Chapter Twenty-Five – Acalon

The red sun was sinking below the cliffs of Skorcrest when the dread black dragon Fenryx, friend of Acalon, lighted in the open stretch of stone near the caverns of the flight folk. The dragon’s powerful wings sent clouds of sand dust and grit rising from the earth, and he stretched his long body, jaws flickering flame.

Acalon dismounted, using his knotted rope to reach the ground safely. In the early days of dragon riding, he had been far less fluid. Acalon recalled distinctly that first cautious climb onto Fenryx’s mountainous back when he had had no rope at all. Part of him had anticipated immediate death, uncertain if the newly formed alliance between himself and the great beast would allow him this kind of liberty.

As a youth, Acalon had scorned the friendship of dragons that was craved by most of his people. His father and mother were both dragon riders, and had died as riders when he was still a child. His father had been forced to ground in one of the fierce storms that rose sometimes across the Grayscape. He and his dragon had been slaughtered by Borzerk raiders. Mad with grief, his mother had avenged her husband’s death at the cost of her own life.

Raised by his father’s brother, who had a deep-rooted fear of dragons and yet been bitterly envious of riders, Acalon had quickly learned how violent and unforgiving the world could be. Mocked endlessly by his uncle, he had learned either to be indifferent to insults or be ruled by them. His indifference led him not to be driven like most of his peers into the dangerous contest of entertaining a dragon. He had seen too many people, young and old, sacrificed to a dream they did not understand themselves.

Acalon had chosen instead to make a way for himself as a ranger in the Grayscape. There was a need for wingless flight folk to defend the crippled, old, and young of their people, for the Borzerk were always preparing raids against the cliffs and the villages at the skirts of the mountains where others of the Skor lived in the shadow of dragon wings. Trolls, grimps, night hunters, and the blind worms that crawled out of their holes in deep, thick woods were a constant threat.

“Acalon!”

The dragon rider turned at the welcoming voice. At the sight of the broad-shouldered, wizened man striding towards him, he bowed in welcome, the traditional greeting of one dragon rider to another.

“Cyneric,” he said. “May the fires of—”

“Yes, yes, and may the fires of your own heart burn as bright as when we first met,” interrupted the man, gripping his shoulder. “Enough of the formalities. You were missed, Acalon, at the gathering of the Prime Dragon. Where were you?”

“My business in Regan took longer than expected,” said Acalon briefly.

He did not want to mention Tara MacQueen, the young woman who had surely been some kind of enchantress. From the first moment he saw her, her nut-brown hair and gray eyes in an unusually guileless face, he had known there was a difference to her that had been impossible to define. And their final encounter during the battle against the grimps had cinched in his mind that there was a danger here he did not want to entertain.

Cyneric searched the younger rider’s face. It was difficult to read Acalon, whose thin, hard-edged features were half-hidden behind his covering.

“Whatever the reason,” Cyneric said at last, “you are wanted in the Grim Syr. Veraxyn has been asking for you in particular. She will not speak to the elders until you are present.”

Acalon felt a jolt of surprise. “That will not please Hildred.”

“Please her or not,” said Cyneric, “the fact remains. The Prime Dragon will not speak until you join us. If you are able—”

“I’ll come at once,” acknowledged Acalon.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” said the old rider wearily. “Everyone is as strung as a new-hatched drake. This madness must come to a swift conclusion. The third moon, the mysterious portents that seem to spell some doom upon our lands—this madness must come to rest.”

Acalon had no word of reassurance from him. What Cyneric said was true. The portents had appeared suddenly, and their coming, while at first intriguing, had caused dread across the cliffs.

There have been times of unrest before, thought Acalon, striding with Cyneric at his side. We will endure it as we have from of old.

As brave as his thoughts were, he couldn’t repress his unease entirely. In his lifetime, he had never known anything like this. That Veraxyn, the Prime Dragon, would refuse to speak to anyone at the Grim Syr until he was present—he had never heard of anything like it, and could not see why he in particular was needed.

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He felt Fenryx’s reassurance, a flare of strength and fire in one. And as much as he had never intended to befriend a dragon, Acalon was grateful for the black drake’s presence, and for the loyalty that would never think to abandon him whatever challenge was in store. He had not sought the dragon’s companionship, true. But there was nothing more precious to him.

It was expected for dragons to join their riders at the Grim Syr, a gathering of drake and flight folk alike. In the arena where they met once in a year, a ledge was set apart for the dragons to roost and watch, while the humans gathered in the hollow below to stand before the Prime Dragon.

Veraxyn was the oldest dragon to have made her home with the flight folk. She was as white as Fenryx was black, a striking albino with eerie blind eyes. Whether she had been born that way or changed as age claimed her, Acalon wasn’t sure. The dragon had been known as the Prime among her kin since before he was born.

