16

Call it a quirk of Chaos or maybe the gods, but this time, Vernax was fiercer, more powerful. The hatchling dragon grew in strength, while His Majesty seemed to falter; heartsick, exhausted and torn. Still in the fight, though, because he had no other choice. As Ildarion circled, Vernax howled,

“Nooooo!”

Its cry shook the lair and all of those ancient treasures, causing a cascade of gems, gold and weapons. Then Vernax lunged, scattering coins and chunks of raw meat. Its breath was a fiery midden. Its eyes burned red-hot as the hatchling struck with its tail, claws and both wings.

Ildarion ducked reflexively under that lashing, thunderbolt tail. Swung his sword around in a scything arc, chopping through part of the dragon’s forefoot. Was struck and hurled spinning away by a razor-clawed wing. Blood showered the lair, spattering pillars, scepters and crowns. Then the dragon leapt over him, wrenching Ildarion’s sword from its flesh. Landed hard on the emperor’s left, roaring,

“Captive! Not friend!

Its wedge-shaped head struck like a serpent’s, its clashing teeth blocked by the emperor’s sword and a conjured storm-shield. Their battleground was unstable, just a mountain of furnace-hot treasure, fried meat and snapped bones. Ildarion slid-staggered-backed, keeping the magical shield and sword between himself and that savagely darting, smoke-wreathed head.

A hasty sword-thrust pierced the dragon’s left nostril, releasing a torrent of scalding blood. But Ildarion was injured, too. Broken ribs, thought the emperor, swinging the shield around to protect his wounded side, while fighting to heal himself. Managed a faltering sigil before Vernax landed, skidded and spun, then rushed at him again like a golden avalanche.

Ildarion dove aside and then ported, converting a hard fall into swift, sudden flight. He continued his ragged and gasping chant as he soared to the cave roof, trailing coins, gems and blood.

“Mount of s- sovereigns, gift… of the… gods! Friend and comp…”

But Vernax would not let him finish that ancient binding spell. It attacked him over and over, a golden vortex of lashing wings, razor talons and long, curving teeth.

“Never your friend!” cried the dragon, leaping and snapping, fighting to reach the hovering elf.

They were very soon out of the lair, darting and circling, fighting their way through the cave-mouth and onto a broad stone ledge. Beyond that, there was nothing but air and a very long drop to the city below. Dawn was approaching; still just a rosy rumor and blush, but his lord’s return gave Ildarion power. Not for nothing was he the sword-arm of Oberyn.

“Friend and companion of emperors!” he coughed, glowing with manna and towering rage. “Ever reborn! Ever befriended! Vernax the Golden!”

“Vernax the slave!” snarled the dragon, launching itself upward on strong, bat-like wings. “No more!”

It rocketed high above the startled emperor, then dove like a stooping hawk; jaws wide, talons extended, flame roaring up from inside. A raging fireball blistered Ildarion’s face and seared away part of his hair. He struck back reflexively, spinning gracefully out of the way. The emperor bashed at that snapping head with his storm-shield. BOOM! Next, a powerful cut landed, delivered with all of Lord Oberyn’s channeled might. Hiss-Crack!

But Vernax twisted and banked. That slashing cut didn’t land on a forearm or wing membrane. It fell instead on the slenderest part of the young dragon’s neck. Like a meat-cleaver, Ildarion’s sword bit through those leathery scales to the flesh underneath, then shattered the hatchling’s spine.

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Vernax continued to rise for a juddering heartbeat, still flying on reflex. Then its head and truncated neck went spinning over the edge. The rest of its body crashed onto the ground, meanwhile, tumbling and sliding to a bloody halt by the cave-mouth. A massive shockwave exploded from the dragon’s body, spreading away to the farthest reaches of city and realm.

