Spawn of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  Every Incantor positioned around Kehrlia at that moment shared the same idea: flee. Had it not been for the amulet, Sartean would have done so himself. One young wizard assigned to a fire squad did just that, breaking into a mad run for safety. Sartean had expected such a thing, though he did not expect it so soon. A simple gesture and a few mumbled words rooted the wizard’s feet in place; his knees and ankles snapped audibly as the top half of his body failed to realize that the bottom half was no longer running. Sartean allowed the man to scream for a few moments before he set him ablaze. No one else ran.

  For the third stone of the amulet to function, Daughter Nia had said, Sartean would need only to see his enemy’s eyes and will the power of the stone into himself. There was no trick to it, she had promised: the amulet, once used to Name an enemy, would know its bearer and understand its purpose, and the process of activating the stone would be as fast as thought.

  The time to discover the truth of her words arrived as a roar of rage issued from the dragon. It had completed a wide turn over Mor and bore directly at Sartean’s position. The light of Kehrlia reflected in the dragon’s enormous black eyes as it leveled itself at the wizard. Though it had slowed considerably, Sartean barely had time to think the necessary thought before a black talon the length of a man slammed into the Incantor standing nearest to him, the force of its impact sufficient to pulverize the woman and spray Sartean with a fine red mist. In the instant of time between when the dragon’s talon ended the woman and its spiked tail claimed the lives of four others who had stood beside her, the power contained within the amulet had been imparted to Sartean.

  Incantors screamed, a few in pain, injured either by the dragon’s tail or the flying bodies of their peers. An acrid stench and tendrils of smoke began to rise from the puddle of gore that was once an Incantor. “Acid!” Jarriah called out, warning the others of the danger. Several wizards cried out to Sartean for orders.

  “Do nothing!” Sartean ordered his Incantors. “Wait for my order!” The tone of command in his voice left no doubt: to disobey him then would result in death.

  With a single beat of its mighty wings, the dragon arrested its own momentum in midair, and with a twist of its scaled body it turned to face the tower, preparing for its next assault.

  It would not pass again unchallenged. Sartean had quickly ascertained that his first task would be to bear the dragon to the ground, and when the beast turned for its next attack, he had just enough time to do what was needed. He extended an open hand towards the dragon as it turned and quickly closed his fist; despite the considerable distance between them, when he spoke the words to cast the Net, the wings of the great beast folded immediately inwards, such was the power Sartean then possessed. Kalashagon roared in protest. Sartean had expected the dragon to plummet from the sky when it could no longer beat its wings, but it did not: clearly some magic helped to keep it aloft. Yet it did land, if slowly, near the farthest edge of Kehrlia’s ash- and snow-covered grounds.

  Good enough, Sartean allowed.

  “Now!” he ordered, and his Incantors reacted as one. Thin streams of red and orange fire shot from the hands of the leaders of the fire squads towards the dragon; behind them, the members of their squads fed them with tendrils of raw power. The fiery assault intensified as the teams of Incantors harmonized their energies with their squad leaders, and soon the thin streams became torrents of searing flame. The first of the streams reached the dragon, splashing against its breast. It did not seem to react; rather it stood passively on its four enormous legs, wings folded over its back, its scaled, horned head weaving back and forth on its serpentine neck, rhythmically, as if to a tune. The currents of flame splashing against the dragon became so wide and intense they obscured the beast from sight; from where Sartean stood, all he could see was a bonfire.

  “Press the attack! Air squads, protect them! Forward, Kehrlia!”

  The Incantors of Kehrlia closed in on the dragon in a semicircle, six blazing torrents pouring forth from the hands of six squad leaders, ten Incantors feeding power to each. Six more squads of nearly equal size, save ten Incantors who had been killed or injured in the first attack, followed closely, prepared to blast the dragon backwards should it advance and threaten.

  The wall of wizards closed within thirty paces before Sartean could make out the dragon inside. It had not been consumed by the fire, nor burned to ash; it merely continued to sway to the rhythm of a silent melody.

