by Sean Hinn
“Do not look at me so,” Sartean commanded.
“Then tell me we will succeed, Master,” Jarriah said, making no effort at reverence.
Sartean grit his teeth. “You need my assurance, Incantor? It is your plan. We will succeed, or we will die. Of that, be assured. Choose a side and leave me.”
Jarriah turned towards the northern shore without a reply.
Sartean addressed the mind of his foe.
~Come then, slave. Come play with me.~
He reached into his robes, withdrawing a fist-sized sapphire.
~Brave little magician. You will not be so brave when I CHAR THE FLESH FROM YOUR BONES!~
Kalashagon rose above the tree line from the west, banking, diving low, the tips of his great black wings skimming the waters of the river as he flew swiftly towards the Master of Kehrlia. A torrent of flame erupted from his open maw, bathing the Incantor in hot orange death as he passed overhead. Kalashagon spread his wings to arrest his momentum and turn, the light of the rising sun exposing the thick black veins coursing through the leathery membranes. The great black eyes of the dragon narrowed as he realized his fire did not so much as singe the grey robes of the defiant Incantor. With a single great beat of his wings, he thrust himself westward for another pass. Again he overflew the bridge, a wide gout of dragonfire streaming from his throat. Again, he turned, and again Sartean stood, arms raised to the sky, unburnt, unharmed upon the now-blackened stone bridge.
~A fine game, little magician. But how long will your magic shield you, I wonder? You think to tire me? To weaken me? Insolent fool! I should end this game early and bite you clean in half! But no, I will play. Let us see which of us possesses the greater power!~
Kalashagon flew again for the bridge but did not overtake it, instead beating his wings at the last moment to hover in midair, mere paces from where Sartean stood. Not in the hottest oven, not in the massive furnaces of the Palace of Mor, not in the great coal-fed forges of Belgorne nor in the molten lava of Fang could such heat be found as that which issued forth from Kalashagon then. Moments became turns. The dragon had no need to draw new breath; the relentless flow of flame never ceased. Yet Sartean stood unscathed within a shimmering globe, seemingly impervious against all that Kalashagon might deliver. The dragon roared in fury.
~Very well! Let us see how you fare against fang and claw!~
Kalashagon came to a landing on the southern side of the wide Morline bridge. Globs of oily black liquid seeped from between the massive black scales covering the body of the beast, sizzling when they struck the ground beneath him. Black lips peeled back to reveal rotten crimson gums and the black, man-length fangs jutting from them. In a single loping stride, the dragon lunged for the Incantor.
“Now!” a voice cried from the north.
~
Mila stood peering behind a thick oak a hundred paces west of the bridge, utterly stunned by the scene playing out before her. She had expected the dragon to be large, but her imagination had no frame of reference from which to conceive of such a monster as she saw then. And breathing fire!
Yet Sartean D’Avers stood against it, seemingly unfazed, utterly alone, with not a single Incantor to assist him.
No. This is not possible.
Mila knew the limits of Sartean’s strength. Perhaps with a sackful of charged gems he might withstand such an assault for a time, but he would never be able to defeat the beast, and he would know as much. Not alone, and neither would he try. Mila suspected she knew the limits of his courage as well, and Sartean D’Avers would never taunt such an enemy into single combat. Without question, the beam of light had been intended to do just that.
Yet, there Sartean D’Avers stood.
Not possible.
As the dragon hovered before the Master of Kehrlia, Mila closed her eyes and reached outwards with her mind, examining the area around the bridge for hints of magic. What she found confused her. From Kalashagon, of course, the depth of power she sensed was beyond measure. On either side of the crossing, she detected minor currents of magic, but nothing that could account for Sartean’s inexplicable defense. Most puzzling of all was what she sensed coming from the Incantor himself: nothing. Nothing at all.
The dragon ceased its assault and landed on the southern side of the bridge. A moment later, as Kalashagon lunged for the wizard, she heard a voice cry out.
“Now!”
Instantly a surge of magics splashed against her mind, emanating from either side of the river. She opened her eyes in time to see the brilliant flash at the center of the bridge. Blinded by the flash, she could not discern the details of what happened next, but the ear-splitting sound and the hot concussive wave made clear that the Morline bridge was no more. Mila recalled a similar flash, the explosion when she had accidentally overcharged her gem at Kehrlia, but if that detonation was a candle, this was the sun.
