“That’s a good idea, but I’ll need your help.” Zhimosom took Rotiaqua’s hand.
He opened his mind and let his magic permeate the surrounding grass. He visualized the thick, sharp grass growing tall, almost as tall as he was, much taller than the dragon folk. He imagined it tough and razor sharp. It would slice a human’s flesh at the merest touch, just as surely as a sword blade would. Yet the dragons had their scales as protection. It would not harm them.
Zhimosom adjusted the lines of power that maintained the dragons’ form and added just a bit to hold the spell he cast on the grass. It would remain that way so long as the dragon inhabited the plains. As the spell expanded, the air grew musty and earthy. The soil gave up its nutrients to the newly formed sword grass.
The dragons would be safe.
Next, he turned his attention to the spell that bound the dragons. He altered it slightly, allowing them in times of need to transition their bodies to a new form. He visualized the mini-dragon Rotiaqua had described to him. He formed the new spell to help preserve the dragon folk. If one of them was mortally wounded or near death, they could take an intermediate form while their magic recovered and then emerge as a mini-dragon when the time was right. He wanted to restore the power of flight and fire to them as compensation for what he had taken from them. It was the least he could do. He bound that new spell to the earth and the grass as well.
When he was done, Zhimosom sat heavily on the ground.
He was exhausted, drained.
He was a failure.
But they lived, and that meant he had a chance to restore them. He would find a way if it took him a lifetime or more. He would save them. He’d made a promise, and he intended to keep it.
“You’re safe now,” he whispered.
“You promised. No more killing. Except for Sulrad,” Du’ala said. “Go do what you must and then come back and free us. We will be waiting.”
She stood with her hands on her hips, staring him in the eye. “Go now. Back to your wizards’ city. Find the path to restore us.”
She raised her hand and Zhimosom felt the familiar disorientation of the travel spell. In the blink of an eye, he found himself sitting on the floor of the council chambers in Amedon with Rotiaqua at his side.
The smell of smoke and charred remains flooded the council chambers.
“Do you think anyone survived?” Zhimosom asked.
“I don’t know,” Rotiaqua said. “I sense some magic, but nothing like before.”
The trip through the void must have been easier for her. She stood, reached down, and helped Zhimosom to his feet. He was still unsteady. The long night of transformation and his battle with Sulrad had robbed him of any strength he had once had. Still, he had to see the damage for himself. He hobbled toward the main entry doors, leaning heavily on Rotiaqua.
Resting against one of the pillars was a wizard’s staff. He took it and leaned his weight on it. It felt good in his hand. There was power coming from the jewel in its head. He looked it over. It was a good staff. He wondered to whom it had belonged.
He let the power flow into him for a few heartbeats and then stepped through the open doors into a sight that made his eyes tear up. The once beautiful compound was smoldering. Wagons and carts had been overturned and reduced to cinders. Nothing remained alive, not even the solid stately trees that had lined the avenue.
“I can’t believe they’re all gone.” Zhimosom sniffed. He probed for magic of any sort. He caught the scent of a wizard, no, two wizards, young ones, but definitely wizards.
“Come on out; it’s safe.” Zhimosom waited, searching out the source of the magic.
Along the wall of the main building, a door slowly opened.
Inside the doorway stood a young wizard.
The wizard stretched his arm out, holding someone back in the shadows, but the younger boy pushed around and out into the open. It was the two young wizards Zhimosom had shielded during the dragon attack.
“It’s safe now,” Zhimosom said.
The young men timidly stepped forward, looking into the sky.
“It’s safe,” Zhimosom reiterated. “Is anyone else here? Did anyone else survive?”
“One of the wizards ... I think.” The first young man pointed to a pile of rubble.
Zhimosom rushed over to find Garlath buried beneath the debris. He was bruised and burned, but breathing. “Garlath. How did you survive?” Zhimosom cried. “I saw the dragon-fire strike you.”
“I invoked a travel spell when the dragon attacked me. It didn’t hurt me ... much.” Garlath rubbed his shoulder and paused to breathe.
“Let’s get you up and out of there.” Zhimosom helped Garlath to his feet. The older wizard was in no better shape than he was.
Garlath stood shakily, leaning heavily on Rotiaqua and one of the young wizards as they made their way back to the council chambers.
Zhimosom followed closely, bent over his staff, wincing with pain every time he put pressure on his arm. When the three of them had seated themselves around the council table, Garlath turned to Zhimosom. “What happened? I felt some powerful magic.”
“I freed one of the dragons. Hid Sulrad somewhere far away so we could work on the rest of the clan. Then I transformed them so the command spell would not work on them.”
“Now what?” Garlath asked.
“I managed to defeat Sulrad,” Zhimosom lied. “I froze the charm ... the charm of the joiner ... so that it can only be used to command the dragons, and they’re safe from him in their new form.”
“How did you accomplish that?” Garlath raised an eyebrow at him.
“I tied the spell I used to transform the dragons to the magic of the plains.”
“How long will the dragons remain the way they are?”
“Until I release them,” Zhimosom said. “We must find a way to destroy the charm so that it’s safe to restore the dragons to their natural form. Until we do that, they must remain the people of the grass.”
Zhimosom felt a flush of shame at his failure.
He knew he would have to find a way to free them without killing Sulrad.
He resolved himself to study and work toward a solution until the dragons were, once again, free to roam the skies.
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ALSO IN SERIES
THE PRIEST
THE DRAGON LORD
THE SORCERESS
THE HEALER
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