The Realms of the Dragons 2 a-10

by Коллектив Авторов

  The shout jarred Alin, who realized he had been watching open-mouthed as the dragon attacked, unable to respond as quickly as his fellows. His first order of business was to shut his gaping mouth, then he dived behind the priest.

  At that instant, the creature exhaled, and a vast spray of corrosive green gas fell upon them. Alin screamed, for he saw choking, burning death coming for him, but the gas didn't sear his flesh. Instead, it billowed and raged around them, pushed aside by a shimmering golden shield surrounding Delkin's holy symbol.

  "Ha ha!" came Ryla's shout.

  The dragonslayer flew out of a nearby tree and drove her katana deep into the crown of the dragon's head. The wyrm shook and roared, but Ryla held on, wrapped her legs around its forehead, and pulled the katana out, only to plunge the blade into it again and again.

  Thard came at the dragon's body again, swinging and hewing its green scales with his axe. He again went for the wound he'd made on the beast's leg, and more blood flew. The dragon, distracted with Ryla, made only half-hearted attempts to pull its injured claw away. Meanwhile, it pawed at its head with the other talons.

  Alin felt a surge of triumph and leaped to his feet. Harp in hand, he plucked a discordant note and sent a wave of disharmony toward the dragon. The sound struck the creature and it recoiled for the barest of instants, keeping it from knocking Ryla from its head.

  The dragonslayer screeched again and sliced her katana into one of the wyrm's eyes. The dragon roared and shook its head frantically, throwing her off. She flew, limbs spiraling wildly, over fifty feet through the air. She landed on her face a dozen paces away from Alin.

  "Ryla!" Alin shouted, running from the circle of the priest's power.

  "Alin, no!" snapped Delkin, dropping his shield as his concentration broke.

  Thard may have been fast, but he was not fast enough to dodge the dragon's bulk as the creature lunged into their midst, barreling the hulking barbarian aside like a discarded child's toy. As Alin leaped at Ryla to cover her body with his own, a sweeping tail struck him in the midsection, launching him through the air. As he flew, he heard the screams of the other Moor Runners.

  Then he slammed against a great redwood, and he heard nothing at all.

  When he woke, a soft hand was touching his forehead. At first, he tried to kiss it, but then he realized it was not Ryla but Inri who was waking him.

  "We were all knocked cold, but Ryla killed the beast," Inri said before he could ask.

  He sat up at once, a hundred questions on his lips, but Inri cut them off with a silent command to follow as she started away. The bard stood, finding his body aching but whole, and made his way after the sorceress. She mercifully slowed her walk to allow him to follow.

  When they arrived back at the spot where the dragon had come upon them, Alin was chilled to the bone. Thard peeked from beneath a bloody bandage across his forehead and leaned heavily on a long shovel. Arms crossed, Ryla seemed unhurt-causing Alin's heart to leap-but wore a grim frown. Even Inri had not escaped unscathed; she wore one arm in an improvised sling.

  It was the fifth member of their party who caused Alin's breath to catch.

  Delkin lay half buried in a shallow grave. His face, burned black by the dragon's breath, was unrecognizable-Alin could only tell it was him by the honey-gold curls.

  With a strangled cry, Alin dropped to his knees by the priest's grave.

  "Don't touch him!" Inri shouted. "The acid will burn your flesh as well."

  Alin might have ignored her and reached for his friend, but Thard caught him in time. As it was, he merely wept into the barbarian's strong arm.

  Ryla gave an exasperated sigh. "I told you we didn't have time to bury him," she said. "The night is coming, and when the dragon wakes-"

  "For pity's sake," Inri begged. "Just a few more minutes."

  The dragonslayer rolled her eyes but shrugged in acceptance.

  Alin stood and walked toward her. He looked at Ryla with a shocked expression, and she flashed him a seductive smile. When he gave no response, she turned and pointed.

  Just up the path, a bloody ruin decorated the small clearing: the remains of the green dragon. Dozens of tree trunks lay snapped and splintered on the ground. Some trees even lay pulled up by the roots. Blood and bits of dragonflesh spattered the trees that were left standing a sickly green color. The creature looked as though it had been torn in half lengthwise, and huge gashes had torn its thick carapace to ribbons. Many of its exposed bones were splintered, as though some great force had thrown it against those broken trees.