Her sight returned before her ears stopped ringing, and when it did, the bridge was gone. Sartean D’Avers was gone. Yet those were the least remarkable details of the scene. Two great arcs of freezing water and ice rose from the Morline high into the sky, each a river unto itself, one from the east, one from the west. A grey, slushy mix of water, ice, snow and ash bore down on the flailing dragon, and no matter how it tried, it could not escape the deluge. As Kalashagon turned to clamber up the rubble of the bridge to the northern bank, the flow changed its angle of attack, shoving the dragon back to the bottom of the riverbed. It turned south and the torrent shifted against it, shards of ice shattering against the body of the beast. Brief gouts of flame issued form the mouth of the beast, immediately doused. Kalshagon’s movements began to slow, the terrible cold turning the ichor within its veins to a sludge. As Mila’s hearing returned, she could barely hear the diminishing bellows of the beast beneath the deafening roar of rushing water.
But how? Who? It would take fifty wizards–
And then Mila saw.
“Illusion magic is like a being of shadow,” an instructor had once told her, “and doubt is the light with which it is slain.”
Fifty Incantors, or thereabouts, half on either side of the bridge, came into view. There on the northern side, with his back to Mila, stood Sartean D’Avers, dressed in grey, arms reaching towards the sky as were those of the others, guiding the icy liquid cascade in perfect coordination. The entire strategy became clear to the sorceress. An illusion of Sartean on the bridge. A gem, to absorb the dragonfire, detonated at just the right moment. Clever, Mila admitted with disdain, loathing the idea of giving credit to her enemy.
Mila glanced towards their target. The great beast struggled vainly to claw its way through the mud and debris and away from his attackers, its wings pulled inward to protect its body from the onslaught. Its movement slowed further. Soon, no doubt, the tactic would change. Instead of a punishing downpour, the waters would again be allowed to flood the riverbed, and the beast would surely drown.
And there stood her enemy, unaware of her presence, sensing his triumph, proud in his cunning. Sartean D’Avers, Head of the Fraternity of Incantors, Master of Kehrlia, Dragonslayer, savior of Mor.
No.
~
The experience of travelling by way of the magic in Aria’s ring bore little resemblance to travel whatsoever. One moment, the companions were there, grasping one another’s hands. In the next, they were not. There were not merely no longer where they once were; they simply, suddenly, were not. They existed then not as flesh and bone, neither of spirit, nor even as bits of either, but rather they became something akin to a dream, but less substantial than even that, less than a memory of a dream. Nearest to the truth, perhaps, what that they were simply forgotten, their existence erased from the memory of one moment then remembered once more by the truth of the next, breathed into existence in a new place, the world granting welcome to them again as one might make up a room for an estranged loved one returned. In the space and time between those two moments, something profound had happened, they knew. But it, t
oo, was forgotten.
There before the companions stood Mila Felsin, huddling against an oak tree, watching a spectacle that played out a hundred paces ahead where the Morline bridge once stood. Despite their disorientation, understanding dawned quickly; the dragon was under assault. Less apparent was by whom. Before they could speak to gain her attention, the sorceress bolted from her hiding spot, directly towards the bridge.
Mikallis held up a hand before anyone could speak.
“We do not know what this is,” he said quietly.
“Agreed,” said Trellia.
“How… who is doing this?” asked Aria.
“Whaddya mean, who?” Shyla asked, her gnomish eyes seeing what the others could not. “Them’re wizards.”
“Where, Shyla?” asked Lucan.
“Where? Right there!” Shyla pointed. “Wizards! With that Sartine Dabber fella!”
“What the… Aye! I see ‘em now!” J’arn exclaimed.
As did the others.
“What in Fury is Mila doing?” said Lucan to no one. “Is she out of her… oh, no…”
~
Sartean stood trembling, teeth chattering, though not from the cold. The terrible thirst tore through his mind like fire through a library, yet still he managed a hateful gloat.
~I have bested you, slave! You will drown soon! Is it cold? Is it painful?~
A stream of unintelligible utterances, certainly curses, came to Sartean’s mind in reply.
