The smell of sulfur was stronger down here. Adwyn could see the yellow of it settled into the walls, but the stink of it came from elsewhere: bubbling pools crowding the edges of the cave path like gutters.

The smell had been scented before⁠ ⁠—⁠ a hint in the head alchemist’s home, this morning. He knew the liquid wasn’t pure sulfur, and he knew he didn’t want any part of him dipped there; but that was all. He peered closer, idly as he walked, saw colorful stringy mats like algae at the bottom, crowded all around the holes that bubbled warmly up. Near them rose spires like metallic sponge. Some rose up and out of the sulfuric pools and resisted his pokes. Things swam in the pools too: tiny floater like sea jellies difting, and darkly near the surface were wriggling things he didn’t like.

These pools held Adwyn’s interest where the other sights became bleary background. The mushrooms had somehow remained, and this deep they glowed for some reason. Faintly; they were stingy with their light.

Worrisome were the scuttling bugs that now strutted like royalty⁠ ⁠—⁠ mitelike things that matched sifters’ description, save that where above they (supposedly) made a good meal, down here they made a meal of Adwyn. They sucked meat and blood where they found purchase, and buzzed incessantly.

If Adwyn were quick, there was still a good night’s sleep for him. That kept Adwyn striding forth when once or twice he lay down to break, even leaned his head low, even skipped a thought. He could sleep when all had been seen through.

That sounded like Mlaen, and this lit a smile and a little flame.

But between the mushrooms and glittery evil bugs, the lamp didn’t help overmuch.

After the smile, Adwyn’s mind regrettably returned to focus.

Perhaps it was the thrill of a new puzzle. How would Adwyn do something about a strange dragon deep below the Berwem? Strange how? Why were they down here?

First Adwyn had to find them. All the moltling said was ‘follow the hum’ and pointed to this opening.

Adwyn kept his frills perked in the beginning, though now they drooped. He listened for this hum, but there was hope for a trickle or rushing sound; as Adwyn brought a large canteen that tended almost two thirds empty.

The warning was a tickle or scuttle atop his head. He should have been more cautious, but faint winds carred dust, and liquids that weren’t water dripped; so at first he ignored it likewise.

The next thing he felt was a sting driving right into his eye⁠ ⁠—⁠ red and bright and⁠ ⁠—⁠ Adwyn ripped the evil mite off his brille.

He bled over his right eyescale now. Did he have something to wrap it with? Was it worth sacrificing half his vision? Out of one eye alone, Adwyn could hardly see over his snout.

But infection killed sharply. Adwyn treasured his eyes.

By the time the orange drake had alchohol-stung eyes and an eyepatch of bandages, his frills flared.

A wavering pitch had snuck onto the fringe of hearing. He was close.

The moltling had also said, “I maybe thought it was something new to play with down here. But I didn’t like the dragon there. They were thin and groany and had strange stuff in their mouth.”

One heard the groaning first, a perfect octave down from the hum. When that pitch wavered, Adwyn almost imagined the groan struggling in counterpoint.

Along the way Adwyn splashed into⁠ ⁠—⁠ something sticky and oleagenious. He hardened his face and moved on; disgust wouldn’t stop him.

Tongue flicked. Adwyn did not smell the blood and pus and shed skin⁠ ⁠—⁠ well, he did, and it wafted close with steps; but this smell was newer, paler, and, perhaps, washed out? It lacked the vast menace of the smell of the ‘monter’, and almost seemed to be fading away.

The passage⁠ ⁠—⁠ a tunnel, really⁠ ⁠—⁠ wagged back and forth, and undulated. Adwyn nearly gasped surprise when it halted with a swift drop. He landed on his feet, but he had missed the ground. Was it the fall, or a tired leg’s sabotage?

At the sound of a voice, that tiredness drew back.

“Who... who’s that...?”

“Adwyn of Dyfns, high military adviser, with license to detain and arrest. Who are you?” He lifted to a high walk and tended closer.

Slumped against a wall. Garbed in darkened, tearing rags. Sprawled out, legs seeming to twitch or convulse.

Adwyn stepped closer; the dragon stayed silent, though the neck languidly snaked the head forth, pointed vaguely toward Adwyn. The mouth opened and one could almost see words squirming forth. But that was the tongue. Tongues?

The tongue or tongues weren’t the only squirming thing attached. Adwyn nearly vomited to know the dark leechlike things wiggling in the sulfuric pools could breath his air. Two of them snuggled onto the dragon; one at the haunches, one around near the back.

Those mites crawled slowly, stealthily over the limp wings. They still buzzed, a perfect octave above the hum that led him here.

Parts of the dragon swelled. Bits like the ankles, perhaps they were heavy with pus or blood, but on the belly, neck and head? It had the qualities of a tumor.

