Scaled Soul (Dragon Academy Book 1)

by Gage Lee

  Taun felt every bit as comfortable in front of the forge. The heat tightened his face against his skull and drew beads of sweat from his skin. His mind drifted back to the time he'd spent in the smithy back home. Rolling his shoulders loosened him up and brought back the muscle memory he'd honed at the forge. He tossed the piece of iron he'd chosen into the air, then caught it with his tongs. “I spent some time with the blacksmith back home,” he said. “I've always been interested in making armor and weapons.”

  Focus on the task at hand. You can flirt with the girl when we finish here.

  “Let's get that metal heated,” Professor Geth barked. “I've told you what to do. Now do it.”

  Taun shifted his position to sit perpendicular to the forge's opening. The metal needed the full force of the heat, but there was no need to expose himself to that. The knight eased the iron chunk into the forge and watched as the heat did its magic. Black scabs of impurities sloughed off the metal and a deep, red glow crept across its surface. Taun had always considered the changes heat wrought in the iron to be a type of magic, not the same as what the dragons used, but a force tamed by men. He felt the familiar thrill pass through him as the iron shifted color to a brilliant orange.

  It was time to begin the act of creation.

  Taun pulled the iron out of the forge and arranged it on the anvil next to him. He reached down to grab a hammer out of instinct, but caught himself. Professor Geth had outlined a different method of shaping metal. It was time to put that knowledge to the test.

  The knight inhaled the heat from the iron. Pneuma, tinged with the metal element from the iron, flowed into him. His breath felt heavy in Taun's lungs. Elemental power stretched his core until it ached, but Taun didn't let it go.

  Excellent work. Now use the pneuma drawn from the iron to forge a bond to the metal. Hold the image of the shape you want it to take in your mind.

  Taun followed the dragon's instructions, eager for another success. Every time he accomplished something he'd previously thought impossible put him one step closer to strengthening his core.

  Sweat rolled down his back and dripped from his nose as Taun concentrated on the iron in front of him. He imagined the heat that emanated from it, not as something separate from himself, but as part of his body and spirit. His memories reminded him of the way the iron felt before he worked it, coarse and rough between his fingers. The knight had spent so much time in the forge growing up that the metal was as familiar to him as the back of his hand. Slowly, but surely, a bond formed between the knight and the iron in his tongs.

  A sharp crack echoed in his thoughts as a silver thread wound itself between Taun's core and the scorching bar of metal. The taste of iron filled his mouth and its smell flooded his nostrils. A strange sensation washed over Taun, and he realized his mind had adapted to the metal as if it were part of his body, like an extra finger.

  The metal has cooled too much to shape. Maintain your connection as you place it back in the forge.

  But Taun had no intention of moving the iron from where it sat. He didn't want to disturb the connection that he'd created. Instead, he shifted his thoughts to the fire element blazing inside the forge. Slowly, carefully, he pulled fiery pneuma into his core. It was a tricky juggling act, holding two connections but Taun refused to let either of them go. The silver line that tied him to the metal bucked and twisted as his concentration wavered. The knight gritted his teeth and held on while also pulling the fiery red thread from the furnace.

  “Taun?” Karsi asked. “What are you doing? This isn't what Professor Geth wanted.”

  There was no time to explain. Even if there had been, Taun needed all his strength and concentration to maintain his ties to fire and metal. The knight forced himself to breathe, to keep a steady and even rhythm to the pneuma washing into his lungs. He guided the mystic energy into the red and silver cords with every exhalation. Taun felt Axaranth helping him, bolstering his willpower and refining his technique with subconscious suggestions. The human's instinct combined with the dragon's skill to braid the fire and metal pneuma into a single cord connected to the knight's core.

  Careful, man-child.

  The dragon's warning came a split second before a shooting pain erupted from the soul scale. A crunching sound tore through Taun's thoughts at the same time. The knight forced himself to breathe through the pain and clung to the metal and fire connections like a drowning man clinging to a safety line.