  ~You welcome me with fire, Sartean D’Avers. I had not expected such a kindness.~

  The knees and spines of the Incantors of Kehrlia buckled in fear as the low, guttural speech filled their minds. Malevolent laughter followed the dragon’s words as it savored the cries of terror.

  ~Does my voice not fill you with awe? No? Only fear?~ The dark voice bore an air of derision, of mocking amusement. ~Yes, fleshlings, I speak. I speak your garish, barren language. I speak the vacuous words of G’naari. I even possess knowledge of the profane speech of the Elve’toan.~

  The dragon took a step forward.

  ~Mmm. And I speak words of power never before uttered on your plane. Shall I speak one now?~

  “Air!” Sartean commanded, too late. As the air squads initiated spells to fend off whatever assault the dragon had in mind, Kalashagon inhaled. As he did so, the jets of flame flowing from the hands of the Incantors intensified, red and orange flames brightening first to yellow, then to brilliant, blazing white. The assault of fire no longer buffeted the body of the dragon, but was instead consumed by it, inhaled by it, eaten by it. As the torrent assailing the beast narrowed into a thin stream, Sartean thought he could make out the hotly glowing head of an axe jutting from a scale in the center of the dragon’s breast.

  The lead fire Incantors shrieked and cried out as the power flowing through them grew beyond their ability to withstand, no longer drawn from their supporting Incantors, focused, and directed at the dragon; that power was now drawn by the beast itself, at a rate too intense for any human to endure. Before the dragon completed its mighty inhalation, before the first spells of deflection were initiated by the second rank of wizards, one by one, the jets of flame died out as the Incantors through which they flowed died screaming.

  “Behind me!” Sartean hollered to the rest. He fell to a knee, bracing against what he knew must come next.

  Intense as the flames were that had assailed the dragon, the fiery reply from Kalashagon was greater by magnitudes. The conical barrier of power Sartean erected before him just managed to protect him and those who had heeded his warning in time, but more than a score were not fast enough. The deluge of hot death issued from Kalashagon’s maw in an explosive blast, snapping necks and stripping flesh from bone, ending their lives before the heat could roast the freshly exposed meat.

  Sartean’s cone held, the flames and heat deflected in an arc a dozen paces wide, though he knew beyond doubt that without the power of the amulet, he would have been incinerated. A nauseating stench of sulfur mingled with that of cooked flesh, amplifying the fear and revulsion of the Incantors. The deluge lasted near to a turn until the dragon tired of the stalemate. When the flames receded, only then did Sartean fully appreciate the power of the beast: the ground before his cone had been melted into glass. He glared at the dragon through the invisible cone.

  ~You wield the power of Kal, wizard. Do you believe it will protect you long? Do you think he favors you this day?~

  Kalashagon stepped forward and to his left, seeking to flank Sartean. Sartean turned and the Incantors behind him did also, frantically hurrying to stay within the protected area behind the wizard.

  “Root him!” Sartean bellowed. The spell was one every Incantor knew well. Near to a hundred translucent balls of energy shot forth towards the dragon.

  Kalashagon’s dark laughter returned as the globes popped like soap bubbles against his jagged black scales, their magic rendered harmless.

  ~Impressive, Master of Kehrlia. Shall you next bathe me?~ Kalashag
on continued circling to the left, flaps of black flesh curling back into its face, exposing jagged black fangs the length of great swords in what Sartean imagined could only be a malignant grin. Oily black droplets seeped from the dragon’s scales and wings, each scarring the ground where they fell.

  “No, slave! I shall bury you! Feed me, Kehrlia!”

  Sartean extended his arms and turned his palms upwards. The ground beneath Kalashagon softened. Thousands of clumps of wet, ashen soil were ripped from the grounds around Kehrlia, pelting the beast and sticking to its scales. The Incantors of Kehrlia fed their own power into their Master. The Daughters of Kal positioned throughout Mor drew to themselves the life energies of the city’s citizens, redirecting them to the gem in Sartean’s amulet. Sartean drew from the gem, and even his own considerable power contributed to the assault. Kalashagon soon became mired. The dragon roared in rage and thrashed against the onslaught, shaking the mud from its hide as best it could, talons frantically clawing at the ground to free itself, but the more it dug, the more soil and dirt it loosened, and Sartean’s spell piled every grain of it atop the back of the beast.