  Alin's thoughts leaped to Ryla-he had known the dragonslayer was strong, but how strong was she?

  The bard looked back, a question in his eyes, and Ryla smiled.

  "And I know where its lair is," she said.

  The dragon's lair was huge, a yawning cave bored in the side of a small volcano. Two rotting green dragon carcasses lay outside, grim watchguards that delivered a dark message to any brave or foolish enough to enter. The bodies were fresh, and assailed the cave with a foul odor.

  "At least he won't smell us," Alin observed to no one in particular.

  Ryla smiled and waved the party of four forward. Thard, axe in hand, took point, with the dragonslayer and Inri following close behind. Alin, rapier drawn, took up the rear, but he didn't know how effective he would be in an attack. His sword seemed woefully inadequate compared to the others' weapons.

  Entering the place was a shock, for the cave's darkness was much warmer than the light outside. The adventurers could see nothing in the blackness, and Alin recast his light spell. The light extended only a few feet in every direction, and the darkness pressed upon it like a living, breathing foe. Unrecognizable bones and bits of arms and armor littered the wide tunnel. The occasional snap of bones or metallic rustle of armor was the only sound. No rats, spiders, or other vermin scuttled by their feet. Alin suspected that few living creatures would survive long in the lair of a dragon.

  They didn't have far to go through the oppressive blackness to reach Tharas'kalagram's inner lair. Less than a hundred paces in, they came upon a glowing cavern. Peering over the lip of a higher ledge, the four could see a gargantuan serpentine beast slumbering amidst piles of gold and gems. The horde was huge, a treasure out of a bard's epic tale. Gold and silver sparkled and dazzled, threatening to blind any who looked upon it at the wrong angle. The dragon that slept upon it was even larger, at least double the size of the green wyrm that had attacked them in the forest.

  "Good, he's asleep," Ryla whispered. "Let's go."

  With that, she disappeared into the forest of stalagmites.

  "Ryla?" Alin asked. "Ryla!"

  He slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his shout when they all heard a rumbling sound from below. They didn't have time to look over the edge, though, as another earth-shaking snore came up from the lair.

  "She gives us no strategy?" Inri asked. "What…?"

  Ryla reappeared from behind the stalagmites, an irritated expression on her face.

  "All right, all right," she growled. "Thard, you strike from hiding, then run-that rocky outcropping there." She pointed down in the dragon's lair toward a smaller tunnel and fallen boulders that would provide cover. "Inri, you stay up here and hit the beast with all the magic you can muster. Alin, help Inri."

  "What about you?" the bard asked.

  The end of Ryla's mouth turned up in a smile. "Once Thard hits him, Kalag-the dragon-will awaken. When it attacks him, that's when I go on top of it and take out its eyes. When the dragon is blinded, we have the advantage."

  Thard and Alin nodded. Only Inri looked unconvinced.

  "Magical protections?" she prompted, as though reminding a youngster.

  A flicker of something passed over Ryla's face, but it was gone before Alin could read her features.

  "If you must," she said in apparent exasperation.

  "Thard will need the most," Inri said.

  She began casting spells upon the barbarian,
keeping her voice low. Alin did the same, ransacking his brain for spells he knew that might help the man. Finally, he settled on one of his most powerful charms-a spell of invisibility.

  Inri nodded as he cast it, as though grateful.

  "Take this spell too," said the sorceress. "It will allow us to converse without speaking."

  She chanted a few arcane syllables under her breath, and a silvery radiance fell over them. Ryla flinched but grudgingly remained in the aura of radiance.

  Gods! Alin said through the bond.

  Yes, came Inri's voice in his mind. Try not to fill our minds with meaningless exclamations, though.

  Instead of shutting his mouth, Alin emptied his mind, suitably chastened.

  When they were finished, Thard picked Inri up so they could share a kiss. Cheeks flaming from embarrassment at the passionate feelings he felt through the mental bond, Alin stole a longing glance at Ryla, but the dragonslayer looked preoccupied with planning. He could also feel no thoughts coming from her-perhaps she knew how to hide her thoughts from others, even with Inri's spell. He turned away before she could read his thoughts.

