Ash and Ambition

by Ari Marmell

  Nycos shot to his feet just as the psoglavac lunged down at him, determined to tear him apart. Palms met and fingers—one set far larger and more twisted than the other—curled around and between each other. Fists clenched, hoping to crush, and the two combatants strained.

  The ogre had every apparent advantage. Its height, its mass, the fact that it stood tall while Nycos had only half come out of his crouch… This should not, could not, have been a contest at all.

  Slowly, inexorably, impossibly, Nycos straightened. The psoglavac gawped in dumb incomprehension as first its arms were lifted upward, and then, even more unbelievably, its tinier, “weaker” foe began to force it back. No matter how it strained, how it shoved, it couldn’t stop itself; one backward step, a second.

  Again the ogre shrieked, its back arching and its whole body shuddering, as Silbeth drove a talon-tipped prybar through it from behind.

  Nycos stepped aside as the psoglavac toppled to its knees where he’d stood. Silbeth pulled the spear free and thrust again, over and over, until the creature’s back was nothing more than a cluster of weeping wounds. It whimpered a final time and collapsed, blood oozing from its injuries and its slackened jaw.

  “That’s a lot easier when we’ve got weapons that can actually hurt the damn things,” Nycos noted. “Very nice job, Silbeth. I…”

  She hadn’t lowered the blood-coated spear, despite its weight. In fact, while it wasn’t precisely aimed his way, it wasn’t really aimed anywhere else, either.

  “No more, Nycos. No more keeping me in the dark. I saw what happened back there. Nobody could outmuscle that thing. Nobody.”

  “It… You must have seen us from a weird angle, is all. It—”

  “No. You made me swear that damn oath. Now you’re going to tell me why. Who are you? What are you?”

  Nycos raised a hand, imploring—and froze.

  He’d pushed it too far. Digging deep for the strength to battle the psoglavac, he’d allowed his body to reshape itself too much, asked it to provide more power than it could manage while remaining human. The hand he’d stretched out between them was thicker than it should have been, slightly misshapen, and streaked with jagged patches of deep violet scale.

  “Master!” Although ragged around the edges, the voice of the tightly bound goblin was nearer that of his servant and friend than it was the ravening beast he’d become over the past few days. “No! You mustn’t!”

  In a way, he didn’t have to. Silbeth’s eyes flickered to Smim—as though this were the first time she’d truly heard, truly understood, the title of “master” from his lips—and then back to the splotches on Nycos’s skin.

  And she knew. He saw it in her face before she spoke another word.

  “Oh, my gods…”

  “I suppose,” Nycos said with exaggerated resignation, “you’re going to feel this qualifies as deceiving you?”

  Silbeth stared as though she couldn’t possibly have heard him correctly. Her eyes were nearly as wide as her buckler, her gaping jaw struggled to form words her brain clearly hadn’t yet concocted.

  And then, despite herself, she laughed. It was, bar none, the loudest he’d ever heard her, either unwilling or unable to control herself despite the risk of drawing further attention. Body-shaking guffaws doubled her over. Tears ran down her ever ruddier face as she gasped for breath.

  Nycos wasn’t sure when he’d joined her, only that he found himself bracing with one arm against rough bark, counting on the nearest tree to keep him from toppling in his mirth.

  “Might I impose on one of you to untie me before you go completely mad?” Smim demanded irritably, resulting in a new round of near hysterics.

  When they finally regained control, Nycos and Silbeth faced one another, each half slumped against an opposing bole. Although it was most probably a temporary balm, he realized that the fit of uncontrolled laughter had washed away a goodly portion of the feverish temper that had beleaguered them since they’d entered this cursed wood.

  “Why,” she asked, coughing to keep from falling back into laughter, “would you possibly think I’d consider this a deception?”

  Nycos grinned, but swiftly composed himself. “Silbeth, we’ve fought together. We’ve watched one another’s backs.” He didn’t specifically mention throwing himself in front of the psoglavac’s club for her—he knew she’d take it as manipulative if he did—but he knew, as well, she hadn’t forgotten. “And I’ve made no move to harm the people at Oztyerva, or anywhere else, save where Nycolos Anvarri would and should have done. Surely all that buys me at least the opportunity to explain.”