Papills. He had visited the hospitals. He knew.

The words at last broke free. “Names...” they said. “Dragons have those... they do. I should have⁠ ⁠—⁠ had one. Maybe, maybe I did. I’m⁠ ⁠—” There came coughs, violent bloodly coughs whose outburst landed upon him. “I’m... down in the pits. That’s all there is. They, they told me this would⁠ ⁠—⁠ happen. Who? who did?”

Memory loss. Delirum. Fragmented thinking or speech. He’d seen it before.

Adwyn asked, “What can you recall? How old are you?”

“How old? Old⁠ ⁠—⁠ old enough to... alight. I remember⁠ ⁠—⁠ light. That’s true, isn’t it, isn’t it? From the blue sky. I hope that wasn’t a dream, it was very nice. Too nice.”

Adwyn, with hesitation, drew closer. He did not touch the dragon, but made himself present, made himself visible.

“Can you recall anything personal? Who are you?” Why was he bothering? Let the Inquirers tear confessions⁠ ⁠—⁠ trespassing in the pits was high crime. And if it were an escaped prisoner⁠ ⁠—

Then what was going on in the prison? In the pits?

It was a puzzle. Cold curiosity. Adwyn didn’t care.

They said, “I had a mother, didn’t I, didn’t I? She would sing. Sing⁠ ⁠—⁠ songs. They had... notes. One of them went like this.” And they hummed. Its tone was a centperfect unison with the overmastering pitch behind them, that vibration which suffused.

The dragon shifted or fell, and revealed what lay behind them: the source of the hum, a glowing glass over which the scuttling bugs were swarming like many deaths.

“Get yourself away from that!”

“It sounds like mother. No one else down here. But the ghost.”

It wasn’t bright of him to touch the dragon. Adwyn did not care⁠ ⁠—⁠ so he didn’t know why he did it. All the same, grabbing the dragon by the foreleg, yanking them bodily, and falling into a leap, Adwyn felt the flexing tiredness reach a peak, then, and he could have stayed like that. But he forced the dragon off top him, and it took three sweeps to get away all the eager biting mites.

“You need to get out of here. That’s an order.”

(It’s a mighty convenient use of power, ain’t it? The voice sounded like the high guard⁠ ⁠—⁠ but even his imagined Rhyfel had no right to talk about fairness anymore.)

“Do I? Hm...” The dragon struggled to get up – that was what Adwyn hoped the flailing legs meant.

Adwyn waited.

“What⁠ ⁠—” the voice had gained a slight lucidity, “What gyra is it now? It’s been⁠ ⁠—⁠ long, feels like.”

“1041.”

“That’s⁠ ⁠—⁠ no. It’s not. You’re⁠ ⁠—⁠ You are fuckin with me.” The dragon managed a stand now. And fell right back down. “You aren’t, aren’t even a real guard, I bet.”

“I am. And I have no reason to lie.”

“They’re all⁠ ⁠—⁠ dead. They have to be.” It wasn’t a response.

The dragon craned their head up to looked up at Adwyn. The forelegs shook and spasmed as they came up and held the snout.

“If you, you aren’t lying then⁠ ⁠—” Another cough, more spit and bitter, bitter venom splatting on his armor. “If you are a guard, maybe you got⁠ ⁠—⁠ a sword? Please, please make it... quick.”

Adwyn stared at the dragon. The tumorous, bugridden, swelling, shaking, pale, thin, forgotten, forgetting, old, lost, withering, suffering dragon.

All life was precious, wasn’t it? He knew that now. Wedd and Ysais seared that knowledge into him.

Adwyn had sworn a vow. The king, the brightest priest, his lovely sister, all his family had been there to witness it. He was a pacifist.

And yet, Adwyn looked again at the suffering dragon, whom no one was left to miss, who had lost everything, who clung like in a slumber to only a ghostly memory of their mother from which Adwyn had wrenched them away.

The black ascendant knew strangulation. It was quick when one held the vessels, and this (hopefully) dying dragon couldn’t struggle under him.

He could do it.

And if he didn’t, would it be better to let cruel, torturous life have its game with them for however many days⁠ ⁠—⁠ cycles – dances⁠ ⁠—⁠ gyras (it’s been⁠ ⁠—⁠ long) that it would take?

Adwyn regarded the dragon for quite a while.

Death took a long, long breath.

And in the dark, quiet pits, the old dragon knew slumber absolute.

----------------------------------------

As the murderer walked back down the winding tunnels of the pits, even the mites seemed to avoid him. He felt his heart keeping rhythm in his frills, and his burning legs seemed to move without him. It was these bodily things that kept time moving forward for Adwyn. Everything of his mind seemed utterly still, or lost deep in the past.

