Hunted by hate, a beast of sky
Nowhere to run, nowhere to fly.
Morning light crept through the forest, setting the leaves alight, one by one, with golden fire.
The sorcerer brothers crouched in the shadows of two ancient oaks that formed an archway over the path. Ahead, through the trees and tangled undergrowth, the Valewood Forest ended at a dusty road. Beyond the road lay quiet, warm fields and gently rolling hills.
In the field closest to the road sat the Dragon.
They could just see its scaled, sunbathed hide through the branches, and the deep, burning embers of its huge eyes.
It stared, silently, unblinkingly at the forest.
Waiting for them.
Arzath glared at his brother across the golden path of sunlight that lay between them. “I hope,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “that you have something in mind?”
Requar did not reply. Instead, he reached over his shoulder and withdrew his Sword of Healing from its sheath. The silver blade caught the sunlight in a dazzling flash.
Arzath stared at him incredulously. “That's your plan?” he whispered. “You wish to make it stronger?!”
His brother remained silent, watching the Dragon. The beast made no sound or movement; it was a massive, intimidating, deadly part of the landscape. Only the smell of it, smoky and pungent, gave it away.
“The Dragon has dreamed of vengeance for a thousand years,” Requar murmured. “It has filled itself with anger and hatred to sustain it all that time.” He glanced at Arzath. “Much as you did. But perhaps…” he paused. “If I can use my Sword on it, I can convince it that we are not its enemies…”
“Requar,” Arzath hissed. “That thing does not consider us its enemies! It considers us its breakfast!”
Sighing, Requar got to his feet. “Just distract it, Arzath!”
Then he was gone, invoking his camouflage spell and melting into the trees and light.
Clenching his fist in frustration, Arzath put it to his forehead and closed his eyes. Remaining where he was for a few moments to prepare himself, he finally took a deep breath and got up.
Stepping out of the shadow and into the light, he strode along the path and out into the middle of the road.
The Dragon stared at him, crouched in the field like a monstrous cat, wings folded, head lowered.
His heart raced. He felt like an insect in its presence.
This was not a thing that could be cowed by magic or charmed by lies.
This was a thing that could eat him whole, shield or no.
As he met its eyes, the hairs on his neck stood up and his insides grew cold.
He had not felt so vulnerable since he had lost his magic, and Kyosk had tried to slaughter him with his own Sword. But this time was different.
This time, he was not weak, nor frail.
This time, he could – and would – fight back.
He noted with a measure of satisfaction that he and Requar's previous assault on the Dragon had not been in vain; charred patches spotted the beast's body from his lightning, and Requar's spell – mostly intended to blind and distract it – had not been without damage: a large patch of melted scales and raw flesh scarred the Dragon's face, just below its left eye.
The Dragon's fearsome eyes narrowed, slowly, almost imperceptibly.
Indeed, it was angry.
Arzath's fingers twitched, a spark jumping between them involuntarily as his magic pressed against him, trying to burst free. He longed to unleash another storm onto the Dragon, but he didn't know where Requar was.
Damn him.
This is ridiculous!
Instead, he folded his arms, to hide his trembling hands. The Dragon's eyes were half closed, now. He could feel its rage, radiating out of it, hotter than the sunlight beating on his face. Thin streams of smoke leaked from the Dragon's nostrils. Mingled excitement and terror rippled along Arzath's spine. Sweat tricked down his temple, and he resisted the urge to brush it away.
“My brother,” he said aloud to the sunlit, Dragon-filled morning, “does not want to kill you.”
The Dragon continued to stare at him for a moment. Then its jaws split, like a cavern opening.
“Your brother,” it said, its voice huge and deep, like a mountain speaking, “is wise.”
“I, on the other hand,” Arzath went on, ignoring it, “would prefer to see your smouldering corpse lying in this field.”
The Dragon lifted its head, black, razor-sharp teeth filling his vision. A rumbling sound emanated from deep within its body. Arzath made sure his shield was in place, and braced himself.
But instead of fire, booming laughter burst from its throat, rolling over the countryside, scattering birds from the trees. A few rabbits fled from the wheat field, darting across the road into the forest.
Where are you, Requar? Arzath thought desperately, glancing around, but there was no sign of his brother.
“Indeed,” the Dragon replied, its eyes wide and blazing.
And then it lunged at him.
Arzath threw himself to one side just as the great jaws snapped into the space he had occupied a second earlier. As soon as he hit the ground, he turned and threw a ball of lightning at the Dragon's head as it swung around for a second bite.