  The Moor Runners took up their places, Thard heading down closer and Ryla disappearing up the wall. Excitement shivered down Alin's spine as he waited. Thard looked like a hero of legend, picking his way between stalagmites as effortlessly as though they were tree trunks. All the while, he kept his eyes fixed upon the dragon's slumbering form and his hand on his axe handle.

  Is it asleep? Inri asked Thard.

  They could feel the barbarian's mental confirmation.

  Alin clutched his rapier hilt firmly but dared not draw it, for he feared the sound it would make. Besides, he reminded himself, such a tiny blade would be nigh useless against the colossal dragon that awaited them. He called to mind his bardic tricks and the magic that would summon them, but even there he could do little but conjure dancing lights or perform feats of legerdemain. Once again, he felt useless in a fight, but he didn't feel out of place. Rather, he was there to bear witness to the epic battle sure to unfold-he would write it into The Ballad of Dragonclaw and-

  Then they heard Thard's confusion in their minds. Wait, this is not the beast that attacked the caravan.

  What? asked Alin. He could feel Inri's confusion and suspicion as well.

  The scars are different.

  At that moment, the dragon's eyes opened and its gaze fixed on Thard. Crimson, fiery death filled its mouth and its eyes were burning with terrible laughter.

  Tempus!" the barbarian shouted, throwing himself forward.

  Through the mental link, they felt more than saw his scorching doom. "No!" Inri screamed. "Ryla!" She began a spell of escape.

  But then the words stopped as a blade protruded through her chest and blood leaked from her lips. Ryla slid the katana out and spun the elf around. Inri blinked, too stunned even to gasp in pain, and the dragonslayer took her head off with a backhand slash. The headless body tumbled over the ledge, and down into the dragon's lair.

  Alin looked up at Ryla with absolute confusion. The dragonslayer smiled and planted a kiss on his forehead. Then she made her way down toward the dragon, stripping off her armor piece by piece as she went. When she reached the bottom, she stood before the beast with only the silver ring on her right hand.

  The dragon growled and pulled back, as though to pounce, but Ryla laughed. Laughed!

  "Oh, come now Kalag," she said. "Surely you recognize me."

  "You broke the rules, Rylatar'ralah'tyma," the dragon growled.

  Alin's limbs froze at the mighty sound, but his hair rose for an entirely different reason. The name-Rylatar-he had heard that name before.

  The dragon continued, "You're not allowed to change. The rules-"

  "Are our rules, anyway," she countered with a dismissive wave. Then Ryla ran her hands down her arms and over her beautiful, bare skin. "Really Kalag, you'd rather I were horribly scarred by some lowly green's acid gas? My beautiful body…"

  The wyrm scoffed. "You're hideous as it is," he hissed.

  A lovely pout appeared on Ryla's lips. "You don't like the ring?" she asked, holding it up as though modeling it for him. The silver sparkled in the firelight.

  The dragon's lips pulled back in a sneer.

  Ryla shrugged and said, "Fine."

  She slipped the ring off her finger, and the bard watched with a mixture of horror and wonder as her body rippled and grew, her skin sloughing off and revealing crimson scales and deep indigo wings. Her head lengthened and her sparkling white teeth became fangs. Within a breath, Ryla had grown to the size and shape of the other dragon. Her red scales sparkled in the firelight.

  "Eyes like fire, atop a golden spire," Alin found himself singing under his breath.

  His mind seemed far away. As it stretched and snapped, he was vaguely aware that he had lost something.

  "A thought occurred to me, about the age," Ryla growled. "We should assume elf bodies in the future… just so we don't seem too young."

  "'We'?" Kalag asked.

  "Oh, yes," Ryla said. Her talon held out the tiny silver ring to the other dragon. "I'm done being the hunter-time for me to be the hunted. I found you, now it's your turn to hunt me."

  The dragon looked at the ring and asked, "Why do you do it?The adventurers? Why?"

  Ryla rumbled, as though with mirth. "I enjoy the deception," she said. "And I brought you meat. What are you complaining about?'

  "I wonder, sometimes, if you're not fond of them," Kalag growled.

  "I'm not fond of anything," retorted Ryla.

  "Sharp death in hand, whose passion knows no name…" Alin sang as he felt reason fleeing.

