For the first time in decades, something stirred within the lake of lava. Slowly, but with ever growing speed, waves rippled across its surface. The low hum of magic in the air rose to a fever pitch, and the currents of power that ran through the land twisted and coiled. Something huge emerged from the lava. Molten rock sluiced off a titanic form covered in a kaleidoscopic pattern of red and blue scales. Wings that could cast an entire city into shadow spread wide, and golden eyes gazed at the treasure-strewn shores of the lake.
Great piles of silver, platinum, and gold dotted the shores, protected from the searing heat by ancient magic. Chest after chest after chest of jewels, rare potions, and mystical fabrics were scattered haphazardly amongst the fumaroles. Arcane devices of great and terrible power littered the area, drawing off the volcano's potent magic to remain functional.
Doomwing, Scourge of the Fifth Age and Premier Terror of the West, swam to the shore and heaved his mile-long body out of the lake. For a moment, he was sorely tempted to roll around in his hoard, but he was no longer a young dragon. He was ancient beyond mortal reckoning and far too large to indulge himself in the antics of a hatchling. It would be utterly embarrassing if he crushed one of his prized possessions under his bulk. Instead, he contented himself by lowering his head and burying it in a mountain of precious metals.
Ah. There was nothing quite like the smell and feel of treasure. He could still remember his youth. As a hatchling, he'd been happy to add even a single coin to his hoard. Now, it would take a king's ransom to pique his attention. Pulling his head out from under the pile of treasure, he reached out with his senses. He had woven his magic into every single piece of his hoard. If so much as a single coin was missing, he would know. And he would not be pleased. But nothing was missing. Everything was where it should be.
But why had he woken up? Like any self-respecting dragon of his age, he spent most of his time sleeping, either with his hoard or within the lake of lava. He only woke once a century to collect tribute from those who lived in his territory. Yet his instincts told him that a century had not passed. He had woken up early. Was another apocalypse on the way? He doubted it. His senses would already have noticed if another Catastrophe had arisen. Perhaps it was indigestion. He had eaten a polar kraken before going to sleep, and they never had gone down quite as well as the tropical variety.
Never mind. All that mattered was that he was awake. Now, he could either go back to sleep, or he could take a quick flight to stretch his wings. They were feeling a little stiff. But first he'd check to see just how long he'd been asleep. For all he knew, he might only have awakened a few days early.
He reached out with his magic again and called one of his favourite artefacts to him. It was the Clock of Ages. He had taken it from the Catastrophe of the Fourth Age. At the time, he'd only taken it because the Catastrophe had been a troublesome asshole, so he'd been happy to steal anything that jerk liked on general principle. However, the clock had soon revealed itself to be far more than a simple time piece. It kept track of all the various cycles that governed the world, both mystical and mundane.
Did he want to know if the moon was full because he was planning to hunt down and eat a bunch of werewolves? The clock could tell him.
What if he wanted to know when the tides would be low because he was feeling peckish for some merfolk to go with his kraken? The clock had him covered.
And what if he fell asleep for decades on end and wanted to know what year it was when he woke up? Not a problem. The clock could tell him exactly what year it was.
The clock appeared in front of him and he used his magic again to relay his commands to the clock. Despite being the size of a house, it was still far too delicate for him to handle with his bare claws. A moment later, the clock provided the answer. It had been seventy-five years since he had last awakened.
Hmmm... so he'd awakened twenty-five years early? Not too bad. It was tempting to go back to sleep, but... no. He really did want to stretch his wings, and it might be nice to remind all of the people who lived in his territory that their tribute would be due soon. There was nothing quite like a mile-long dragon appearing overhead to remind people of where their priorities should be.
Sending the clock back to its place in his hoard, Doomwing took a few steps back and then beat his wings. Only the magic on his hoard kept it from being blown away, and waves of lava rolled across the lake behind him. Once, twice, and then a third time he beat his wings before leaping into the air and taking wing for the first time in seventy-five years.
Below him was the massive volcano he called his home. It was the largest and tallest peak in the world, so high that he never had to worry about thieves since they would just suffocate and so wide that the lake he liked to sleep in only occupied part of the summit. Despite its height, its slopes were devoid of snow. Instead, fumaroles, burning chasms, and all manner of fiery features marked the side of the volcano. The land at its base was little better, and a vast swathe of smouldering earth stretched out for dozens of miles.
Soaring over the land at speeds that would have put a wyvern or drake to shame, Doomwing turned south. The last time he had awakened, there had been scores of farming settlements there. They had made a living by exporting food and livestock, and he had received a generous portion of their profits as tribute. A younger dragon might simply have eaten the lot of them, but Doomwing had not accumulated his hoard by being rash. It was better to let those settlements prosper. That way they made more money, which in turn meant he received more tribute. Burning everything and eating everybody might feel good for a day or two, but then what would he have? Scorched fields and empty villages... neither of which would add any value to his hoard.