~Such a shame! Your mind slows. I would prefer to hear you describe your agony. No matter! Your suffering will be eternal! Your master will surely–~
“Your sins come to claim you, Sartean D’Avers!”
Sartean’s heart skipped a beat as he recognized the voice. He turned. Two glowing emerald eyes stared back at him. He opened his mouth to speak, managing no final word as a thick, frozen spike of ice pierced the back of his skull from above, bursting through his open mouth. The arm-long spike tore through Sartean’s head and through to the ground, splintering on impact. Shards of teeth and bone mingled with a pink spray of tissue and brain, staining the snow between Mila Felsin and what had once been the Master of Kehrlia.
The great arcs of water fell crashing back into the river as the concentration of the Incantors was broken. The wizards shouted to one another, scrambling to reorganize and again initiate the spell, but it was too late. The surge of water carried Kalashagon over the southern riverbank, and though he could not yet fly nor produce fire, he managed the strength to pounce. The enraged dragon quickly regained his agility on the ground, and before the wizards on the southern side of the Morline could react, Kalashagon became a whirlwind of tooth, tail, and fang. Few Incantors had time to scream. Ten quickly huddled together, chanting frantically to initiate some spell. Their lives came to a shredded end within Kalashagon’s mighty jaws. A swipe of the dragon’s enormous tail killed eight in one whipping assault, the ninth becoming embedded, still living, between two jagged black scales, screaming in agony as the tailed flailed about and the acidic discharge from Kalashagon’s hide ate the flesh from his bones. The last three ran for a guardhouse that stood near the crossing and made it inside, even managing to bar the door. But by then, the dragon’s breath had returned. The wooden guardhouse went up like tinder.
Kalashagon turned towards the north as a ball of fire half as large as the dragon’s own body exploded against its flank. On the northern bank stood the companions, side by side on horse- and wolfback, readying another globe of flame. Mikallis sat astride Triumph behind them, sword at the ready, Trellia to his right.
~My morsels! Such gifts you give! Another if you please!~
“Not fire!” cried Mila from twenty paces to their left, understanding quickly.
“Piss on you, Felsin!” J’arn cried. “He’d be dead now if not for–”
~Dead? At the hands of the little magician? Fools.~
Kalashagon beat his great wings and took to the air, diving towards Mila and the few Incantors near her who had not already run for their lives. The beast inhaled mightily, sucking life and magic from the air around Mila. The Incantors fell to their knees. Mila uttered a spell as Kalashagon bore down. As the flames flew from his maw, she vanished, reappearing near the oak where she had first hidden. Five Incantors died screaming as the dragon flew overhead, banking hard.
A voice cried from the tree line near where Mila hid. “Mila! Run!” She turned to see Earl, Yano, and Sienni standing together beneath a pine. Earl called again. “Just run! You ain’t gonna beat that thing!”
“I told you not to follow me!” Mila answered. “Go! Before he sees–”
~I see all, sorceress. Friends of yours, these? Introduce me.~
The ground shook as Kalashagon landed near Mila’s tree.
“RUN!” Mila screamed. Hastily she erected a barrier of magic between Kalashagon and the closest thing to friends she had in the world. They bolted for the trees, but Yano tripped after only a few steps.
Mila’s barrier held for less than the span of a breath, no match for Kalashagon’s dragonfire. Mercifully, the fall had knocked the wind from Yano’s lungs, for he did not scream as he died. Mila Felsin did. Kalashagon turned his head to face the sorceress, streams of smoke rising from his nostrils as he leaned in, sniffing the air hungrily, great black fangs mere paces from where Mila stood. The rotten, coppery stench of his breath made Mila’s stomach heave. She was too terrified to think, let alone move.
~It was you who slew my enemy this day, was it not? Yes, I see that it was. I taste his death on you. My master will be displeased by this, but go now. Run, hide in the trees. When I see you next I will burn you, of course, but for now I spare you, sorceress. Only for now.~
Kalashagon turned towards the companions as Mila ran after Earl and Sienni.
