Dragon Mage

by ML Spencer

  “Nah. Nothing up there belongs to anyone, at least no one alive.”

  “I don’t know,” Markus frowned. “It sounds like grave robbery.”

  “There aren’t any graves up there,” said Iver.

  “Still.”

  “Well, I, for one, am taking a sack. You don’t have to.” With that, Corley walked across the room and pulled a soft felt bag out of his chest.

  Markus shrugged. “Fair enough.”

  Eugan grunted something, then went to fetch a sack of his own. In the end, it was only Corley, Iver, and Eugan that ended up with sacks, while the rest of them decided that looting the eyries would be pushing their luck and morals too far. They waited a bit longer, to make sure that most of Skyhome’s inhabitants would be in bed. Then Kye picked up a candlestick and they all followed Corley out into the dark hallway and took the stairs upward toward the Heights, seeing by the light of Kye’s tiny flame. When they reached the level above Esmir’s eyrie, they exited the stairwell and turned down a long, black corridor.

  “Where are we?” asked Kye.

  “These levels were where the Greater Dragons were kept,” explained Corley. “I figured we’d start on this one so we wouldn’t have to take the risk of running into Esmir.”

  “What if we run into someone else?” asked Aram, rubbing his scored neck.

  “We won’t. He’s the only one left who lives up here.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Markus.

  “Because. He’s the only one still alive who ever had a Greater Dragon.”

  “Where’s Esmir’s dragon now?” Aram asked.

  The boys stopped and stood staring at each other for a long moment before turning to look at Calise, who spread her hands. When no one came up with an answer to that question, Corley just shrugged and continued on with their adventure. He led them down the hallway by the light of Kye’s taper, eventually stopping at one of the doorways. He waited until the others were gathered around then opened the door, which shrieked ghoulishly as it swung inward.

  Even though there was only darkness all around them, Aram could tell they were entering a large, open space. The air turned cool, and there was a slight breeze coming from what could only be the mouth of an eyrie. He could imagine them standing in the middle of Esmir’s quarters, or at least another cavern just like it.

  “It’s too dark to see anything,” complained Calise. “How are we supposed to know what’s here?”

  “With this.” From out of his burlap sack, Iver produced a cloth-wrapped torch.

  There was a general muttering of appreciation as Iver ignited the torch off the flame of Kye’s taper. As the torch blazed eagerly to life, its flames cast back the shadows, revealing an entire cavern before them, the light of the torch casting ghostly shadows across the walls.

  “Whoa,” several of the apprentices muttered at once.

  Before them, in the middle of the chamber, was the stone carving of a dragon, curled around itself the way a snake wraps into a coil. It was massive, far larger than any dragon in the eyries below. Aram thought it was the size of the void dragon that had carried him, but it was hard to tell. It was a haunting sight, made even more so by the fact that it looked so incredibly real.

  “Maybe we should go,” whispered Kye, backing away.

  “Why?” asked Aram, staring up at the dragon statue in awe.

  “Because this is a grave, and we shouldn’t be here,” whispered Calise.

  “A grave?” Markus peered at her then turned to stare at the stone dragon in the center of the cavern. “Are you telling me that’s real?”

  Aram’s jaw went slack as he realized that’s why the stone dragon contained so much detail. At one time, it had been a living dragon, but now it was petrified. Driven by a compulsion he couldn’t ignore, Aram crept forward until he stood beside the dragon’s long neck. Reaching out, he trailed his hand over the smooth texture of its scales. A great sadness filled him. This had once been a living monarch of the skies, now immortalized in cold stone.

  “That’s what happens when dragons die,” whispered Kye. “They turn to stone.”

  “It’s called a dragon cairn,” said Calise, coming to stand beside Aram, setting her hand next to his upon the stone. “There’s two bodies here: the dragon and its rider.” In answer to Aram’s confused look, she explained, “If a rider dies before their dragon, the dragon carries their body off somewhere, usually to a beautiful place, and wraps around them just like this. Then the dragon dies and becomes stone. That way, they’re together forever. I’m not sure why this one stayed here. Maybe it didn’t have the strength to fly elsewhere.”

