Transcendence and Rebellion

by Michael G. Manning

  No, I’m fine! he insisted. Just ignore that. A moment later, a shadow passed over the trees and then a gale wind whipped his face as she descended through a gap in the forest. Chad’s eyes widened with surprise as he beheld his dragon for the first time in months. “Sweet mother of pigs!” he swore, shocked at her size. “What happened to you? You’re huge!”

  Priscilla arched her neck proudly. She wasn’t quite the size of Moira’s Cassandra, or Matthew’s Zephyr, but she was close. “I’ve grown,” she purred.

  Spitting on the ground, the hunter slapped his hip. “What the fuck have you been eatin’? Cows?”

  The dragon turned her head, looking off to one side. “Deer mostly,” she replied. “Not that it matters to you.”

  “Deer?” exclaimed Chad, his mouth agape. “More likely pigs! You could swallow a boar with that mouth!”

  “A few boars too,” she huffed, insulted. “And a bear, though I don’t recommend it.”

  “Ye look like a fat, scaly sow with wings,” observed the hunter. “Didn’t you do anything besides eat while you were here?”

  Priscilla uttered a low growl, and small flames flickered from the sides of her jaws. “I’m not fat, I’m big boned. This is all muscle—mostly. What did you expect me to do out here in the wilderness? There’s nothing to do but eat and sleep. I thought I’d die of boredom waiting for you to return.”

  “Don’t blame this one me,” Chad shot back. “You could’ve flown home. I never expected you to wait here for months.”

  She glared at him angrily. “Have you forgotten how the bond works? I’m practically a slave. Your last words were to wait here, and here I am! I couldn’t leave if I wanted to.”

  He stared back at her, aghast. “Now wait a minute,” he started, but his words tapered off. He did in fact remember something they had told him regarding her obeying his commands, but he hadn’t expected it to be such a literal thing. Shaking his head, he changed directions. “Never mind. From now on, don’t take anything I say as an order unless I say, ‘that’s an order.’ Got it?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Clarify that for me.”

  “Act like a regular person,” he said, exasperated. “If you don’t like somethin’ I say, tell me to fuck off, like anyone else would. Only treat it as an absolute if I make it a command.”

  The dragon sat back on her haunches, somewhat mollified by his words. “Very well then.”

  Chad nodded. “Good, let’s go then. Are you big enough to carry me now? We need to get back to Washbrook.”

  “Fuck off,” said Priscilla, relishing the words.

  The archer stared at her for a moment, surprised, then replied, “Alright, I guess I asked for that. Now show me how to climb on.”

  Priscilla snorted, sending small gouts of flame from her nostrils. “Go to hell,” she answered, but she lowered her chest and stretched out one forelimb to allow him to climb up.

  Chad grinned as he began scaling her side. “Yer enjoyin’ this, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve never been fond of your swearing,” said Priscilla, “but I find it’s growing on me now.”

  He settled in at the base of her neck, just forward of her wing joints. “It’s liberatin’, isn’t it?” Drawing a deep breath, he enjoyed the view, while simultaneously bracing himself inwardly. He hadn’t been in the air enough to be comfortable with the experience yet. Despite himself, he clutched at her neck as she began beating her wings to take off.

  “It is,” she answered, the wind tearing her words away as she said them. “You miserable sack of shit.”

  Holding on tightly, Chad agreed, “That’s the spirit. Keep it up and I might start to take a shine to you.”

  Priscilla smiled inwardly. “Don’t start acting too sweet or I’ll dump you in midair,” she warned jokingly. But inside she was remembering his previous words, ‘I don’t deserve friends.’ She hadn’t liked the sound of that, but she hoped that in time, she could convince him otherwise.

  Chapter 40

  Tyrion watched the ocean roll by endlessly beneath him as he rode the massive dormon toward the Wester Isle. Until recently it had been his dukedom, although in reality it was his creator who ruled it. The Gulf of Garulon was behind him now, and soon he expected the island to come into view.