  He'd pushed himself too far, damaged the soul scale even further. Letting go would ease his pain; Taun's instincts assured him of that. But it would also deny him a chance to strengthen his core.

  No, he wouldn't let that happen.

  Taun forced his breath back into a smooth, even rhythm and bore down on the power under his control. He forced the silver and red lines to converge into a vibrant cord of elemental power. Taun imagined the shape he wanted the metal to take and commanded the fire to heat it until it became malleable and ready to accept his commands. The young knight suddenly understood the metal in a way he never had before. It was no longer a lifeless lump, but woven strands of metal and fire as familiar to him as his own hand.

  You will overextend yourself. The soul scale is fragile, Taun. Be careful until we repair it. Release the bond.

  But Taun knew that was impossible. The iron was no longer something separate from himself. The knight had tied it to his core and mind. If he cut it loose now, it would be like cutting off his own finger. No, he'd finish what he set out to do, then unravel the connection. He was stronger than the dragon knew.

  The knight's thoughts shaped the iron. It stretched out in his mind, the squat, rectangular shape becoming pointed at one end. The other end flared out to form the nail's head. Taun willed the iron to lengthen, rounding off the corners, pushing out impurities that would weaken it. In all the times he'd been at the forge, he'd never felt such a pure connection to his work. The nail was a simple thing, but it was perfect in form and function. For the first time in his life, Taun had flawlessly transmitted the image in his head to a finished piece of work.

  His celebration was short lived.

  Pain welled up from his core. Taun had unconsciously added more fire and metal pneuma to his connection with the iron as he worked it, and now his core was overfull. Taun was losing his grip on the power, and it threatened to shred his core if he didn't get back on top of it. Simply cutting the connection seemed like a bad idea. The power had to go somewhere when he did that, and if it surged back into his core...

  Stop playing, man-child. Your core is at a critical stage. Pushing it further will destroy it. And you.

  “Shut. Up.” Taun growled through gritted teeth.

  The dragon had more experience than the man, but it couldn't feel the change happening inside Taun. The pneuma within him was dangerous if he didn't control it. But Taun had controlled the fire and metal so far. It was a tool that he could use to save himself.

  He hoped.

  The young knight forced his breathing to remain steady as he sank deeper into meditation. An image of his core appeared in his thoughts. It was a crystal sphere filled with vital energy surrounded by a storm of pneuma that he'd drawn into himself. Cracks had already formed in the sphere. If its walls ruptured, Taun's vital essence would spill out. He'd be dead before his body hit the floor.

  This is madness. Release the power before it is too late.

  Taun ignored the dragon. He'd shaped a nail with his mind. He could shape the pneuma within him the same way.

  The world around Taun receded. All that remained was the fire and metal he'd captured, the cooling nail in his tongs, and the slowly cracking sphere within him. Taun willed the metal-tinged pneuma into the cracks that ran through his core's surface like jagged strokes of lightning. The mystic energy obeyed him, filling in the damage with glowing power.

  This is a clever bandage, but it is not a permanent healing.

  “I'm not done yet,” Taun whispered.

  Taun sprea
d the fire pneuma across the inside of his core. He let its intensity build within him and willed it to fuse the metal element to his core. The metal glowed white hot and the crystal soon joined it. Within a matter of seconds, Taun could no longer see the damage to his core. The metal and crystal had become one blazing star in his mind's eye.

  The knight's connection to metal and fire faded. Not because he'd released them, but because he'd used every scrap of the energy to forge a new core. And as the white-hot light at his center faded, it took on a new color. A deep violet that reminded him of the night sky hours before dawn.

  Catch me.

  That voice was not Axaranth's. It was softer, more feminine.

  A butterfly rose from the cooling surface of Taun's core. Its wings were the same violet color, but its body was the pure silver of a shooting star. It soared away from Taun.

  Axaranth erupted into flight, a great shadow dragon that raced after the butterfly with its jaws open wide. The ancient dragon seemed miles long, its black body wider than Taun was tall. The beast's hunger washed through Taun like a wave of primal terror. It wanted the butterfly.

