dodge.
Aedon joined the fray with a howl, knocking El’hari aside with a shoulder. She faced him with a snarl, her teeth bared.
“Don’t give me the aleilah, thief. I want to take it from your cold, dead corpse!” She launched herself at him.
Breathing heavily, Erika threw herself back into the fight, but with a thrust of El’hari’s clawed hand and a burst of magic, she sailed through the air, landed with a thud, and was still.
Aedon’s blade parried El’hari’s, barely able to keep up with her speed. He knew he was no match for her in hand-to-hand combat. As they danced through the canyon in a deadly give-and-take, Aedon caught a glimpse of Brand’s hulking form on the ground, Ragnar weakening as he tried to keep Ta’hiir at bay.
No!
They were too strong. If he did not act, they would all be dead, their promise broken, and the alailah lost to the Tir-na-Alathea elves once more.
“Is this the best you have for me?” El’hari laughed. Her taunts stung, but he could withstand them. It was the smug glee in her amber eyes that he despised. “Weren’t you one of Pelenor’s finest? Not so fine without your dra—”
“Do not utter her name!” he thundered, giving in to the magic.
The inferno consumed him with a roar that drowned out all other sound. Raw power coursed through him as the magic burnt its way out, blasting the elf before him. Through a golden haze, he saw her alight, and fleeing, before he turned his attention to her brother.
Ta’hiir wheeled on him. His eyes widened with fear, and he fled after his sister before the fire consumed him.
Utterly spent, Aedon collapsed to his knees, his breathing ragged. Ragnar staggered over and helped him to his feet.
“Quickly, Aedon. That was a pretty show, but we cannot be sure they will not come back. You must heal Brand.”
Erika stirred under Ragnar’s caring ministrations as he treated her concussion, though he could not fix the sting to her pride. Meanwhile, Aedon bent over Brand. He trembled from head to foot with the exertion of drawing upon the old magics without the strength of his former companion to bolster his control. He missed her fiercely, but he pushed her from his thoughts.
With slow, deliberate movements, he drew the poison out of Brand’s wound, painstakingly pulling it through each blood vessel until the Aerian’s blood ran clean. Finally, Brand’s shallow breathing strengthened, colour returning to his dark face. Aedon sealed the oozing wound, a bare patch of skin amongst the feathers on Brand’s wing the only indication he had been injured.
Brand groaned. Slowly, he pushed himself into a seated position. His wings slumped to the side of him, like a giant cape.
“You cannot keep doing that,” Brand mumbled at Aedon as he tried to recover his bearings.
“I know. It really takes it out of me. If only I had more strength to draw on,” Aedon said. He smiled half-heartedly. “At least it got us out of that bind, though.”
“No more,” Brand growled at him.
“B—”
“No. More,” the Aerian snarled through clenched teeth.
Aedon gritted his teeth, as well. “A thank you would be nice. I know what is at stake. If I cannot use the least of my old skills, what good am I?”
Brand grumbled, but subsided.
Holding her head, Erika swept her gaze around the canyon again. “Enough bickering. We need to get away from this pass and to somewhere more defensible, lest they return.”
“They won’t.” Aedon coughed. His throat was so sore, it felt like he had swallowed a blade.
“You’d better hope not,” Brand muttered.
Their nerves were frayed by the time they made camp that evening beneath a painfully indefensible outcrop.
Ta’hiir and El’hari were out there in the dark. Everyone knew it, though they did not speak of it. The wood elves would have even greater cause to persue them now. Aedon did not know what he had hurt more – their bodies or their pride. He clenched the glass vial all the tighter. If she wanted it back so badly, El’hari would indeed have to pry it from his cold, dead hands.
Ten
The cold chilled Dimitri to the very bones, the square open to the freezing wind coming down from the mountains. The king sat upon the dais at the head of the square, Queen Idaelia to one side.
Off the dais stood the rest of his family, their faces devoid of any emotion, as the line of soldiers guarding them held back the crowd. Not a body more could fit in the square. They hung out of windows, sat atop walls, carts, anything just for a view. The news had spread like wildfire.
Dimitri stood to one side with the rest of the court. They had a perfect view that Dimitri wished he did not have to watch.
In the middle of the square, the pyres were lined up side by side. Standing upon freshly chopped wood were the accused, lashed to the stakes at their centre. They were unrecognisable.
Bedraggled and beaten, their finery had been stripped away. Ragged hair flew in the wind, unrestrained and tangled as it whipped around them. They stood, shuddering with cold – and fear – with only thin, cheap cloth to conceal their modesty. It did not protect them from the driving wind in the slightest.
Some sagged in their bindings, already unconscious from their torture. Others shouted, pleaded, begged their case to the king, to the crowd, to anyone who would listen. Toroth silenced them with a wave of his hand. Their mouths did not cease moving, but all the sound of their voices snapped off in an instant.