  Aram asked in a trembling voice, “Why do dragons turn to stone?”

  “Because that’s what happens. When they’re alive, it’s like the fire inside them warms their flesh and keeps them living. But when they die, that fire goes out, and their flesh cools to stone.”

  Aram took a step back and gazed at the sad monument that confronted them: the last embrace of two souls united in death. He couldn’t imagine a love so pure and so enduring, or what it would be like to be loved like that by another.

  Suddenly, he felt an intense urge to leave. He didn’t want to be here any longer because he knew he shouldn’t be here. Cast before them in stone was a last, tender moment, and it should remain private. Their very presence here was an intrusion that disturbed the austerity of this place.

  Turning, he hastened toward the door and retreated back out into the shadowed corridor. Unable to find his way in the dark, he stopped and leaned back against the wall as he waited for the others. He felt overwhelmed and ashamed, and he’d had enough of adventures.

  When the others came out, he looked at Corley and demanded, “Did you know we were going to find this?”

  “No.” Corley looked intensely regretful. “I mean, it makes sense that some of them might have died here, but I just didn’t think…”

  “Let’s just go find another eyrie,” said Iver. “One that’s unoccupied.”

  “No.” Aram locked his gaze with Iver’s and firmly shook his head. “We’re going back.”

  “What?” Iver gasped. “Don’t tell me that scared you?”

  “It didn’t scare me.” Aram looked from Iver to Corley, then turned to take in the others. How could they not understand? “This isn’t right. What we’re doing isn’t right. We’re not supposed to be here. This is their place. Not our place. We need to go.”

  “Aram’s right,” said Markus, licking his lips.

  “You always agree with him,” snapped Iver. “Look—”

  “I always agree with him because he’s always right.” Markus’s eyes flared angrily. For a moment, he looked like he was getting ready to punch Iver.

  “We’re leaving,” said Calise, taking Aram’s arm. “The rest of you can stay here if you want, but you shouldn’t.”

  Crossing the hallway, Aram drew the eyrie’s door shut, closing it quietly so as not to disturb the repose of its occupants. He shot Iver one last, hard, glare, then let Calise pull him away. The rest of the apprentices followed them back toward the stairs, leaving only Iver and Eugan behind, standing in the hallway with their sacks. Aram felt bad, worried that he might have lost two friends. But then he thought of what Markus would say if he asked: if that’s the way Iver and Eugan were going to act, then they didn’t deserve his friendship.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Sergan watched Lazair slide from the back of her dragon, drawing the Baelsword from its sheath. With the grace of a panther, she stalked across the coarse moorland grasses toward him, nodding a greeting. Today she wore a white gown that was divided for riding, slit up the front and back so high that it came damn close to compromising her virtues—if she had any.

  Her gaze traveled to the woman who lay in front of him on the ground, weeping and quivering from terrible burns that covered half her body, inflicted by his sorcery. Or perhaps she whimpered because of the imminent threat to her dragon, which a single lance of li
ghtning had knocked out of the sky.

  Sergan looked on in fascination as Lazair crouched next to the woman and stared down at her, as though enjoying her anguish. She looked almost disappointed when the woman didn’t acknowledge her presence. It wasn’t an act of defiance—which Sergan would have applauded—but, rather, his victim was in too much pain to notice much of anything.

  Rising, Lazair glanced at him. Then she raised the Baelsword and pressed it down against the woman’s chest, not stabbing her with it, but just poking a bit. She leaned her weight against the sword, slowly at first, making the woman beneath her wail and thrash piteously. Sergan stopped the thrashing, binding the woman’s limbs with invisible ropes of aether. He watched Lazair’s face as the sorceress pressed more of her weight down against the hilt, at last succeeding in piercing the woman’s skin, grinding it slowly deeper into her chest.