As he continued south, his keen senses picked up the sweet smells of fire and ruin leavened with cries of lamentation and suffering from all those who had defied him... wait. He'd only just woken up. Nobody had defied him yet. That meant somebody else was setting things on fire and tormenting people, which meant his tribute was in danger! He picked up the pace and then landed with a tremendous crash beside the first settlement he reached.
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His eyes narrowed. The fields were ablaze, as were many of the houses. Some people were running around and screaming whilst some tried to put out the flames. Others lay slumped in the ash-strewn dirt and wept, some over their lost livelihood and others over the bodies of their loved ones. The sight filled Doomwing with rage. Who dared? This village was in his territory. Its field, its houses, its crops, its people... all were part of his hoard. To harm any of them was to steal from him, and no self-respecting dragon would allow anyone to steal from them.
His magic rippled out. The fires went out, the collapsing houses were steadied, and the wounded were healed. The dead, however, remained very much dead. There were lines he had learned not to cross, and that was one of them. Ignoring it had birthed the Catastrophe of the Fourth Age, and the last thing he needed was to be up to his neck in zombies again. Good grief. That had taken forever to deal with. To make matters worse, zombies tasted terrible, so he hadn't even been able to eat any of his enemies.
"Mighty dragon!" an old human stumbled forward and dropped to his knees before him. "You saved us!"
"Who did this?" Doomwing asked. "Who dared to burn your crops and harm your people? Who dared to take my tribute? Who dared to steal from me?"
The old man looked up at him with a combination of awe and terror. "Soldiers, mighty dragon! They asked for all we had. When we refused, they destroy everything."
"Soldiers?" Doomwing gave a low rumble. It was like thunder rolling through the skies. "Did they not know that all of this belongs to me?"
"We told them, mighty dragon, but they laughed in our faces. They knew that you only come for your tribute once a century. They must have thought that they could do as they pleased while you slept."
"I see."
Doomwing had not done much since the end of the Sixth Age some thousand years ago. The Catastrophe of the Age had been an absolute bitch to deal with, and his wounds had been quite serious. Even now, a millennium later, the scales on the right side of his chest were not quite the same as those on his left. Had his defensive magic been even an iota weaker or slower, he would dead. He had used the time since then to recover from his wounds and regather his power. He had not dallied when collecting his tribute. Instead, he had collected it as quickly as possible and then returned to the lake to sleep.
Clearly, the kingdoms surroundings his territory had forgotten who he was and what he was capable of.
"These soldiers, have they attacked other settlements?" Doomwing asked.
"Yes, mighty dragon. We were not the first to be attacked. The villages to our west were attacked first, and they rode east after attacking us."
"In that case, I will go east as well." Doomwing was about to flare his wings before he remembered that doing so would probably unleash a hurricane that would annihilate what was left of the village. Instead, he quickly cast a protective spell over the village before taking to the air again. "I will deal with the soldiers and then return to fix your village."
It wouldn't do if the villages here were unable to provide tribute.
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Captain Jarod Evans was having a rather good night. There was nothing quite like a bit of pillaging to get his blood pumping. True, they'd been ordered not to kill too many of the farmers since the king was planning to annex this entire area in the future, but a little bit of killing was practically mandatory for this sort of thing. Yes, riding in, stabbing a few people, and then burning some stuff was the best way to make the right impression. They could obey, or they could die.
He wasn't scared of the dragon either. It was only supposed to wake up every hundred years or so, and that crap about it being a mile long? Impossible. The largest dragon he'd ever seen had only been five hundred feet long. It had been a tough, old bastard, but the kingdom's wizards and warriors had still been able to bring it down by using spells and weapons derived from the kingdom's collection of ancient tomes and armouries. There were few things in the Seventh Age that could withstand the wonders of the Sixth. Even if that dragon woke up, they'd have twenty-five years to prepare themselves. They just kill it if it dared to show its face.
Honestly, though, he'd been a bit surprised that the king had given them such free rein. Sure, he liked throwing his weight around, but it would have made more sense to force the farmers to hand over their crops instead of burning them. Oh well. The king was big on the whole 'fear my power' approach to ruling, so perhaps it was a way of ensuring the people here never even thought of rebelling once their lands were added to the kingdom's.
"How far are we from the next village?" he asked his second in command.
Taylor opened his mouth to reply and then fell silent.
"What?" Jarod barked. "Taylor?" And then he noticed that the other knight wasn't looking at him. Instead, he was looking up and behind him. It had also gone very dark all of a sudden. There was supposed to be a full moon out. Had clouds rolled in? Was rain coming? It would be a hassle trying to burn everything if it was raining.
"D... d..."
"What?" Jarod finally turned, and all the blood in his veins turned to ice. There were no clouds. There was no rain coming. But there was a dragon, and it was really damn big. It might even be a mile long.
"You thought you could steal from me?" The dragon's voice shook the earth and sky.
Jarod was vaguely aware of being flung off his horse as the animal screeched to a stop in sudden instinctive terror. The others were little better, and they stumbled to their feet as a second sun bloomed in the skies overhead.
No. Not a second sun.
That was fire kindling in the dragon's jaws.
Jarod swallowed thickly. "Oh fuck."