At their silence, the noise of the crowd increased, cursing them all in Saradon’s name. Projectiles sailed through the air – rotten vegetables, offal, excrement – to pelt the unfortunates. The king could not have chosen his accusations more perfectly. Even now, the people still feared Saradon.
Dimitri stood as immobile as the rest of them, his face carved with coldness, but inside, he raged. It only fuelled his decision. Toroth could end them with a word. Snap their necks. Crush their minds. Steal the life from their veins. It would be easy for one of his power. But this... This was cruelty. It was a spectacle, a performance. An example was to be made of those innocents who stood there.
A shadow fell over them, blotting out all light in the square. Dimitri did not look up. He knew what came. A cry rose from the crowd, followed immediately by a hush. The Pelenori were proud of their dragons, but right to fear them. They were the largest predators in the country and bound by intangible magics that the mortal populace would never understand, or trust.
The black dragon descended from the steel-grey skies and landed with a thud that shook them all. Only the stone of the capital could withstand it without crumbling and cr
acking under such force. And those claws...
The tail that encircled the queen’s throne was an impenetrable, glistening, black wall of scales and spikes, whilst its head curled around to the king. It stood several times the height of Toroth, who was dwarfed by its bulk as he laid a hand upon its cheek. Eyes of liquid gold with dark voids for pupils roved around them all. Even Dimitri instinctively shivered in fear as its attention skimmed across him.
A deep rumble came from its chest, its jaw slightly ajar. As if any of them needed reminding it had teeth as long as their legs...and worse inside its belly. As much as dread filled Dimitri at the presence of the behemoth and what he knew was to come, he felt a momentary pang of envy. What it would be like to have such a fearsome predator at his disposal...
Dimitri no longer dwelt on what could have been had he been permitted to attend selection, have a chance to become a member of the legendary Winged Kingsguard. Even so, he could not help but wonder what it felt like to control such strength. This dragon, and all the dragons of the Winged Kingsguard, were the reason no uprising in Pelenor had been successful in over three thousand years.
Smoke curled from the dragon’s nostrils as Toroth stirred, then stood.
Dimitri could not – would not – listen as the king proclaimed the guilt of those standing before them, embellishing his fabricated tales of their treasons and their secret plots in Saradon’s name, decreeing that they would die for their sins against him and Pelenor.
They openly sobbed. Few stood without fear on their face, for though they knew Toroth’s mind would not change, they now faced their doom. Those golden eyes were death on swift wings. There could be few more painful ways, but at least it would be quick...Dimitri hoped.
The dragon’s head snaked forward, its tongue flicking out from between its teeth to scent the air. It hissed before rearing up tall. In its ashen chest, Dimitri could see the glow building. Up the dragon’s throat it burned, until it held pure molten fire in its jaws.
At the king’s signal, it unleashed its worst.
Dimitri threw his hands before his face, recoiling with the rest of the crowd. The wave of heat rolled over them all, scalding him. Blinding light flared as the wood ignited in a giant roar as the fire instantly took hold.
A moment, and it was over. The giant jaws clamped shut, cutting off the stream of flames, and the dragon’s belly visibly cooled. Such was the fury of the fire, the intensity of the heat, that after only seconds, most of the wood was burnt through. Dimitri looked away from the sad piles of remains as the stench of burnt wood and charred flesh passed them, and the crowd was covered in ash and smoke. A part of him ached. He had known pain like that once. It was easier to bear when it was a stranger.
They were all silent now. The heavens opened, drenching them swiftly. Rain hissed as it vapourised upon the pyres. Toroth was impassive as he stared at the destruction before him.
After a moment, the king rose and left without a word, followed by his retinue. At his command, the dragon launched itself into the skies and was soon lost to sight through the low clouds as it returned to the dragon-hold.
THAT NIGHT, DIMITRI poured over manuscripts in the castle archives, bending close to examine the tiny script in the small, wavering glow of the faelight he had conjured. He could have afforded a bigger light, but he was in the restricted section. His rank gave him privilege to use it, yet he preferred to remain below the attention of the keepers, slipping through their realm like a shadow.
The fire driving him burnt like the dragon’s flame as the idea took hold. Could he use Saradon to rally a rebellion to his name? Saradon may have been long dead, but he was still a talisman of fear and change. It had been plain to see in the square.
“The Heart of a Dragon shall resurrect him. The Heart of a Dragon will cast him down,” Dimitri muttered to himself, searching through the passages for any mention of such a prophecy, but none could he find.
There were other, equally tantalising references of Saradon, but with no clarity to them.
“They could well be the ramblings of a madman,” Dimitri sighed. He reviewed what he had – a scattering of phrases and sentences written on a small square of parchment in his neat, cursive script in the coded language only he understood.