  At some point, the screams stopped. The woman’s dragon did not react to the death of its beloved, for Sergan’s lightning had stunned it cold.

  Rising, Lazair motioned one of her officers forward, bidding him kneel beside the great beast. Apparently, this creature was meant for him.

  Looking around the battlefield, Sergan realized how one-sided their victory had been. Nine out of every ten corpses he counted belonged to the defenders. Their own forces had suffered almost no casualties.

  He left Lazair and strolled toward the twisted body of one of the natives he had personally killed. It was a man with the gold-brown skin of the Auld, his turquoise eyes fixed upward in the infinite stare of death. He had fought bravely, protecting his family. Their corpses all smoldered in the blackened ash behind him that had once been their hut.

  Obriem came forward to stand at his side. Sergan could feel the weight of his judgment. He was too young to understand.

  “Is there any reason why you’re being unnecessarily ruthless?” Obriem asked, not even attempting to hide the disgust in his voice. “I mean, this was bad, even for you.”

  Sergan shrugged, prodding the corpse of the father with the toe of his boot. “The logic is simple. If we threaten what they love, they will have no choice but to defend it.”

  Obriem dragged his blade across the thatch that covered the ground, wiping blood from his sword. “And what if they send more dragons?”

  “Then I’ll enjoy knocking them out of the sky.”

  Lazair walked over and grasped the dead father by his hair, tilting his head to stare into his eyes. The lines of horror etched into his face made her smile.

  “I see you’re enjoying yourself,” she said.

  “You do provide rousing entertainment.” Sergan inclined his head, applauding her cruelty.

  He glanced up at the sky, scanning for anything on wing. But the sky was clear and cloudless, absent any sign of dragons. After the violence of the battle, the only things moving overhead were the ravens. Those had arrived before the fighting had even begun, drawn to the sight of impending carnage as though they had some type of prescience for bloodshed.

  “Don’t worry. They’ll send the boy,” Lazair said, following his gaze. “Probably when we threaten the caverns.”

  They had been making good progress since leaving the Eldenwood. Another two- or three-days’ march across the stony moorland would see them at the Caverns of Eld Elan, which was their objective. Like the Great Tree, there was an Anchor there, though Sergan was having a hard time visualizing it.

  “What exactly is this Anchor?” he asked. “It’s not a tree, obviously.”

  Lazair glanced behind her, to where her men were dragging the bodies into piles to be burned. “The caverns themselves are the Anchor. Deep within their heart is a Wellspring called the Tears of the Mother. If consumed by the dying, it will cause the afflicted to fall into a deep, blissful sleep. Sometimes, they awaken with their wounds healed. If not, they die painlessly, knowing only a great sense of peace.”

  “Hmph.” Sergan was still hoping to find a Wellspring with essence concentrated enough to distill. “Sounds like I should try bottling some of those tears.”

  Lazair smiled and let out a soft chortle. “Unlike other Wellsprings, the Tears don’t keep well. Otherwise, there would be vats of it everywhere. The Caverns of Eld Elan are a place of pilgrimage. The dying need to be brought to the water, not the other way around.”

  A place of pilgrimage. That did indeed sound promising, for it sounded like a place very sacred to the people of this land. Sacred enough to fight for. Perhaps even sacred enough to risk the life of a half-trained and would-be Champion to defend.

  Sergan hoped so.

  He wanted to get ahold of Aram Raythe before Lazair did.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Vandra stroked the dark scales of Ragath’s horned head. They perched upon a rocky crest that looked down upon the dark, pockmarked moorland of the Altier Highlands. The army of Araghar was on the move, marching south across the rugged heath known as the Bloodmire. It was dark, but the campfires of the enemy were visible and easily quantifiable. Vandra figured there were at least twenty thousand, which was more than problematic. The enemy had been receiving reinforcements ever since capturing the Eldenwood, and their ranks had swelled considerably. Apparently, defeating one Anchor was not enough. They were marching in the direction of the Caverns of Eld Elan, where the Altier Anchor was located.

