Samazzar opened his eyes. Scales covered the snow around him, and the now cool corpse of the drake behind him seemed smaller. Much smaller.
He stood up, towering over the dead drake as well as the kobolds and saurians that were milling about. Crone Tazzaera didn’t even stand as tall as his knee, and Barsa barely came up to the middle of his thigh. There was something about his balance that was off, like it wasn’t really natural for him to be standing on his hind legs.
Samazzar wobbled for a second before pitching forward, his tail swishing behind him.
A tail. He hadn’t had one of those in a while. He let it slice back and forth through the air, reveling in the sensation. Now that he was on all fours, his balance leveled out. The position was as natural as sitting or jogging had been as a draconian.
He stretched his wings, reveling in the sensation as they absorbed the early afternoon sun. They spanned almost thirty paces from tip to tip. He wasn’t quite as large as the cyclone drake, but he certainly wasn’t a draconian anymore. A large winged quadruped with a draconic bloodline could be any number of things, but-
“So you’re finally awake.” Tazzaera’s remark drew his attention to the crone. She was small enough to fit in his hands if he cupped them together.
“That’s quite the growth spurt you’ve had there Samazzar,” she continued, motioning toward him with her cane. “A dragonkin if I don’t miss my guess.”
“The weakest of the lesser wyrms, but still a wyrm,” Samazzar’s voice rasped, his throat still raw and sore from his transformation. He wanted to put up a hand to massage his aching neck, but now that he was on all fours, that would likely unbalance him.
A sudden instinct overtook him, and Samazzar closed his eyes. His blood burned in his veins singing in reply as he called out to it. Then, he felt a strange sensation, like someone was pinching all of his scales at once. It didn’t really hurt, there was just a sensation of being too tight, followed by a moment of immobility.
Then the air was filled with a series of wet pops and cracks, each one sending a wave of pleasant tingles through Samazzar’s body. When he reopened his eyes, Tazzaera was much larger, about as tall as the bottom of his chest if he were to stand on his hind legs, and there was a deeply queasy look on her face.
“Please don’t do that again in public,” She said, voice tight. “It was like watching you turn your body inside out. Honestly, I’ve seen a lot in all of my years, but that might have been one of the most unsettling sights I’ve ever witnessed.”
Samazzar stood up. This time, standing on two legs didn’t pose any problems. Without even checking, he knew that he looked like he had as a draconian, just larger and more muscular. He tilted his head to either side, feeling his neck pop as he got used to the proportions of his new body.
“Sorry Crone Tazzaera,” he replied, the rasp gone. “It’s going to take a bit until I’m fully comfortable with my evolution. Until then, I wouldn’t be surprised if I end up shifting back and forth a bit.”
In the back of his mind, he could feel a slight pressure building incredibly slowly, like grains of sand dropping one by one into a bucket. He might be able to hold on to this transformation for a long time, but it wasn’t his real body. At some point, he would need to change back. His bipedal form was only for interacting with the human world, a mask he could wear and a tool he could use.
“Well fine,” she huffed. A second later her tone lightened slightly. “It’s good to still have you with us Samazzar. A lot of good kobolds died today, and from what I could see, it was a near scrape for you as well.”
He looked from where the orc lay in the snow, foam around his mouth and his face an unhealthy blue, to the dead drake to where Bronn’s body lay nearby. Beyond them were rows of dead kobolds and goblins, easily forty in total.
“Too many,” Samazzar agreed, mood dropping as he watched the kobolds assembling crude sledges out of nearby timber for ferrying the corpses back down to Union City. The ground in the mountains was too rocky and cold for a burial, and they weren’t going to simply leave their dead out for carrion. Their warriors had fought too bravely and desperately to suffer that fate.
“Where is Wessla?” He asked, surveying the busy soldiers. Barsa was supervising the kobolds and goblins while Dussok and Takkla finished off their evolutions, but the leader of the huntresses was nowhere to be seen.