“‘As it was before, so it will be again, and this time, thrice as hard and thrice as deadly... A fated one holds the key... The fated one is a pinprick of light against an onslaught of darkness.’” The portrait of Saradon standing tall before the tiny light that defeated him sprang to mind. “Is this referring to what has already happened?” Of course, the empty night held no answers, only frustration. “This is impossible!” Dimitri tossed aside the book in annoyance.
He suppressed a sneeze as dust from the ancient articles tickled his nose. For good measure, he warded himself so no sound of his presence would be heard, admonishing himself for failing to do so the moment he had entered, having forgotten in his anticipation. He spread a warmth spell, too, for no fires burnt in this part of the castle – too much a risk to the precious things gathered within – and the stone halls were draughty with the sneaking nighttime breeze.
He was stiff and chilled by the time he finished scanning through the stack of literature before him.
He scanned the notes he had so far. They were nothing by themselves, but pieced together, he began to construct something. “Still too many pieces missing.” He sighed. And yet... He cocked his head, squinting at the map of Pelenor and the surrounding lands that sat beside him.
It suggests that Saradon was defeated and disappeared. He was not killed. No body was ever found. Could it have been nothing more than propoganda spread to calm the people, whilst the truth was hidden or never truly known?
“Where would he have gone?” Dimitri asked himself. There were so many places he could have hidden, both inside and outside Pelenor.
He did not seem the type to lay low and hold a grudge to the death, he mused. Not after what he endured – and did. Throughout everything he saw ran a tantalising hint that Saradon had escaped in some way. What had happened?
He sent out his magic to search for more information on a particular mountain range that perhaps could hold the key to Saradon’s escape, then stilled. The magic dissipated, but he now had his answer.
I could seek him. I would need more power and a relic, but it is more than possible. If he still exists in any form, I will find him. If I am to take on his cause, by his name shall it be done, and Toroth will fear the both of us. Perhaps there is some answer to this prophecy. Perhaps the Dragonhearts hold the key. He did not understand it at all, but he would try to.
“Rook,” he said, summoning his associate.
“Master?” The reply came with a gust of air.
Dimitri hesitated a moment. Even this was perhaps too much to trust to another, but Rook was the best at shadowy business such as this, and Dimitri could not risk being discovered. The lunar runes had given him a hare-brained idea, but an idea nonetheless.
“Find out where the Dragonhearts are kept presently.”
“Yes, Master.”
“And...”
“Master?”
“Never mind. As quickly as you can.” I will seek out the relic myself. He already knew where he would find one.
DARK. EARTHY. STILL.
The silence was both peaceful and watchful.
As he stood over Saradon’s mother’s tomb, Dimitri waited. Not for anyone else, but for his conscience to decide one way or another. It was one thing to speak of breaking the wheel and bringing a new power and peace to a land. Quite another to break into a grave.
Desecration.
Such a thing would leave a mark on a soul, a stain that would be hard to banish. The dead had earned the right to be left in peace. The way Karietta had died, she definitely earned her long rest. The likeness of her atop the tomb even seemed to stare at him with reproach. He looked away.
The cold stroked its way down his spine, threatening to reduce him to shive
rs. Then Dimitri recalled the burning of the false traitors, and his resolve hardened.
No other relics of Saradon existed. Everything had been destroyed, save this. A last gift to his mother, the only woman who had ever shown him true kindness and love, the only one he had ever cared for. It had only survived because no one had dared to do what he was about to.
He split the tomb with a wave of his hand, the stone cracking and creaking before him as the slab atop the tomb moved of its own accord. Open just a sliver, just enough for it to get out.
He sent his magic to retrieve what he hoped was still there. When it floated out, he grasped it, tucking it swiftly into a pocket and departing without a backward glance. He would not look at it just yet. The tomb snapped shut behind him.
With every footstep, his heart pounded at what he had done – the shock, the rush, the fear. The excitement and adrenaline, as far-fetched as his quest seemed, as infintessemally small as his chances were. With the relic, he would find Saradon’s resting place. With a Dragonheart, he would discover the truth of the lunar runes one way or another. With the truth, he would find a way to cast down Toroth.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Rook brought him news. The Dragonhearts were located precisely where he hoped they would not be – in the vaults alongside the king’s most priceless treasures, from gold to unhatched dragon eggs. He sent Rook back to watch for any sign of weakness, any vulnerability he could exploit. Dimitri’s status would gain him access to the vaults, but not without the questions he hoped to avoid.
Dimitri went about his usual business thinking of little else aside from how to obtain access to the Dragonhearts, only distracted by the unusual flurry of activity at court that day. There was no talk other than what had happened the day before, though most only dared speak in whispers, and away from the ears of the king.