  ~I have lived beneath the surface of this world for two thousand years! You think to destroy me thus? Fool! You only delay your own demise!~

  The dragon glared in detestation at Sartean, half-buried now, only his wings, neck, and head visible above ground.

  ~No, slave! I hasten yours!~

  Sartean redoubled his efforts, packing great clumps of soil tightly against the dragon’s body as he sensed his victory was at hand.

  The first glint of sunlight reflected in Kalshagon’s black eye.

  The effect was instantaneous; the power of Sartean’s spells was decimated, and Kalashagon sensed the weakening of the Net that had held him to the ground.

  The dragon’s leathery lips peeled back again in a murderous grin.

  Sartean knew. “Flee!” he cried. “To the tower!”

  Kalashagon inhaled again. Sartean and a hundred Incantors felt the life sucked from the very air around them as they ran headlong for the tower. None turned back to see their fiery death. They simply ran.

  The fire did not come. Kalashagon instead sent the inhaled power to his mighty wings, and with a heave pulled himself free.

  As the dragon drew that mighty inhalation, Sartean teleported himself to the balcony above his library. In an odd moment of sympathy, one he would later refuse to acknowledge, he included Jarriah in the spell. Thus, the two were the first to arrive at the tower. Sartean extinguished the blinding spell of light emitting from Kehrlia just in time to see Kalashagon liberate himself.

  The slaughter took hours.

  Half of the remaining Incantors made the tower before Sartean triggered the magical defenses that would defend it against attack. The rest died in horror and agony, each hunted and cornered, one by one, meeting their shrieking end within the cruel, acidic jaws of Kalashagon.

  END OF PART FIVE

  PART SIX

  XXII: THE ELMS OF EYRE

  Stay where you are! It may return!~ Trellia conveyed silently to Shyla.

  A new voice spoke from within the trees, a young treble voice. “It will not. The dragon is long gone.”

  A thick swirl of mist blew through the Elms, extinguishing the fire lit by Kalashagon’s deathly jets.

  “Who goes there?” Mikallis demanded, searching for the source of the voice.

  The voice replied. “I am Pado, husband of Neela.”

  “I am Neela, wife of Pado,” a female voice added. A soft green luminescence permeated the mist and smoke, replacing the angry orange light of the flames with a mellow, healing hue. When the last ember was doused, the mist quickly dissipated. The pale emerald light turned to buttery gold, abandoning the particles of haze and smoke to cling against the trunks and branches of the elms, salving the wounded trees and brightening the glade sufficiently to reveal a figure emerging from the darkness.

  A spindly boy no older then twelve came to stand before the companions. He wore no cloak; a bright white tunic and dark green leggings were all that shielded his alabaster flesh from the chill. Coppery twists of hair framed a face that seemed a bit too angular, hanging in perfectly groomed coils just long enough to brush against narrow shoulders. The boy regarded the four briefly before addressing Aria.

  “Who are you?”

  Trellia moved to speak, but the boy raised a hand.

  “I speak to your leader,” he said to the Vicaris. His pale blue eyes met Aria’s own. “You lead these, do you not?”

  Aria nodded tentatively. “In a sense. I am Aria Evanti, Prin–”

  “You are very beautiful to me, Aria Evanti.”

  “I… thank you. You are kind.” Aria bowed her head respectfully.

  Pado stood silently, an expectant look in his eyes. Aria turned to Trellia, unsure. A compelling glance and a nod towards Pado from the Vicaris made clear what was expected.

  “And you are very beautiful as well, Pado. Truly.”

  The boy’s eyes widened in shock.

  “Husband of Neela!” Trellia whispered.

  “Ah, I mean, Pado, Husband of Neela.”

  Pado flashed a broad grin.

  “And I am sorry for your trees,” Aria added. “We did not mean harm, but I beg your leave to attend my friend, he is injured and–”

  “Lucan is not injured,” Pado interrupted. “Come, Neela!”

  A girl appearing no older than Pado came into view, both hands latched onto a grinning Lucan, tugging him along by the wrist. Shyla followed at his heels; Wolf danced circles around the three.