  She nodded slowly and planted the butt of the iron spear beside her—still ready at hand, but not immediately threatening. “Explain, then.”

  And he did. There, in the deepening gloom of Gronch, as though the constant threat of the haunting ogres and related nightmares had receded, he told his tale—his true tale—for the first time. From the arrival of the real Sir Nycolos in the Outermark Mountains up until that very night, and if he didn’t tell her everything, neither did he lie or dissemble. He made no effort to paint himself as selfless, heroic, to pretend that he cared for the bulk of the Kirresci people. He had no desire to lie to Silbeth, and it wouldn’t sound believable if he had. No, instead he confessed openly that his initial goal had been to build for himself the most comfortable and most powerful life he could among the humans, to live as well as he might until and unless he could resume his proper existence. And he told her that, over the year and more he’d dwelt among them, he had come to value a handful of Oztyerva’s people, that he’d grown fond enough of them, beyond their practical use to him, that he’d prefer they come to no harm.

  Nycos hadn’t especially considered the truth to be a burden, so he didn’t feel like any great weight had been lifted from him. Rather, he himself seemed lighter. Less alone.

  He’d scarcely known loneliness as a dragon, for camaraderie, sharing, was not in their nature. It had taken him long to recognize the feeling as a man, and only now did he understand how strongly it had enwrapped him.

  For long moments she watched him, absorbing and pondering all he’d told her. In the gloom of the Ogre-Wealde, he couldn’t have been more than an inky shade, but she gazed into him as though measuring every detail, reading the secrets of his soul.

  “We have fought together,” she said finally, slowly. “And you’ve put yourself in danger for me, though I don’t know, now, how much danger you were truly in. That matters.

  “And I appreciate you telling me the truth, Nyc…” She broke off, a sudden flash of puzzlement on her face that nobody but he could have seen.

  “I’m still Nycolos. Nycos. Any other name wouldn’t… feel right, for the time being.” To say nothing of possibly proving disastrous, if the wrong person were ever to overhear.

  “Right, then. Nycos.” Again she paused, doubtless chasing thoughts that had scattered like a flock of quail. “My truth, then, in exchange for yours. I’m with you until the dragon—um, the other dragon—is dealt with and we’ve returned to Talocsa.”

  “And then?” He hoped the question didn’t sound as plaintive to her as it did in his own ears.

  “I don’t know,” she answered plainly. “It’s too much, too big, for me to figure all out at once. I need time to think.”

  To that, he could only nod. He found himself deeply disappointed, but she was right. It was a lot to ask her to take in; hardly unfair or unreasonable of her to need time. No matter how unpleasant the waiting might be for him, or how problematic her eventual decision might prove.

  “Thank you,” he said at last, “for being honest about it.”

  “I did think about lying,” she admitted. “Telling you I was all right with it. Some would say I’m being foolish, that I’ve invited you to try to kill me in my sleep or something, now. But as I said, I owed you for your truth.”

  Nycos stood and moved over to the bound goblin. Carefully, and with a clear warning of what would ha
ppen if Smim were to lose control again, he began loosening the many knots. “And if I do try to kill you in your sleep?” he asked Silbeth, with what he hoped was an obviously jesting tone.

  “Then one way or the other, you’ll have made my decision a lot easier, won’t you?” And her tone was such that Nycos couldn’t even begin to tell whether she was jesting or not.

  “Let’s go find Vircingotirilux’s lair,” he said. It seemed, suddenly, to be the simpler, and possibly even safer, of the various challenges ahead.

  ___

  Finding that lair proved a lengthy process, with multiple days spent searching the darkened wood and hiding from the things that dwelt within, but not a difficult one. Nycos’s own past existence meant he knew what sorts of terrain and features to look for; what sort of accessibility to the sky and the surrounding territories the wyrm would most probably seek; what signs would indicate her presence.

  Once they’d located the hidden caves, beneath the root-ridden hillside on the wildly overgrown shores of Lake Orist, it was again Nycos’s knowledge that guided them safely inside.