It had been gyras. The black ascendent had returned. And no one would even know. Dyfns had witnessed him betraying his vows; but any mortal dragon?

The old dragon had had a locket on them. The timepiece had came apart⁠ ⁠—⁠ mechanical parts fell out when he opened it. As did a tender piece of fernpaper, dirty with charcoal. It was a sketch, and not a bad one for the work of a cliff dragon.

There was a big smiling wiver, and a smaller, younger drake whom Adwyn had to recognize⁠ ⁠—⁠ the instants with their neck under his feet had seared the image in his head. Brice, and his mother Edle.

Had this been a commision, or had Brice been an artist? He would never know.

Adwyn felt no loss, not truly, but there was a lingering emptiness, abstract and nameless. There were defintions of the yawning chasm of loss, but this?

“You have returned. Did you get rid of that boring strange dragon?”

Adwyn looked at the moltling. What would he say? His brilles clouded, and mind slipped to the past⁠ ⁠—

He was right about those pools. Dipping a bit of Brice in to them, and the rags were eaten away. The scales? To be digested. Whether by the vitriolic pools, or the hungry mites and leeches.

“You won’t have to worry about him any more.”

“Wondrous! The other⁠ ⁠—”

“I’m sorry hatch, but I am exceeding tired and I have business to handle in the pits. I have helped you. Can you show me to the door?”

“After you do as I say.” They spread their wings and lifted their head all the way up⁠ ⁠—⁠ barely reaching Adwyn’s withers.

He flicked his tongue. “Did your mother not teach you how speak to your elders?”

“She taught me how to command my lessers. And I say⁠ ⁠—” The moltling flicked their tongue. The drake smelt it too. “Oh dear, the monster is coming. He acts strange.”

He started off toward the mouth opposite where Adwyn’d come from.

“Can I follow?”

They turned and peered at the orange drake. “Hm. The monster may not like you, and you have been useful.” Again the scratching alula not reaching their chin. “...You may.”

Adwyn walked behind the moltling, and reched for conversation to keep him awake. “Do you have a name?”

“I do.”

He waited, then sighed. He said, “I am Adwyn.”

“Of Dyfns, the black ascendant. I have heard of you.” He glanced back, smiling with teeth. “I did not think you would come so soon.”

The small dragon’s teeth were very white to catch the light⁠ ⁠—⁠ someone must take care of them.

They walked far ahead of Adwyn (just out of reach of his lamp), but when they turned, the faint mushroom light was enough to hint at their scales; some color very light.

Adwyn saw they pulled the hood tighter over their head.

Did they hide something? Adwyn peered closer⁠ ⁠—⁠ but they had socks on under the sandals, and the cloak they wore covered them to the tip of the tail.

This night had limned it more clearly than any other: Gwymr/Frina was the capital of the land of glass and secrets.

A sigh, and a neutral question: “Where are we going?”

“To see the blind wiver.”

A blind wiver? Living deep in the pits? He ought to henceforth deny this night the privilege of surprising him.

Perhaps this wiver was whoever took care of the impetuous little skink. And Adwyn wanted a proper adult with him again, someone who could understand and answer his questions.

So he followed after the moltling. They were small, even given how the silken robes wrinkled and draped around him. He came up to about Adwyn’s knees. It didn’t put Adwyn at ease; he’d lived in Gwymr/Frina long enough that the sight of a nimble little dragon, cowled and secretetive, would only have him gripping his coinpouch with a tail or wing.

If this were a grift, it was a long, involved one. Adwyn hadn’t brought his money⁠ ⁠—⁠ no point. But there were documents left in his bag, detritus from all the meetings and trysts he’d had today. They could be a headache if certain parties had a tongue on them.

Besides the moltling, what else was there? The little gleaming webs still tended in the corners, but Adwyn was beginning to decide they were the nests of mere spiders. He had grown used to crushing the insistent mites, and though the slimy leeches twitched when he stepped too close, their lunges never brought them close enough to land on Adwyn.

He heard the crack of a rock or old brick falling out place, distant and blended with atmospheric sounds. There was a ‘monster’ dwelling in the pits. Adwyn still hadn’t seen it⁠ ⁠—⁠ he didn’t much want to, but he wondered how so many dragons could live in these soulless depths.

The thought travelled quickly; he asked the moltling, “This blind wiver⁠ ⁠—⁠ would you suppose she could spare a draught of water? Perhaps a morsel of food? It was a long night before I had to travel these caverns, you must understand.”

The moltling glanced back⁠ ⁠—⁠ face still shadowed⁠ ⁠—⁠ and made a hum of thought. He tossed a wing at the clay mounds that occasioned the walls.

Down in the pits, the gliderscorpions had grown fat and nimble, and would clump together in nests of dirt and metal. They’d become social things, speaking with voices that whistled or lowly roared, and at times resembled speech.