Magic slammed into the Dragon's face with a sizzling explosion, knocking the beast aside. Arzath scrambled to his feet in the wake of the ground-shaking roar, and started running, circling into the wheat field.
Fire spewed from the Dragon's jaws in an arc, washing over him.
His shield flared purple, and the air was suddenly filled with raging flame.
The heat was intense. Even through his shield, he felt as though his skin was about to blister any moment, but there was nothing he could do but protect his face with his arm and hope that he had enough energy to withstand it…
The inferno continued. Arzath's clothing began to smoulder.
Requar! he screamed silently. Whatever the hell you're going to do, do it NOW!
On cue, a brilliant white light flared, visible even through the flames and reddish-purple glow of his shield.
The fire died away, and the white light diminished into a cool blue glow.
To his astonishment, Arzath looked up to see that Requar was on top of the Dragon, having plunged his Sword into the base of the thing's neck, just above its shoulder blades!
The Dragon swung its head around, trying to snap at the Human sorcerer on its back, but was repelled.
Furious, the Dragon breathed fire over its own body.
Arzath gritted his teeth, but was relieved at the blue flare of Requar's shield.
Roaring, the Dragon danced thunderously about the field. Arzath flung himself to the charred ground as its huge, spiked tail swung at him.
He picked himself up a moment later to see the beast spread its wings and lift into the air.
“No!” he cried.
Hastily, he tried to summon a storm, but his attack missed wildly, lightning bolts striking at random, setting the already burning field further ablaze.
The Dragon beat away over the hills, taking Requar with it.
Requar clung to the Dragon's neck for dear life, braced against one of its huge spikes, both hands on his Sword, which he had plunged into the creature's flesh up to the hilt. He had not expected this to be an easy thing to accomplish, but trying to use his Sword on the Dragon while attempting to stay alive in the process was exceedingly difficult, to say the least.
Especially as the Dragon kept swerving and rolling in the air, trying to shake him off.
It almost succeeded.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Fighting to keep his grip, he returned his hand to his Sword, heart leaping wildly in his chest. Wind whipped into his face, throwing his long white hair and cloak about him. For a moment, the Dragon ceased its manoeuvring long enough for him to concentrate on his Sword.
Abandoning his protective spells, he flooded all of his magic into the blade, hard and fast.
He wasn't prepared for the sheer enormity of the Dragon's soul.
It was like pouring water into an ocean.
Normally, magic and life force could be distinguished in living things as two separate forms of energy… but the Dragon was different. It was both life force and magic combined into something else… something vast and powerful and almost incomprehensible…
Requar had never encountered anything like it before. He struggled past his awe, trying to focus, to channel his healing magic, seeking the creature's mind…
A moment later, he found it.
A cavern of eyes surrounded him. Thousands of them, huge and orange and hungry as fire, crowded together until nothing existed but their soul-destroying glare.
Requar withered before them, like a leaf in an inferno.
Gasping, he fell to his hands and knees, only to find another great eye beneath him, its orange-red depths swirling languidly, like molten magma, diamond-slitted pupil slicing right through him like a hot blade.
He clutched his head, feeling as though he were being crushed and dismembered, collapsing and burning and falling apart; there was a roaring, screaming sound that filled him, and he could not tell if it issued from the Dragon or himself…
His lungs felt constricted, and he struggled to breathe. He was being consumed by the force of that orange gaze, and panic danced around him with threatening glee...
Holding himself together with an effort, he scrabbled for the words that he had come here to say, even though they now seemed futile.
The war is… over, he gasped. You are… free. There is no one… left to fight. Your vengeance… serves no purpose. Those who… imprisoned you are… long dead, and their… descendants are… destroyed…
Shadows crept around the edges of his vision, reducing it to a narrow tunnel with the great eye a terrible fiery pit at its centre. He could not look away from it, though the pain of his final words ripped at him, like the shriek that howled around and through him, attempting to dash his consciousness away…
I… I… I… destroyed them….
His magic gave out, and his mind fled. Dimly, through the grey haze of his scorched thoughts, he was aware of his hands slipping off the hilt of his Sword, a sensation of falling, of emptiness, and then he knew no more.
Exhausted, sweating, Arzath trudged down a grassy hill and started across another field. The sun had risen high overhead, a white eye burning him almost as fiercely as the Dragon had done.
He had been forced to Mind Sweep the entire countryside at regular intervals in order to find his brother. The Dragon had carried him a long way.
To his immense relief, however, he found that Requar was still alive, though the Sweep revealed a greatly weakened magical aura. His life force, though, was still strong.