“You were out for a while,” Takkla responded. “Wessla put together a scouting team and visited the orcish village. She noticed that all of the corpses were male and guessed that there might be women and cubs left behind. About an hour ago she came back to let us know that she had confirmed her suspicions. I sent her out to gather them up as I presume that Union City will want to adopt them.”
Samazzar felt his brow furrow slightly as he tried to dig deep and unearth all of the information he’d learned about orc biology and tribal behavior.
“As I recall,” he said haltingly, “orcish females are docile. Smarter than the males but only two thirds of their size with builds suited more to working as artisans rather than warriors. If they are interested in Union City, I would be happy to have them. There is no reason why yesterday’s enemy can’t be tomorrow’s friend so long as all parties are willing to work hard to mend any gaps of trust.”
“Of course,” Tazzaera responded. “I thought you’d say that. Plus, after so much death, the idea of killing more people, even if they happen to be the mates and children of our enemies. Well, it just doesn’t sit right.”
Samazzar nodded in agreement, his gaze finding itself inexorably drawn back to the neat, quiet rows of the dead.
Behind him, Takkla groaned, followed a second later by Dussok. Both of them opened their eyes, freshly grown scales shining brightly in the afternoon sun. Just like Samazzar, they tried to stand up. Almost immediately, Dussok realized the problem, dropping to all fours, but Takkla tried stubbornly to stay on her feet.
She extended her wings and tail, minute twitches of her muscles keeping her from losing her balance as she took a couple slow, halting steps toward Samazzar and Crone Tazzaera. Finally she gave up as well, dropping to all fours.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
“Master Samazzar!” Tarxis ran toward him, the ripped and damaged chainmail that should have layered his chest jingling and flapping behind him. “I figured it out, but before I managed to climb down from the mountain, you had already started absorbing that monster’s bloodline.”
Samazzar made eye contact with Tazzaera, asking an unspoken question with the tilt of his head. She just shrugged.
“What did you figure out?” Samazzar questioned. “More importantly, are you all right? I saw you take a blow during the battle. I know you were wearing armor, but that doesn’t mean that you couldn’t end up with a severe bruise or a broken bone.”
“When the magus shot me,” Tarxis blurted out, “we’ve been trying to figure out what my knowledge of the mystery of cold is working toward. It’s ice! It was like the sun itself was firing information into my head. I suddenly understood what crystals are and how they form. Now it’s only a matter of learning more about crystals and cold. After that, it’s the greater mystery of ice.”
Samazzar opened his mouth to try and calm his apprentice’s excitement, after all, it’s not like either of them had studied the mystery of ice. They had no way of knowing how many lesser mysteries would be required or if the lesser mystery of crystallization was one of the required building blocks to learn the greater mystery. Then, Tazzaera shot him a tired look.
He felt a flash of deja vu. A year or so ago, he was Tarxis. Barely aware of the death and destruction around him as he dove into the mysteries without a care in the world. Crone Tazzaera likely had to bite her lip dozens of times when he was so deep in a daze from studying that he missed social cues or said something strange, and here Tarxis was now. Twenty paces away, kobolds were stacking the dead onto crude wooden sleds, but Samazzar’s apprentice couldn’t even see them through the light of the epiphany he’d just experienced.
Responsibility had sunk its claws into Samazzar. He was a dragon, but he was a dragon with a community that depended on him for order and protection. There was no need to inflict that curse on Tarxis just yet.
“That’s wonderful,” he said, forcing a smile to his face. “We already know the minor mysteries you will need to learn the mystery of wind, but this means you can begin focusing on the cold again once we get back to Lonely Peak. I know that your studies there have been lagging a bit.”
“I know!” Tarxis was practically jumping up and down. “I never thought I’d be saying this, but I can’t wait to get back to Lonely Peak. I want to put everything I’ve seen here into practice as soon as possible.”
A rush of wind was the only warning before a massive silhouette blotted out the sun. Kobolds and goblins sprinted to and fro, screaming in alarm.
Fear hit Samazzar like a hammer. Not ordinary fear that he could understand and analyze. Something deeper and more primal. In the back of his brain, the instinct that let shivering kobolds huddling around a campfire know that a lion was stalking toward them through the dark begged him to freeze and hold still. He might not see the predator, he might not recognize the predator, but a creature he surely could not defeat was hunting him. That fact was as real and obvious as his own snout and tail.