  The knight realized he did, too.

  He willed himself after the soaring violet creature. His thoughts speared through the darkness like a comet, streaking along Axaranth's body. The dragon was more powerful, but Taun was faster and more nimble. He dodged around Axaranth's snapping jaws and jumped off its nose. His outstretched hand caught the butterfly, gently cupping it to his chest. The beating wings felt like velvet against his palm, and its voice swelled in his mind like a chorus of trumpets.

  In that instant, Taun understood that the creature he held was a manifestation of the enlightenment he’d craved. His efforts that day had opened his mind to new possibilities, and showed him how to become better, stronger. The butterfly represented this enlightenment and capturing it had proven he could learn even more.

  We are one.

  A flash of violet light erupted from Taun's body along with a thunderous cry. His body jerked upright, back arched, arms and head thrown back. The intense storm of emotions that roiled through Taun blinded him. He felt himself coming apart at the seams, only to be pulled back together, the damage undone, his body reforged just as he'd recreated his core.

  Well, well, well. You are full of surprises, Taun Koth'tok.

  The rush of energy faded, leaving Taun both exhilarated and shaky. He sank back onto his stool, cradling his head in his hands.

  “That's impossible,” Karsi whispered. “Humans can't, you shouldn't be able to, I don't understand.”

  Taun heard the rest of the students in the class murmuring much the same as Karsi had said aloud. He'd done something they thought impossible for a human to accomplish. Fear and worry washed through the workshop as the dragons eyed the human in their midst as if he were a poisonous serpent.

  And the knight still didn't understand what he'd done. “What happened?” he asked Karsi.

  The princess said nothing for a moment. When she spoke, her voice shook. “The impossible,” she said. “You advanced your core.”

  Chapter 13

  MOGLAN LET HIS CLASSMATES gather around Professor Vash'tan. He strained to hear the professor at this distance, but preferred that to blocking the other students' view with his broad frame. It wasn't his fault he was the size of an ox, but it wasn't their problem, either.

  “The spirits,” their professor explained, “will guide you to nivali mushrooms that are hidden within the forest.”

  A young bronze dragon at the front of the crowd of students asked, “We're on top of a mountain. What forest?”

  The professor smiled at the question and shook his head. “We are shamans. Where we are is not as important as where the spirits take us.”

  A murmur passed through the crowd of students as the professor raised his hands. A coruscating shimmer of light washed over them. Moglan braced himself for the touch of the professor's power, but it rolled over him with no more force than a spring zephyr.

  And when it had passed, it took the school with it.

  The towering mountain peak that loomed over the north side of the school's barrier wall was gone. The wall, too, had vanished and taken the extraordinary buildings with it. Golarin cedars, thicker than Moglan was tall, speared toward a clear, blue sky. Their enormous shadows cast deep, gloomy bars across the forest floor.

  Blue lights zipped through the shadowy spaces between the enormous trees, squealing with a mixture of delight and curiosity. Though they were too tiny to make out the details of their fleeing forms, Moglan heard the spirits' wings buzz as they shot past him to vanish into the forest.

  “Welcome to the Shagaran Wood,” Professor Vash'tan said in a reverent voice. “The site of today's class. And challenge.”

  Moglan's heart raced at the thought of another challenge. His team had done very well in the Glory Chase, but that contest was far from over. The more Glory his lodge earned, the sooner they could move themselves into better quarters. That, and improved food, would lessen the symptoms of Sutari's crudlung. And that would make it easier for her to win challenges and earn more Glory. It was a cycle of victory that Moglan desperately wanted to get started as soon as possible.

  “Spirits are critical to mortalkind, both dragons and humans,” the instructor continued. “They serve as messengers and teachers. They carry within them the secrets of all the worlds. Their innocence protects their knowledge. And it is our job, in so many ways, to protect them.”

  Moglan pondered the professor's words. In his village, shamans used the spirits like farmers used reindeer. This was the first the young dragon had heard of protecting the flighty creatures rather than yoking them to a task.