~But only you.~
~
“Redemption!” Shyla said, only loud enough for the companions to hear. The four shared their next thoughts silently. Lucan withdrew the sword from the scabbard on Hope’s saddle and held it aloft. Aria, J’arn, and Shyla jumped from their mounts and grabbed hold of Lucan’s legs, willing power into him as Kalashagon put an end to Yano. Aria turned to Mikallis as the hair on Lucan’s head stood up straight. “You must ride now, Mik! He will come for us!”
“I will not leave you, Aria.”
“This is my order! Go, now, hide until I find you! Save Triumph! Trellia, go with him! Now!”
“We will not, Princess,” answered Trellia. “Focus on your task.” She turned to Mikallis. “Get behind me.”
Mikallis urged Triumph into position as Trellia chanted a prayer. Kalashagon took to the air as Trellia erected her own barrier, a silvery, glistening shield meant to allow magic out, but not in. The globe of protection from Kalashagon’s dragonfire fell around the companions, thickening as Trellia continued to chant.
Kalashagon flew in lazy circles above the companions.
~And now you! Those whom I have been sent to destroy, here before me of your own volition! Mmm… I was angry when the little magician Called me, mere moments before I put an end to you. And then you hid from my sight in that nauseating land of light. Yet, here you are. Are you anxious to die, then? No, I think not. You possess the same audacity as the little magician. You think to defeat me?~
“Aye!” J’arn shouted. “Ye have it right, foul demon! Come closer and I’ll bury another axe in your putrid hide!”
~Little dwarf, so valiant. I do not always eat my prey, you know. But I shall eat you, I think.~
Kalashagon dove, the sun at his back, his great form casting a shadow over the companions. The horses whinnied in fear. Wolf whined and trembled, huddling close to Shyla. Lucan did not hesitate. He aimed Redemption’s tip at the dragon and released its energy in a single bolt of brilliant blue lightning. Thunder sounded throughout Mor and beyond as the stream slammed into the dragon’s body. Kalashagon roared in protest and pain as the bolt tore a scale the size of a barn door from his shoulder. He veered off to the right
, wounded, breaking off his attack and landing a hundred paces to the west of the companions.
The displaced scale did not veer with him.
Trellia Evanti’s long life came to an end in a cruel twist of chance as the plummeting scale cleaved her in two.
“Trellia! Nooooo!”
A fire in the hearts of the companions went out. The thin veneer of bravery and duty that held the four together died with Trellia.
Kalashagon scrambled towards them, roaring in rage. Mikallis reached for the still-sparking weapon in Lucan’s hand and tore it free. He addressed Lucan.
“As we agreed.”
Lucan’s jaw fell, but he nodded.
Mikallis turned to Aria.
“Know that it was love, Aria Evanti.”
Captain Mikallis Elmshadow urged Triumph into a hard gallop, directly for the dragon. Kalashagon peeled his scaled lips back, baring black fangs.
“Mik! No!” Aria cried.
Mikallis leapt into a crouch atop the saddle, guiding Triumph with his mind, urging him to speed as Kalashagon moved to close the distance. The dragon fixed a black eye on the elven captain.
Aided by his elven magic, Mikallis jumped high above the dragon, a leap to defy gravity as he urged Triumph through his Bond to veer off and away, into the trees. Kalashagon snapped viciously but missed, misjudging the trajectory of the flying elf. Mikallis landed between the dragon’s shoulders. Immediately the acidic coating on Kalashagon’s scales began to eat at his boots. Kalashagon flailed, craning his neck this way and that to snap at the elf, but Mikallis held tightly with his left hand to a scale on the beast’s neck. The flesh of his palm began to melt. Mikallis screamed but would not be dislodged. Slowly, inexorably, Mikallis clawed his way towards the head of the thrashing beast, wailing in agony as the acid burned through his clothing and boiled his pale skin. When he reached one of two horns on the right side of Kalashagon’s head, he swung forward, shoving Redemption deep into the black eye of the beast.
The power in the sword discharged, exploding the hateful eye upon impact. The beast screeched in anguish, an ear-splitting shriek heard throughout Mor. Mikallis’ own cries matched the dragon’s in pitch, if not volume, as the vile liquid within the great black orb doused him head to toe in deadly, caustic ichor. Mikallis fell. Redemption fell, too, from the socket of the beast’s eye, landing beside a smoldering Mikallis as the dragon turned on the four.