  “Lucan!” Aria cried, restraining herself from running to him. J’arn did run ahead, briefly grasping Lucan’s arm before pulling him into a tight embrace.

  “Thought ye were a goner, Luc.”

  “I healed him!” Neela exclaimed excitedly as she released Lucan. “Well, Shyla helped.”

  “You did well, Neela!” said Pado. “Hello, Lucan!”

  “Um, hello… young sir. What is your name?”

  “Pado! I am Pado, husband to Neela! This is Neela!” The young Airie’s elation at seeing Lucan was palpable.

  “Pado, forgive me, but do you know Lucan somehow?” Trellia asked.

  Neela laughed a melody in response. “Yes we know Lucan! Lucan, Lucan, Lucan! Pado, what rhymes with Lucan? I must write him a ballad.”

  “Huh, I don’t know!” Pado turned to Aria. “Do you know?”

  Aria cocked her head. “I’m sorry… do I know what?”

  “What rhymes with ‘Lucan’, silly! Oh, no matter. Neela will discover it. She is a wonderful rhymer. And her voice… it is so pretty! Like her face. Is she not beautiful?”

  None could deny that she was. Neela was exceedingly dark of skin, not quite exactly black, in the way that Pado’s skin was not quite exactly white, but near enough to it. Her hair was black, however, tightly curled against a beautifully shaped, cherubic face. She was taller than Pado by half a head, and a bit more muscular of frame. If her youthful loveliness was any indication, she would grow into a woman of striking beauty.

  “Who are you?” Neela asked, turning towards J’arn just as he released Shyla. “You are very beautiful.”

  “Ah, I be J’arn Silverstone, ma’am, and ye–”

  “Husband to Shyla?”

  “Ah, no. Husband to none.”

  Neela frowned for a moment, looking back and forth between Shyla and J’arn before laughing gleefully. “A joke! Ha! You are funny, J’arn Silverstone!” She reached for their hands. “Come, we must take you to the falls.”

  “Yes, to the falls!” Pado agreed, reaching for Mikallis’ hand.

  Mikallis demurred. “I think we must rest first, Pado. We have traveled long to arrive here.”

  Neela frowned at Mikallis. “Oh, no! Are you tired? Does my magic not refresh you? Pado, you said it was working!”

  “I… I thought it was. Is it not?” Pado asked Mikallis.

  Mikallis looked to the oth
ers. Several shoulders shrugged.

  “Actually, I suppose it is,” Mikallis acknowledged.

  “Oh, good!” Pado reached again for Mikallis’ hand.

  “I must walk our horses, forgive me Pado,” he said.

  Pado cocked his head, confused.

  “Why? Can they not walk themselves?”

  “I… well, yes, but I must lead them,” Mikallis replied.

  “Why?” Pado persisted.

  Trellia intervened. “Just untie them, Mikallis. They will follow.”

  Mikallis narrowed his eyes, unsure, but nodded and untied the horses. Pado did not reach again for Mikallis’ hand. He took Lucan’s hand instead in his own left hand, Aria’s with his right. He and Neela led the company west; after a few dozen steps, the yellow light Pado and Neela had affixed to the trees became insufficient to brighten the path ahead.

  “Make more lights for us, Lucan!” Pado pleaded. “I liked the ones you made!”

  “Um, sure.” Lucan focused his will briefly and fashioned more of the multi-colored orbs he had made before the battle with Kalashagon, directing one to hover above the heads of each of his companions. Pado giggled and they began walking again.

  “Is that how you knew who I was?” Lucan asked after a few more steps. “Could you somehow read my name from the lights?”

  Pado shook his head. “Oh, no. We’ve been waiting for you. You took forever!”

  “Yeah, no kidding!” Neela agreed.

  “How long have you been waiting for him?” Aria asked.

  Pado shrugged. “I dunno. Long as I can remember.”

  Aria and Lucan exchanged a glance.

  Trellia changed the subject. “Pado, the beast that attacked us. You gave it a name, yes? What was it again?”

  Pado shook his head. “I did not say its name. It’s a bad word, I don’t like it. But it’s called a dragon.”