  After finishing the arrows and releasing the Baron of Arundel, he had traveled for several miles before sending a small, spellwoven message to summon the beast he rode. Waiting for it to arrive had taken most of a day, during which time he had constructed his first teleportation circle and practiced with the bow.

  His first attempt to draw it had been a surprise. Apparently, Chad Grayson was a lot stronger than he looked, for Tyrion failed completely. He had been forced to use his power to increase his physical strength before he could test the weapon. Thankfully, there had been no one to see his first shots. He had only used a bow a few times in the past, and those experiences hadn’t prepared him for the difficulty of using a weapon with such a powerful draw weight. He consoled himself with he fact that he didn’t have to be very accurate. He quite literally only needed to hit the broad side of a barn, or to be more specific, a tree.

  After practicing for a while, he had grown bored—or at least he had thought himself bored—the flight itself was even worse. But he had a sense of purpose, and that in itself was worthwhile. Since his creation, he had sorely felt the lack. His creator had never lacked for one, but he had lost it over the millennia as he had survived, living as the enemy. “A traitor to himself,” murmured Tyrion.

  He had been ill at ease since his birth, first having to come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t even the person he believed himself to be, and then with the fact that his former self had adopted a new philosophy. But that was behind him now.

  The little girl had been right; he needed to ‘fix the story.’ Meeting Brigid twice had only driven that point home. She had said openly what the voice in the back of his mind had been telling him from the beginning.

  He still didn’t understand where she had come from. She wasn’t a She’Har or a krytek, he knew that for certain, so he didn’t think she wasn’t a copy like he was. Her sudden appearances and disappearances were even more mysterious. If he hadn’t known better, he might have believed it to be the work of some divine power.

  A faint, grey shadow on the horizon announced the presence of Wester Isle in the distance. His journey was almost done. Another hour passed before the dormon finally set down gently on the shore of the island, where two krytek waited on him.

  This was the tricky part, for he had returned without explanation, and one of the guardians said as much. “Why have you returned?”

  Sliding down from his mount, Tyrion tied the quiver of arrows to his belt and held up the bow for them to examine. “I have news for the Elders. The alliance has been betrayed. This weapon is proof.”

  “Explain,” ordered the krytek, a large catlike beast with terrifyingly large claws. Its companion, a shambling giant humanoid, remained mute.

  “I’ll explain it to the Elders directly. Stand aside,” commanded Tyrion, projecting authority.

  There was a pause as they considered his words. If they had even the slightest suspicions, the fight would begin now, for his creator was exceedingly careful about allowing anyone into close proximity.

  Fortunately, there weren’t many krytek left on the island. Tyrion the Elder had been using nearly his entire capacity to produce soldiers to sniff out ANSIS in the human kingdoms, leaving only a few to guard the grove itself. Even if it came to a fight, he was fairly certain of his success in any combat that might arise. The biggest danger was that an alarm might wake the Elders, and they could potentially disable him before he could get close enough to achieve his goal.

  The krytek stepped aside to allow him to pass, falling in behind him as he started the trek inland. Tyrion smiled quietly to himself. Things were proceeding much as he had hoped. His heart beat faster as they began the long walk, not from the mild exertion, but rat
her because his blood was rising. He felt more alive than at any other time since he had been brought forth in this accursed world.

  Another hour of walking brought him at last into the new grove, where Tyrion, Lyralliantha, and two new Elders grew. All of them would be dormant, of course. New trees weren’t able to speed up their thought processes to match that of a human for many years after they had taken root. Tyrion and Lyralliantha could, but since they weren’t expecting him they wouldn’t have taken the trouble of doing so.

  The krytek following him stopped at the edge of the grove, more than two hundred yards from the Elder Tyrion’s colossal trunk. He walked forward alone, stopping only when he was thirty yards from the base. The krytek would be expecting him to go all the way, since he would have to make physical contact before slipping into a trance to contact his creator. Hopefully they wouldn’t react to him stopping early.