Fool! Arzath thought furiously. Why must he insist on doing everything the complicated way?!
He discovered Requar sprawled in a dandelion-strewn field, his Sword a blaze of reflected sunlight a few yards away.
There was no sign of the Dragon.
Arzath collapsed to his knees beside his brother, and checked – unnecessarily – Requar’s pulse and breathing, which were both present. There did not appear to be any injuries, either; he was merely unconscious.
Sighing heavily, Arzath sat on the ground beside Requar and closed his eyes, waiting for him to wake.
A short time later, he heard a sound beside him and opened his eyes to find Requar stirring. He reached out and helped his brother to sit up.
Requar put a trembling hand to his head. The heavy expenditure of magic had taken its toll. His skin was pale, and dark circles shadowed his eyes.
“That was an idiotic thing to do,” Arzath chastised, glaring at him.
Requar rubbed at his head, closing his eyes. “I feel terrible,” he replied hoarsely, “thank you for asking.”
Huffing, Arzath got to his feet, strode over to retrieve the Sword of Healing, and handed it back to his brother. He felt a little weak and shaky himself. They had fled the castle without any supplies, and the fight with the Dragon, plus a two hour hike over the hills, had been draining.
“We will need to find water and food,” he declared, watching the horizon warily for any sign of the winged beast. “We are in no condition to fight the Dragon again if it returns–”
“It won't.”
Arzath looked at him, and raised an eyebrow. “Do you mean to say, that your ridiculous plan actually worked?”
Requar regarded his Sword, turning it over in his hands. “I believe so.”
“What makes you so sure?”
Requar pushed himself to his feet with his Sword and staggered, clutching Arzath's arm for support. “Because,” he said, giving his brother a small smile, “it didn't kill me.”
* * *
The sailing boat glided over the smooth surface of the sea, drifting quietly into the harbour, the morning sun a ripple of light behind it.
Gently, Tarin the fisherman docked his boat and secured it, before hopping nimbly up onto the weathered planks of the pier.
An abandoned settlement stood before him. Tents were ripped or collapsed, canvas hanging off their frames like old skin; broken buildings protruded charred support beams, like carcasses with their ribs pointing at the sky. At the back of the camp rose a wall of sheer red cliffs, like a natural battlement; beyond them rose ranks of cone-shaped mountains and sharp, craggy ridges. The sky overhead was a brilliant sweep of clear blue, a peculiar sight over the Isle; no remnant of the Aegis was visible any longer.
There were no seabirds, either.
Tarin looked around, swallowing nervously. There was no one to be seen, nor any sign of a living thing, but the black mounds littering the encampment suggested plenty of death.
A cold, dark feeling wormed its way through his gut.
He knew that the Dragons had all departed, and, as Commander Trice had astutely pointed out, were not likely to return. Reason told him that the Middle Isle was the safest place in Arvanor to be at this moment.
But his intuition told him differently.
There was something strange, here.
Something wrong.
Reluctantly, the fisherman took a few steps forward, unwilling to set foot on the land.
Damned if I'm gonna wander around in that lot, he thought.
Some way off in the middle of the camp, a little to his right, lay the gigantic corpse of a slain Dragon, its head mutilated.
With a deep breath to steady his nerves, Tarin cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled: “ 'allo? Anyone about?”
His voice disappeared into the ruins and red rocks.
There was no reply.
He waited, but no one showed themselves, if there was anyone still alive to do so.
Turning, he stared out across the water. Though he had only just arrived, he longed to hop back into his boat and sail away from this place. However, he had promised Commander Trice that he would wait…
The cold feeling in his gut turned suddenly to solid ice, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Though he was not aware of having heard a sound, he felt strongly that someone was behind him, staring at him.
He turned.
A man stood at the landward end of the pier. He was clad in impressive armour, with an orange cape. A huge sword, shaped like a Dragon's wing, was gripped in one black-gauntleted fist.
Tarin knew little of the Darorian Army, or military ranks, but the man's elaborate armour obviously suggested someone important, perhaps the General himself.
He did not, however, like the threatening way that the man held himself.
“I, uh… I'm lookin' for someone by the name of Captain Sirannor,” he said uncertainly.
The armoured man stared back at him unblinkingly, his eyes cold and pale beneath his ornate helmet. “That is I,” he responded.
Tarin knew at once that he was lying. He did not look like a Freeroamer, nor anyone that Tarin wanted on his boat.
Swallowing, he began to back away.
The man walked towards him, along the pier.
Turning, Tarin hurried to his boat and leapt aboard.