  He found he liked that idea.

  “To serve as a faithful warden to your charges, you must first earn their trust,” the professor continued. “If they believe in your good will, they will come to you. And then, well, that's when the real magic begins.”

  The professor's words stirred something in Moglan. His core hummed with a vibrant energy that was similar to, but not the same as, pneuma. It was an awakening, but Moglan wasn't sure of what, exactly.

  The other students felt something, too. They looked up and around, their eyes wide as the forest whispered to their deepest selves.

  Moglan knew how life felt. But he'd never imagined just how much life there was to feel in the world. His homeland was a frozen tomb for ten months out of the year and a mud-caked mess for the other two. If it wasn't for reindeer, seals, and puffins, the shaman wouldn't have seen any wildlife growing up. But this forest teemed with living creatures. Bugs beneath his feet, the trees that surrounded him like living walls, birds soaring overhead, and so much more that he felt but couldn't quite identify.

  “Ah, now you see it,” the professor said. “Let's put that knowledge to work. Spread out. The forest is perfectly safe. Call a spirit to you. Ask it to lead you to a circle of mushrooms. The first student to return a mushroom to me gets twenty Glory, the second ten, and the third five. The rest of you will have to settle for your newfound knowledge.”

  As the student farthest from the professor, Moglan was the first to slip away from the crowd. His goal was to put as much distance between himself and the others as possible. He wanted peace and quiet to search for a spirit.

  Fortunately, that was easy enough to find. The widely spaced cedar trees sheltered smaller shrubs and undergrowth that hid even Moglan's frame if he crouched down. He found a space to settle into with no trouble and sat cross-legged amongst ferns and saplings that formed living walls around him.

  “All right,” he whispered, “come see me, spirits.”

  Moglan did what he thought his village's shamans would do. He closed his eyes and began the rhythmic breathing that was always the prelude to deeper meditation. The shaman let his thoughts drift away like balloons until his mind was an empty space ready for guests.

  Who didn't seem in any hurry to pay him a visit.

  Tho
ugh Moglan did his best to put out quiet, soothing vibrations, the spirits remained distant. He wondered if he was too big. His nieces and nephews had all avoided him when they were little, because they were afraid he'd step on them. Moglan hoped the spirits would know his intentions better than that, but it wouldn't be the first time his size had frightened away someone he wanted to be closer to.

  Like Lira. She'd looked at Moglan like he was some kind of freak. He'd tried to draw her out with jokes, but she hadn't taken the bait. And who could blame her? She was so slender, agile as a wisp of incense smoke on the breeze. She was probably afraid he'd stomp on her toes or knock her over. As big and clumsy as he was—

  A thin, frail cry caught Moglan's ears and dragged him out of his meditation. The sound was either very far away, or it had come from someone very small. Like a child.

  Or a spirit.

  The cry sounded pained, and Moglan wouldn't sit on his haunches if someone needed help. He rose from his meditation and pushed gently through the bushes that surrounded him. The big shaman didn't want to hurt anyone or anything, not even a plant.

  Free of his hidden copse, Moglan held his breath and listened. Birds cried overhead, and an angry squirrel chittered down from its high perch. The wind gusted through the trees, filling Moglan's nostrils with the scent of rich earth and mighty trees.

  There. A thin, plaintive cry from behind that tree, just ahead.

  Moglan's long legs ate up the distance in no time. He slipped around the tree, ready to lend a hand to whoever needed help. Maybe a spirit had gotten caught in a vine or was captured by a weasel.

  “What are you doing?” A brass dragon, nose and forehead gleaming with smooth, metallic scales, glared at Moglan. “This is my space. Leave me in peace.”

  Moglan didn't like the anger in the brass dragon's voice. He sounded like he wanted a fight, and the shaman wouldn't give him that. The brass dragon's actions had already disturbed the forest’s peaceful aura enough for one day. “I'm sorry,” he said, bowing and stepping back. “I heard a cry and thought someone needed help.”