  Setting one end of the bow stave on the ground, he took out the string and bent to slip one loop over the bottom string nock. Then he straightened and put one leg in front of it, using his body to bend the limbs until the other loop could reach the top nock. With the bow strung, he held it in front of himself, anticipating what he was about to do.

  What is that? came a powerful mental voice, causing him to flinch.

  Evidence of the humans’ betrayal, answered Tyrion, fighting to keep his thoughts calm. You surprised me. I thought I would have to awaken you.

  Tyrion the Elder responded, The krytek awoke me as soon as you were spotted, since you were unexpected. What is this betrayal you speak of?

  I’ll show you, he told the Elder, then he brought out an arrow and nocked it, angling his body as though he would shoot at an outcropping of rock at the far edge of the grove.

  Explain first, ordered the Elder Tyrion, but it was too late. Enhancing his strength, Tyrion the Younger pulled the bow into a full draw, then turned at the last moment and loosed the arrow directly at the base of his creator’s trunk. The arrow flew toward its target, and though the Elder She’Har created a powerful shield the arrow tore through it, hardly slowing.

  His aim was slightly off, but the metal point still found a home in the thick bark before releasing a powerful explosion. The mental scream that resulted was almost as jarring as the concussive force that knocked him off his feet.

  He was blown backward, then rolled, the taste of iron filling his mouth—the jarring had caused him to inadvertently bite his tongue. A razor-sharp lash of power whipped by over his head, coming from one of the krytek, who were only now trying to stop him. Coming back up to his feet, he grinned, the blood in his mouth staining his teeth red. He was alive, more alive than he had felt since his creation. “Yes!” he screamed, jubilant as the adrenaline sent his heart rate soaring.

  He dodged another attack as he left his bow on the ground and activated his tattoos. Then he charged toward the krytek. They seemed to be slightly off balance as Tyrion the Elder’s scream of pain continued, filling their minds, but Tyrion the avenger found the sound of mental anguish to be almost comforting as he methodically cut them apart with brutal efficiency.

  They were too few, and he was too strong. A minute later he returned to where he had left the bow. It was time to finish the job. He examined the result of his first attack. A massive divot of shattered wood fully seven feet across marred the side of the Father-tree’s trunk. It was not enough to put the great tree in danger of falling, but it was a colossal wound nonetheless. One or two more would be enough to seal its fate. But first he needed to deal with the Mother-tree.

  Lyralliantha was waking, and her strength would be a threat to him. Tyrion the Elder was still in shock, so he turned and aimed his next arrow at the source of his life. This time he braced himself to prevent being thrown back by the shockwave, and he watched the explosion with delighted fascination.

  No! came Tyrion the Elder’s horrified mental call as Lyralliantha’s smaller trunk collapsed. Being smaller, her girth wasn’t sufficient to withstand the damage and her graceful limbs seemed to flow through the air with exquisite slowness as she fell.

  He sensed power gathering and managed to dodge before a powerful hammer of force slammed into the ground where he had been standing. The Father-tree was recovering from his pain. Running sideways, Tyrion the Younger dropped several arrows as he tried to nock another, but he wasn’t too worried. He was enjoying himself, and he only needed one to win the fight.

  A sweeping blade of deadly force cut across the ground. It was far too large to dodge and too powerful to block, so instead he channeled power into his muscles and leapt skyward. Drawing the bow as he ascended, he did his best to aim and loosed as he reached the apex of his jump. If he missed, he might not survive long enough to try again.

  The Father-tree sent a focused lance of power at him while he was in the air, and he had no way to avoid it. Though it wasn’t a spellweave, its power was so great that it overwhelmed his shield tattoos and shattered his defense. The world went black as the feedback slammed into his mind, leaving him nearly senseless as he fell. A single roaring sound punctuated the numbness of his awareness as he crashed down: the explosion of his arrow, though whether it had hit its mark he didn’t know.