Boots thundered on the pier as the man ran after him.
Tarin lunged for the mooring line, but was too late.
He lost his head.
General Dreikan reversed his swing as the fisherman's head bounced onto the pier and rolled into the sea, spraying blood across the planks. His sword sheared through the mast of the boat with one swipe, toppling it with a clatter and splash. Then he began hacking at the vessel, viciously, until water leaked through the shattered hull.
Straightening, he stood and watched as the boat floundered and slowly sank into the bloodstained water of the harbour.
“This,” he said quietly to the wreckage and decapitated body, “is my island. No one arrives here.
“No one leaves.”
Then he turned and walked back along the pier.
Dreikan made his way across the camp, orange cloak sweeping over the corpses as he went, until he arrived at the command tent.
Throwing the flap aside, he entered.
The room was silent and empty. Everything was exactly as he had left it; the table in the middle of the room still strewn with maps of the planned attack on the Dragon, chairs sticking out haphazardly where his now dead commanding officers had left them.
Except for one thing.
A stylish black sword, one of those once carried by his lieutenants, was embedded in the end of the table, point downward in one of the maps.
Walking slowly around the table, scanning the room with his eyes, he stopped beside the sword. Glancing downwards, he noticed that the section of map that the blade was pinned to depicted a valley to the north of the one where the ambush had taken place.
The valley where he had fought and slain Sirannor Vandaris.
Smiling, Dreikan took the sword in his free hand and pulled it out of the table. Then he turned and went to the room at the back of the tent.
There was no one there, either.
The room was small, and surrounded by solid rock. There were not many places to hide.
Stepping over to the bed, Dreikan turned his sword in his hand and plunged it downwards. Then he withdrew it and moved over to the wardrobe, smashing his blade into it, sending splinters of wood and whispers of cloth falling to the floor.
Dreikan regarded the wreckage for a moment. Then he walked back out into the main room.
The girl stood at the other end of the room, just inside the entrance flap.
She appeared to be unarmed, though she wore the black armour beneath – Dreikan noted with interest – one of his own long coats.
For an instant, despite himself, he was struck by the girl's resemblance to Sirannor. The expression on her young face was so familiar…
“Trying to imitate your father?” Dreikan mocked, the smile returning to his face. “How amusing. But do not expect to die as gloriously as he did.” He turned away contemptuously. “You are a child. You are not worth my time.”
“And yet,” she countered softly, “you hunt me.”
Dreikan strolled around the room, twirling first one sword, then the other. When he glanced in her direction again, she was gone.
Unhurriedly, he followed her.
Slashing aside the tent flap with one of his swords, he emerged into the sunshine to catch a glimpse of her vanishing into the ruined tents on the other side of the encampment.
“So,” he called. “You are fond of playing games, girl?”
He started across the compound, in her direction. “Very well,” he said. “Let us play.”
Carmine darted amongst the tents, moving as quietly as she could manage, though she was sure her heart would give her away, it beat so loudly in her ears.
She wished, desperately, that she had a plan.
But she didn't.
She sought only to annoy Dreikan, to force him to notice her.
The way he had tossed her aside with barely a glance, after Sirannor's death, as though she were a thing not even worth killing, angered her. She allowed the memory of that moment to fill her with fury, keeping it close.
She feared that if she did not, she would simply slip off the end of the pier and end herself.
But she was not so drowned in grief to delude herself into thinking she stood any chance of actually duelling the General. She could handle herself well enough with a sword – Hawk had taught her how to fight after she was attacked in an alley in Sel Varence, years ago – but she had nowhere near the expertise to take on someone like Dreikan.
Even her father had lost to him.
A fresh wave of pain flooded her, and she was forced to pause around a corner, trying to calm her ragged breathing; squeezing her eyes closed, she fought the tears that threatened to spill from their corners.
She had to think of another way.
Mekka had taught her skills, as well. She had never been good at being quiet, always restless and fidgety, impatient for something to happen. He had been patient with her, however, and eventually she had learnt how to be still and silent, how to calm her thoughts and look at things differently, in ways that other people would not expect.
This was what she needed, now.
Think more like Mekka, she told herself. Not like Hawk.
There was a soft sound from nearby, an almost unnoticeable scuff.
Dreikan knew how to be discreet, as well.
Opening her eyes, Carmine peered around the corner to see his shadow spill across a piece of canvas. Quickly, she moved away.
As she led him randomly through the ruins, she focused her mind on a solution, thinking of what she had to hand, and finally, she thought she might have found the faintest stirrings of an idea.