The smaller ones dared closer to the drakes as they passed a nest.

Adwyn watched as the moltling caught a jumpy scorpion and at length tore off its legs, then each wing, stinger then chelicerae, and lastly the head.

They threw the dripping thing at Adwyn.

He had done more on less.

Crackling electric flames still burnt in the murderer’s lamp. Soon a sizzling gliderscorpion smell wafted.

The orange drake didn’t like the mouthfeel of chitin, so he cracked it open and consumed the meat with tongue and teeth.

Catching a few more gliderscorpions wasn’t hard work (though now they had wisened up to his intentions) and now Adwyn was exceeding thirty. His canteen was one third, now.

Always there was a hum crackling on the fringes of the pits’ soundscape. When one took the wrong fork in a passage, one of the clashing hums would ride in close and curl under your frills, dare you to complain. Awful.

The moltling slowed in his walk. Adwyn felt his baton with his wing.

He was expecting another dying dragon who aped the pitch with its groans.

But from the shadows one heard the pitch instead mimicked by a scream.

Then lunged a beast on four legs, a grayred dragon coming to tatters. They charged forward like a dripping tongue snapping forth. It was blood or pus or something else that was coming off this dragon, something black with a smell that rotted your tongue, or should have.

There was no pause from the mad dragon to scare or examine the party. Adwyn could see the bloodshot sclera. When a wing snapped out, the drake had his baton swing up, lamp dropping still onto the ground.

The grayred dragon was strides away, aiming to rake him with clawed wingfingers while charging. But Adwyn blocked the wing. Still it charged forward.

The orange drake fell to his hindlegs to bodily resist the charge. It let up then, pulling back and twisting while the tail lashed to smack.

He dodged away, freed from its wing his baton. Swinging his head around, away from the attacker, the orange drake peered a breath. Where was the moltling? Were they safe?

The silken robes caught faintest light, and moltling was just out of reach. Up on a wall, near the ceiling, hiding. The molting had leapt off, climbed away from harm.

Adwyn let the tail hit him, and adjusted as he fell back on all fours. A bite was coming, and the orange drake was half jumping and half slinking away.

The baton in his wing swung again, cracking against the grayred dragon’s nose. Blood fell out.

It snarled and tossed its head.

Like some wild beast.

Adywn couldn’t get space to breathe. It rushed at him again and again, driven by some black frenetic energy.

Could he trust the moltling to help him? Drop down and claw it apart from above?

Could he trust whatever magic or worse tainted these dragons with swelling and pallor and madness not to infect the hatch by careless touch?

Another wild swing, a bite, a wing trusting out. Adwyn blocked them with his baton, or tried to dodge them, or let his rugged schizon take the pain.

It was a fighting style he’d grown into after the vow. Never offensive, assuaging or deflecting everything. A pacifist’s stance.

It was not how the black ascendent fought.

How would he, the murderer who had⁠ ⁠—⁠ deniably⁠ ⁠—⁠ eliminated some of capitol’s most wellprotected dragons, how would he end this fight?

Adwyn smirked.

For a moment, he forgot the events of tonight, and simply allowed his mind to act as it naturally did.

After all, the art of death come as easily to him as everything else.

When the grayred dragon first charged the crackling lamp had been dropped. Adwyn gave the dragon a quick clawrake; the sudden pain yielded sudden pause, enough for the orange drake to leap over, light down right by the lamp and its dwindling flame.

The glass cracked as the thrown lamp hit the grayred dragon smack in the face. Fire crawled all over the weakened dragon, darkening pale scales, popping upon touching the black blood, and turning to utter ash the ragged linens.

Still the mad dragon staggered forth, wings ready to rake him again.

Adwyn had known the flames were weak, and his brain had already accounted for it. He took a breath.

He always could have done something like this, loosened up, become properly dangerous. Why hadn’t he? He’d taken the vow. He still had honor, dignity. And when the weight of life strained his back, and finally bid him to slouch, for what end did he still struggle forth now?

Mlaen. Cynfe. Perhaps, Kinri.

The bitter venom came again, and Adwyn spat in twin streams at the lunging mad grayred dragon.

The flame ate his passion, flared like watered flowers, and the pain (such pain; fire hurt more than heartbreak), Adwyn had a few breaths longer to work.

The bamboo spool of nets came out next, and torn net flew to engulf the dragon, and their last feeling was melting to magic electrity.

Adwyn drew at last the little blade the wingèd snake had found, and with that, he finished the endeavor. The mad dragon lay headless in its final slumber, and the murderer breathed deep and long.

The moltling lighted down after that, and had the gall to nurse a smile in their voice:

“Wonderful work, mister Adwyn. That was the other one. I shall tell the blind wiver just how helpful you’ve been.”

* * *