  Something snapped in his shoulder when he came down, but he ignored the pain and kept rolling after landing. Temporarily blind, both physically and magically, he had no way of knowing if more attacks were coming. His body felt something heavy landing nearby, sensing it in a visceral manner as the deep vibrations thrummed through his chest.

  A few seconds later his eyes cleared, and he saw that his arrow had landed, but not in the best place. It had struck the Father-tree some ten feet higher, carving out another massive hole in the trunk but not in a place that would bring it down. The bow was nowhere to be seen, having fallen somewhere out of sight. His quiver was empty, but several of the arrows were scattered around between him and Tyrion the Elder. Running forward, he narrowly avoided yet another attack that slammed into the ground behind him, throwing dirt into the air. Worse, he hadn’t sensed it; his magesight was still nonfunctional. Only luck had spared him.

  His first instinct was to use his power to snatch up one of the arrows and propel it directly, but even the thought sent a sharp pain rocketing through his skull. Changing the direction of his run again, he dodged yet another attack, but he knew his death was close. The realization thrilled him. Death would be almost as welcome as victory.

  Stopping suddenly, he snatched up one of the fallen arrows. The only option left to him was to drive it home by hand. That meant he wouldn’t live to complete the rest of his plan, but he was at peace with that.

  Tyrion the Elder must have sensed his suicidal desperation, for before he could charge again, a massive battering ram of force struck the earth in front of him. Only the delay caused by his injuries had prevented him from being crushed beneath it. A loud crack followed the attack, and his eyes went wide as he saw the Father-tree’s trunk snap. In his weakened state, Tyrion the Elder had fallen victim to his own power. The force the Elder had put into his last attack had overstrained the damaged timber supporting his weight.

  Tyrion the Younger grinned as he watched the great tree fall. Laughing quietly to himself, he staggered about, stumbling across the torn earth as he searched for his lost bow. Gradually his magesight returned, though his headache seemed to grow greater as his ability returned.

  He found the bow in a clump of bushes, and with that in hand he began collecting the arrows that had fallen from his quiver during the fight. Apparently, archers weren’t meant to be moving the way he had. The execution of his plan had been almost comical. Success had only come because his attack had been unanticipated.

  There were more than enough arrows to finish the saplings, but when he attempted to draw the warbow he found his strength to be insufficient. The bow might as well be made of iron, for it stubbornly refused to bend, nor was he able to use his power to grant himself the strength necessary. With a sigh he sat down, leanin
g his back against the fallen trunk of his creator.

  Patience, he told himself. He had already slain the few krytek on the island, and the still immature Elders of the new Illeniel Grove wouldn’t be able to waken and threaten him for years yet. He was safe. He only needed to recover his strength, heal his wounds, and finish his work once he was ready.

  There was no need to rush. Resting his eyes, he searched inwardly, examining his collarbone. It had cracked close to his right shoulder but hadn’t broken completely. Once he could use his power again, he would restore it. For now, a nap was the order of the day.

  Opening the pouch at his waist, he activated the spellweave built into it and withdrew one of the calmuth stored within. The fruit of the Mother-tree would nourish him better than almost any other food, as well as keeping the seed-mind in his skull dormant. Once he was feeling better, he would have to search the area where Lyralliantha had fallen and see how many more pieces of the vital fruit he could find. With her death, he was on limited time. Eventually he would run out and be forced to kill himself to prevent becoming like his creator.

  He had enough to last a few more weeks if he stretched his supply, eating only one piece every five or six days, and he only needed enough to last until he had finished fixing his ‘story.’ First the saplings, and then Lynaralla—then he would be done. The She’Har would be no more.

  Tyrion drifted into a dream, one where was Brigid was looking down on him. “You’ve done well, Father,” she told him.

  Chapter 41

  Matthew and Myra stood together, their dragons Zephyr and Cassandra behind them as they looked out over the mile-wide field that stood in front of Castle Cameron. Their hands were linked, a matter of practicality to ease the transfer of power and information between them. A stranger might have thought them the closest of siblings, something that had been both true and false when Moira was alive.