“Where were you?” The gray-haired woman hurrying towards them was frowning, the wrinkles in her face deep with concern and temper. “No, don’t answer. We’ve all been waiting. Cyneric must have told you that the Prime Dragon will only speak with you?” Hildred gripped Acalon’s arm with vice-like fury.

The rest of the gathered riders were watching. Acalon recognized them all, from the youngest of their number, Irwin, to the twin sisters Kimbra and Kimmee who had become riders two seasons before. Their visible anxiety made Acalon more guarded, because he didn’t understand himself.

“Go!” said Hildred. “Whatever must be said, listen, and tell us what the Prime Dragon tells you.”

Acalon approached cautiously. The Prime Dragon was waiting for him, her head swung in his direction even if she could not see. Her jaw was slack, showing a broken fang.

Acalon had never known any dragon rider in particular to be asked to speak with the Prime. Usually they all listened to the dragon as one, to news she had heard of lands near and far, or the music of prophecies they did not understand. To speak to one of them alone was unheard of.

He felt the reach of the dragon’s mind before he had stopped moving. Veraxyn’s presence was not like Fenryx’s. There was danger in it, and fierce strength. And the power that sought him formed words that he understood as if they were spoken in his own tongue.

Acalon, said the Prime. What have you done?

Acalon’s thoughts answered her before he could form words. This was the greatest peril of speaking to Veraxyn. It was impossible to lie or hide any truth from her. She could see his mind before he had a chance to decide what he would reveal to her. Acalon had heard that captured enemies of the Skor, the flight folk, had lost their minds in the presence of the Prime Dragon. He could understand that madness, as he felt his control slipping away, followed by a dreadful uncertainty.

Don’t be afraid, said the Prime. I will not harm you, rider of Fenryx. I have found what I seek. The one called Tara MacQueen.

Acalon saw the face of the strange woman he had met only days before. She was looking at him with a mix of hurt and shock, and he knew this memory must be from that time he had left her calling after him.

She was strange, Acalon said with his mind. There is something about her that cannot be right. Is she an enchantress? A demon?

She is our salvation, said the Prime.

Acalon didn’t dare argue, surprised as he was.

The words she spoke to you, the Prime continued. What did she say?

Acalon didn’t fully remember. But he heard again, drawn out from his memory, Tara MacQueen’s confession that she knew him and had known him for some time—and that she was not from their world, the Last Hero of Allerion.

The Last Hero of Allerion, repeated the dragon.

Acalon was rigid, resistant. It cannot be true.

Can you explain, fire blood, the signs that are before us? Veraxyn’s power revealed to Acalon’s wide open eyes the blood-red moon, the glittering lines of light like spider webs that seemed to tighten around their sky.

I have seen much in dreams, said the Prime. More than you can bear to know. But this you must understand. Our world is passing. It will soon reach its end, and when it does, there is not a life that will survive its destruction. There is nowhere that man can run or dragon fly that will escape the coming doom, unless it is stopped by one—the one called Tara MacQueen.

The dragon’s giant head lowered until one of her blind eyes was level with his face. Acalon was startled to see the film slide back, revealing a piercing silver eye.

But she cannot stop our greatest threat alone, said Veraxyn. Alone, she will die, as will we all. What she knows of our world is like seeing the morning through mist. And those who would oppose her will be ruthless in their desire to destroy her.

What are you saying? asked Acalon.

I know that trust cannot be forced, said the Prime. But you trust me, fire blood. Do you not?

Again, Acalon’s response was instinctive. He did trust the great dragon, even if he feared her.

Then trust me when I say that Tara MacQueen is no threat. Certainly not to you. There was dark amusement in the great dragon’s aura. But I pity her, this Last Hero of Allerion, for choosing to love as proud a flight kin as you.

Acalon refused to look aside from that piercing, almost unbearable eye. Is it true that she knows me, though I know nothing of her?

Veraxyn was silent, her thoughts revolving. I cannot see all, said the Prime at last. But I do not sense falsehood in what this Last Hero says. You must bring her to me, Rider of Fenryx. This is my charge. I must see her and know her mind, all of its secrets, its ability. The power of her being is beyond anything known by dragonkind. I wish to discover it for myself.

As she spoke, the great dragon’s thoughts darkened. Acalon had never known any pain in her presence, but he felt it now, a crushing weight that threatened to smother him. Almost instantly, the sensation withdrew, as if a great fist clenching him were loosened.

Acalon opened his eyes. The blind film had slid over the Prime Dragon’s eye once more, clouding her true sight from him.

Go, said Veraxyn. Bring me the Last Hero of Allerion.