  He fought the desire to babble incoherently, but it wasn't for fear that the dragons would hear him, but only because it would disrupt his song.

  "Then you won't object when I eat the little bard who's hiding up there," reasoned Kalag.

  "Actually, I would object," Ryla replied.

  Kalag shot her a look that could only be a dragon's form of jealousy, and Alin would have shivered if he had maintained his sanity. Instead, he chuckled.

  Ryla caught the glare and said, "I propose a new hunting game: one where we're the hunters, he's the hunted, and he gets a head start."

  Alin's ears pricked and shivers of terror shot down his spine. His shattered mind hardly registered the threat, though. It was too busy putting words to his music, music twisted by madness.

  "Mercy? From you, Rylatar?" Kalag smiled. "Very well then. How much of a head start?"

  "Oh, five years will suffice," she said. "The lives of dragons are long-it will be but a summer's day to us, but a lifetime of fear for him."

  "This bard must be special, to warrant such treatment."

  At the notion, Ryla scoffed-an action that sent flame lancing out to melt a stalagmite.

  "If you must know," she said. "It's because he's composing a very nice ballad. This way, he'll have time to finish it."

  "Ruling her land, queen of the hunting game!" the maddened bard sang with a smile as he climbed to his feet.

  Then came the most hideous sound he had ever heard- and would always hear as he ran-booming and thunderous, but dark and mocking:

  A dragon's laugh.

  THE ROAD HOME

  Harley Stroh

  21 Marpenoth, the Year of the Shield (1367 DR)

  "Worthless band o' cutthroats, scoundrels, and knaves," the dwarf spat, climbing atop a scarred oak table. His hard eyes searched the war weary faces of the crowded inn. "Who among you slakes his thirst with blood and fills his belly with battle? Who in all of Moradin's creation has so little fear of death?"

  "The Company of the Chimera!" the dwarf bellowed, answering his own query with a triumphant roar. "The finest company of rogues ever to cast dice with the Gods of War!"

  The common room erupted with cheers that shook sawdust from the ceiling. Flagons were raised high and naked blades flashed in the smokey light of fat-lamps. For two tendays the Com
pany of the Chimera had occupied the Inn of the Seven Silvers, cowing the locals until none dared to pass the inn's double doors. Hired to guard over the Sembian waystation and twenty miles of the Dawnpost highway, the mercenaries had done more damage and caused more terror than any brigands in memory.

  "Join us, dragon-tribe girl!" Tombli stabbed a blistered finger toward the long-limbed barbarian sitting by an open window. "Or are the women of the North as icy as their winters?"

  Clad in tanned pelts and an oiled sealskin cape, Saskia was immune to the frosty draft that had driven her companions close to the crackling hearth. With pale white skin and crystal blue eyes, she might have been cunningly carved from ice herself, were it not for the raven black hair that spilled to the middle of her back. A notched sword rested against her shoulder, the barbarian's only companion. She surveyed the company, their noses red with drink, their bellies soft and full.

  "Keep your toasts," Saskia said. "I'll take my drink with warriors."

  "If the copper-counting lords of Sembia choose to pay our band to watch over their packs of ratty bondsmen, then I say let them pay!" Tombli dropped from the table. "We've earned our season's keep and not a Chimera has fallen."

  "Your peace is killing us, little man."

  Tombli loosened the jeweled dagger at his waist, the symbol of his devotion to Abbathor, the dwarf god of greed and avarice.

  "As captain of the company, I command you to drink."

  The barbarian wrapped her arms around her bastard sword and pulled the hood of her cape down over her eyes.

  Snarling, Tombli stole a brand from the crackling fire. He kicked the door of the inn open wide and cast the log into the darkness. It spun to a flaming halt in the center of the road.

  Tombli slammed a flagon onto the table before Saskia and challenged, "Drink or fight."

  A chill breeze cut through the room and Saskia's eyes flashed from beneath the trim of her hood. The inn erupted with cheers and catcalls when the barbarian pushed the flagon away.

  Saskia rose slowly and stretched like a cat, her lips pulled into a grim smile. Wagers were made and grimy coins changed hands. By the time the barbarian had shed her cloak and tied her sleeves up, every warrior sober enough to walk had stumbled outside. Laying her sword to the side, Saskia strode out into the street to drunken shouts and wild applause.