Ildarion hung in the air, gasping. Incredulous. All of Oberyn’s glow left him at once, as the emperor spiraled down to the rocky ledge beside Vernax. The corpse was still twitching, shrinking back into a great, glowing egg. Vernax would be reborn. That was its fate, but…

Ildarion had slain the dragon. He’d thrown away Oberyn’s gift. Heaven’s mandate was gone, and his right to rule, along with it. Sobbing, wracked with grief and regret, Ildarion first clambered across the ledge to that flopping and transforming body, then called the sword back to his hand. Next, crashed to his knees. Jammed the weapon’s hilt firmly into a crack in the stoney ledge. Pressed the base of his throat to its blood-stained tip. Would have slain himself to fall beside Vernax, only then, with a flare of coppery light…

Someone else came to the sun-ledge. A tall and elegant tiefling male materialized a foot or so in the air, tutting disapprovingly as he sought a clear place to stand.

“Dear boy, what a mess you’ve created,” mourned Magister Serrio, choosing a clean patch of rock. “No, stay your hand, Darron. You have erred in killing young Vernax, but the mount of kings will rise again, and there is work that remains to be done.”

“What else would they demand of me?!” raged the former emperor, lurching back to his feet with a rattle of leather and armor and sword. “First the realm’s safety, then my son! My son, Magister!” He could not remember the boy’s name. Just the look on his face, when he’d been exiled and cursed by his own father. A curse that bound Ildarion, too. He sucked in a lungful of air, hurling his sword away over the ledge.

“And, now this! Now my throne, as well!” Ildarion grew quieter, suddenly, doused like an ember. Sagging, he whispered, “So be it. The realm is theirs, Magister. Theirs, along with this wretched life, which I throw in for free!”

But Magister Serrio shook his head. The tiefling’s coppery eyes were kind, but unyielding, his quite voice firm as he said,

“Not yet, dear boy. You sense the Destroyer’s call, do you not?”

Ildarion was too riven with anguish to feel much at all. Extended his mind and... The guards were coming. He could hear them clattering into the lair at a dead, worried run. Felt Korvin, trying to reach him in thought. And yes…

That insistent tug was still present, calling him down to the city. Not as its glorious sovereign, soaring high overhead on a glittering mount. As a failure and outcast. Ildarion nodded once, mutely answering Serrio.

The cliff’s edge was nearby. He could dive over, giving the realm one last embrace at the end of his plunge, thought Ildarion. Join his wife and their exiled boy… somewhere.

“Think, Darron,” urged Serrio, approaching the trembling elf. “If you do not take up that fated sword, it shall have to summon another or fall to a servant of darkness. There is still courage and boldness within you, dear boy, and a mighty task to be done. You can fight for the realm, shining light on your heir’s enthronement… or slink off in darkness and shame.”

Serrio had drawn close enough to place a slender hand on Ildarion’s shoulder.

“Dear boy, the gods’ ways are not ours, and they care very little for their playthings, as a rule… but I sense Oberyn’s hand in all this, and I trust the old gambler to do what is right.”

Ildarion’s vision was tear-blurred and wavery. Each heartbeat and breath was a searing battle. He wanted to die before facing anyone else, but it wasn’t to be. At least, not yet. The weary elf lowered his head, causing scorched brown hair to curtain his face.

“There is no dodging fate or resisting the gods, Magister. I will go to the source of that call. Perhaps... had I done so at once…” He started to shake, weeping silently.

“We cannot predict all the might-have-beens, Darron," said the tiefling. "We can only move on, choosing the best path from those that remain.”

Ildarion straightened his shoulders, dredging grit and steel from somewhere inside.

“I will answer its summons, Magister,” he whispered tonelessly. “And then I will die. At the dark one’s hand, or by Korvin or Nalderick, this cursed existence shall end.”

Magister Serrio inclined his head, seeming to grasp the depth of Ildarion’s pain. Then, in a soft, quiet voice, he said,

“Alexion. Your son’s name is Alexion, and he lives, Darron, having fathered two children.”

“Alexion,” whispered the elf-lord, feeling a terrible curse-bond snap in his mind. “I take it all back,” he called out, adding, “I abolish your sentence and exile. I bid you return. Here me, all gods and powers! My son is pardoned!”

The force of Ildarion’s magic created a second shockwave; this one rattling pennants and tents at the fair, breaking windows and unlocking shackles all over the realm. Out past the mountains and poisoned waste it flared, freeing a prince and returning his voice. Only then, with an armored tiefling at his side, did the former emperor step off the ledge, gliding downward in search of a beckoning sword.