It only took him a second to conquer the terror. Samazzar smiled widely.
“Who dares!” A familiar voice thundered. “These mountains and all the resources in them are mine, and that means the Shattered Rock Orc tribe is mine as well! I do not tolerate outsiders-”
“Fel’Annthor!” Samazzar shouted happily. The day had been beyond miserable, but finally there was a ray of sunshine to brighten it. Samazzar released his transformed shape, and his entire body tingled as he telescoped outward.
Kobolds screamed and scattered, leaving only Samazzar’s siblings, Krattle, Charook, Barsa, Tarxis and Tazzaera. A second later the ground shook as a huge shape landed with enough force to rattle his teeth.
“Samazzar?” The dragon asked incredulously. “You’ve gotten bigger again.”
His front claws landed on the snow as Samazzar dropped to all fours, once again a dragonkin that towered over his friends.
“I did,” he replied cheerfully. “I’m only two or three evolutions away from becoming a dragon now.”
Around Samazzar’s shins, Barsa made a choking sound.
Dussok cleared his throat and addressed both of them carefully, bone-deep weariness in his voice.
“Of course you know the terrifying dragon Samazzar. Why wouldn’t you? May I ask why you are familiar with the terrifying overlord of the outer mountains?”
“Terrifying and beautiful,” Samazzar corrected. Below him it sounded like Barsa needed someone to help him with whatever was wrong with his throat.
“Thank you Samazzar,” Fel’Annthor replied, her former haughtiness gaining a hint of embarrassment.
“Remember how I kept mentioning that I have a girlfriend, but never mentioned her name?” Samazzar asked, beaming. “That was Fel”Annthor.”
“We’re not official yet,” the dragon corrected quickly, her tail twitching. “We’ve just met up a couple of times and talked over dinner. Strictly casual.”
“So far,” Samazzar agreed, “but seriously, you should taste her recipe for flame breath roasted stag. It’s positively exquisite.”
This time the twitch in her tail was much more pronounced.
Takkla glanced slyly from Samazzar to the dragon and then back again. A mysterious smile split her muzzle.
“My name is Takkla and the big fellow next to me is my mate, Dussok,” she said formally before her voice turned a little more playful. “How should I be addressing you? Fel’Annthor? The terror of the skies? Older sister?”
Barsa was really struggling, but Fel’Annthor wasn’t in much better shape. She cleared her throat, glancing down at her claws for a second before responding.
“It’s a little early for that. As I said, Samazzar and I are strictly casual.”
“For now,” Samazzar said again, unphased.
Fel’Annthor shook her head, rearing up once again so that she towered over the plains. At her full height, she stood taller than the mountain cliffs where the huntresses had stood in ambush for the orcs.
“But Samazzar,” she responded sternly. “Don’t think that I will be cutting you any slack on your tribute just because you and I are familiar with each other. If your tribe has slain the orcs, so be it, but that means you have taken on their responsibility. One crate of precious metal or artwork, twenty mountain goats, and twenty stags per year. If I asked for anything less, the dragons that ruled over the other sections of the mountain range would think that I am growing weak and try to steal my territory.”
“Fel,” Samazzar replied, his voice hurt. “Whenever we met, I have always showered you with gifts. “The orcs were planning a rebellion against you, and they were stealing most of the tribute that the other tribes paid them in order to fund it. My present to you this time is stamping that rebellion out and doubling your tribute. I have seen our tribe's ledgers, and despite the tragedy we have suffered here today, we can accomplish that without any real difficulty.”
Her tail twitched again, and Fel’Annthor quickly suppressed a pleased expression.
“Oh,” she said simply. “That makes things much similar.”
“Now that all of that is out of the way,” Samazzar responded, bouncing back to his usual cheerfulness. “Takkla has introduced herself and Dussok, but as long as you’re here, I’d love to introduce you to the rest of my family.”
“I’d like that,” the dragon replied. “I’d like that a lot.”