  For all their differences, all their varied personalities, strengths, even shapes, most dragons fell back on similar notions when protecting their homes. Vircingotirilux’s minions, the ogres of Gronch, were unlikely to be found within her lair proper. Nycos knew his rival was unstable enough that nothing would survive so near her for long.

  She was not sorcerously strong, her mind too twisted for the workings of great magics, but not totally lacking in eldritch skills. Guided by his own instincts and augmented by inhuman sight, he pinpointed the hidden glyphs clawed deep into earthen walls, steering his companions aside before they could trigger the mystic energies. Had he not, if he read the sigils properly, the roots would have burst through the surrounding soil, gripping and crushing like a ravenous beast of the deepest seas; or else those walls would have disgorged swarms of insects and gouts of boiling water to alternatively consume and sear the flesh of all who passed.

  That left only the mechanical deadfalls for the others to watch for, while Nycos hunted for those glyphs. Between Silbeth’s swift reactions and sharp sight, and Smim’s own experience setting up similar (if far more intricate) devices on his master’s behalf, those proved no more difficult to circumvent.

  The tunnels themselves were curious, twisting, winding. In a way, they resembled the gnarled roots that dangled from the ceilings and stretched from the walls, writ large. Other than in the immediate vicinity of the glyphs, the place was completely free of crawling life, as though even the insects knew enough to keep their distance. Patches of mud formed where the water of nearby Orist leeched through the soil. A moldy, stagnant miasma coated the throat and seeped into the lungs, so that the urge to cough—not involuntary, but in a desperate effort to scratch an internal, unclean itch—grew overwhelming.

  The complex really, Nycos felt, shouldn’t have held its shape at all. The nearby lake ought to have rendered the earth too swampy, too shifting and unstable, for caves so large to survive. He wondered if Vircingotirilux had managed the basic sorceries required to maintain her lair, or perhaps hardened the walls with some sort of alchemical concoction or… or excretion. He shuddered at that last thought, and decided he needn’t share his suspicions with the others.

  And then, finally, they’d arrived in the veritable cavern that was the heart of the dragon’s domain.

  Mists rose from the entryways and condescension slicked the walls, for here the unnatural warmth of Gronch seemed to pool, mixing resentfully with currents of cooler air. Their footsteps squelched as the muddy floor clung hungrily at every pace. In the far corner, heaps of old branches and the stolen heirlooms of a dozen villages—candelabras, dishware, bits of furniture, jewelry, and the occasional decayed remnants of their former owners—twisted and intertwined to form a haphazard nest. Beside and beyond that was a smattering of rough shapes and vile stench: an unchecked midden, the leavings of gods alone knew how many months or years kept soggy and fresh by the chamber’s humidity.

  Silbeth gagged once, then cast Nycos a horrified, incredulous look.

  “No. No, we do not all live like this. Vircingotirilux is vile. Savage. An animal.”

  Her grunt was noncommittal, at best, and Nycos found himself oddly embarrassed. He moved on to study the outer edges of the cavern.

  High above, a crooked shaft led to the open air, though the many roots and constricting trees made it almost impossible to make out. That and the main passage through which they’d come appeared to be the only genuine entryways. Other passageways branched from the central cavern, smaller than the two major arteries but still large enough for the wyrm to slink through, yet these—to judge by scent and air current—offered no egress to the outside. If Nycos had to guess, he would have said they probably provided access to a smaller chamber or two, before winding back here.

  Perhaps he’d have time to explore and make certain. For of the many sights and details the trio observed, here in the heart of Vircingotirilux’s domain, the dragon herself was not among them. Without knowing where she had gone, what she was doing, when she’d departed, Nycos had no way of guessing whether she would be absent for minutes, hours, even days.

  However long it might be, it was time that Nycos did not look forward to. Time in which he had little to distract himself from what he was doing, the situation into which he’d thrown himself.

  He had always respected Vircingotirilux for her strength, if nothing else; known her to be a formidable enemy. He had wisely avoided conflict between them where it was unnecessary, and planned carefully when it proved unavoidable. But never, in all his centuries, could it have been said that he feared her.

  Now? Trapped in this body? It had slowly begun to sink in, over the course of the journey, how great the differences between them had grown. Now that he was finally here, the doubts and worries, the sense of how much weaker he had become, wrapped him tight as a burial shroud.

  Nor were his fears for himself alone. More than once he considered suggesting, demanding, even begging that Silbeth leave. What could one additional human, one normal human, do against the wyrm of Gronch? Less often, but still multiple times, he thought the same about Smim. Surely they would both refuse to leave him, each for his or her own reasons, but ought he not at least try? Yet he never did. Perhaps they could make a difference, at that, and even if not?

  He didn’t want to face this trial alone. He wondered if that made him a coward.

  So they laid their plans, as best they could with what they knew, and risked a bit of exploration. And then there was nothing left but to settle in—spears held fast, guts clenched tight—and wait.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  When it finally happened, it happened fast.

  What feeble light managed to leak in through the canopy of trees and the twists of the slanted passageway went dark. A blast of air, like the coughing of the earth itself, rushed through the passage to send the dust and the soil within the chamber swirling, followed by the deafening rumble of scales against unyielding walls.

  A sudden sense of movement, a massive shape in the gloom as though a portion of the ceiling had begun to collapse—and she was there, plummeting into the cavern, a falling star made flesh.

  Vircingotirilux.

  They attacked even as she appeared, pushing through their shock at the sudden entry. As Nycos had instructed, knowing they could never land a killing blow as she moved, they stabbed at her wings, partially folded against her massive flanks. Claw-tipped iron pierced leathery membrane, and an impossible voice shrieked in startled pain. The great body twisted as it struck the floor, talons scattering new clouds of dirt to add to the ambient gloom.

  Smim fell back, clutching the smallest of the spears, having only just scratched the beast. Nycos’s inhuman might allowed him to maintain his grip on his own weapon as it tore at the wound, widening the ragged hole until it ripped free. Silbeth, however, lacked the strength to retain her hold. Cursing she
stepped back, snatching up one of the two spare lances to replace the one still dangling from wounded wing.

  They darted in again, thrusting at scale-clad flesh, but delivered only a few shallow scrapes before talons, thrashing in the dark and nigh invisible even to Nycos, drove them back.

  He heard the inrush of breath, shouted a warning and dove aside, rolling across the muddy soil as a gout of hellish flame raked the chamber’s floor. The fire’s roar was deafening, and the trio squinted against the sudden light.

  Squinted, and looked up—and up—at the great wyrm they only now clearly saw.

  Those bleeding, membranous wings protruded from a gargantuan form that might have been birthed of the swamp and the forest themselves. Scales of stagnant green and mossy grey armored an awkward, twisted body. It bent and bulged where it shouldn’t, not unlike a marshland tree bowed beneath the weight of ages. Vines like exposed veins ran across the brown hide between those scales, and a foul, watery fluid sluiced from beneath them with every move. Wingtips and talons appeared wooden, almost like bark.

  The wyrm’s body alone was forty feet long, easily twice that if one counted the writhing tail and twining…

  Necks.

  Not one but three savage heads bobbed and swayed, wrathful serpents, jaws agape and drooling a viscous, sickly spittle. The centermost twisted side to side, seeking, studying, while the right and left roared and snapped, howling their fury without intelligence or restraint. Near mindless hounds, forever bound to a master only slightly less bestial.

  Vircingotirilux gazed upon the intruders, and for an instant all they could do was stare back in turn. Silbeth and Smim stood frozen, Nycos’s tales having woefully failed to prepare them for horrid reality. Nycos himself had experienced the wyrm’s hideous presence before, but never from such a small, limited perspective. His heart pounded, his breath caught, as terror he’d never imagined washed over him.

  Silbeth broke the paralysis first, thrusting her spear at the growling snout that slid her way. The head recoiled, bloodied, snarling in fury. Vircingotirilux twisted about, bringing all three heads to bear—and taking all six eyes off Nycos long enough for him to dart forward and gouge an ugly wound into her leg just below the knee.