  Their objective bothered Vandra more than she wished to acknowledge, for it was a pattern that was truly terrifying. One by one, the Anchors of Heaven were falling beneath Araghar’s might, and the Veil was eroding. She knew what would happen when the last Anchor fell: the two worlds would align, merging into one. Such a collision would cause devastation of a magnitude not seen since the Sundering, uniting the power of the Archons and sealing the fate of all things magical.

  No. The armies of Araghar must be stopped here, on this plain, before their cancer could spread further. It would be a hard fight, though not impossible. After all, they had dragons that could rain fire from the sky, and their Gifted warriors were worth any ten of the enemy’s soldiers. She just hoped the enemy could be stopped before they reached the town of Inuine, which stood between the army of Araghar and the caverns.

  Vandra heard the crunching noise of footsteps coming up behind her and turned to see one of her captains, Garam Kade, approaching, his plumed helm tucked in the crook of his arm. Kade’s pox-cratered face was grim, his lips stretched thin.

  “It doesn’t look good.” He spat on the ground. “They’re just a couple of miles from Inuine.”

  “Their objective isn’t Inuine.” Vandra stroked her cheek absently, eyes distant in thought. “It’s the Anchor.”

  Kade grunted, which was the closest he ever got to voicing agreement. Raising her hand, she pointed toward the dark outline of distant hills that looked like the serrated edge of a knife blade.

  “The caverns are on the other side of those hills. But we have to stop them before they reach Inuine. The town walls won’t stand up against such an assault.”

  “What about their sorcerers?” Kade grumbled. “We’ve already lost three dragons this week.”

  Vandra nodded absently. It was possible that the Exilari sorcerers who accompanied Araghar’s army were responsible for slaying the three dragons they had lost. But there were also natural occurrences that could bring dragons down from the skies, such as lightning or severe downdrafts. Still, they had to find a way to counter a magical attack, should it come.

  Kade’s frown deepened until it looked like another scar on his face. His eyes lifted to scan the sky above them, which was mottled by just a few scattered clouds.

  “We need cloud cover,” Vandra muttered, following his gaze.

  “It feels like a Northerner is coming,” he said.

  He was right. The clouds did appear to be moving quickly across the sky, especially when compared against the reference point of the distant hills. The moorland got its share of wind, especially this time of year. The northern gusts were especially brutal, which was why th
e scrub-like trees that peppered the Highlands grew at an angle. Such a wind usually brought clouds along with it.

  “It might bring a storm,” said Kade.

  He usually only acknowledged Vandra’s strategies with tacit approval. Often, Vandra wondered why Kade hadn’t accepted the position of Wingmaster when it was offered to him by the Council. Kade had never explained why he had refused the position, leaving it to Vandra, who had been the Council’s second choice.

  Nodding at Kade, she turned away from the view and mounted her dragon. Without Altier’s infantry to support them, even dragonfire wouldn’t be enough. She would have to dispatch riders to alert the fortress of Shenmore. But if they wanted the clouds on their side, they would have to act quickly.

  Three days had passed since their ill-conceived adventure to the eyries of the Heights, and Aram still couldn’t get the image of the dragon cairn out of his mind. It haunted him throughout the day and troubled his dreams, eliciting every kind of emotion. It was such a sad and yet beautiful thing, that two souls could be so intertwined, even in death. He could never imagine being loved like that. All his life he had craved acceptance and, deep inside, he wondered what it would be like to share such emotional intimacy. It took him three days of sorting through his feelings to realize that what he longed for most was a dragon’s unconditional love.

  But he could never experience that. Vandra had said no Lesser Dragon could survive being soul-bound to him because his mind was too powerful. Aram didn’t understand why that would be. He could communicate with Zandril and Narath easily enough, and it hadn’t seemed to bother them one bit. He didn’t understand how a soul-bond could be so much different than that meeting of minds.

  He had awakened before dawn, unable to sleep. He had dreamt of the void dragon, the only Greater Dragon he would ever see, for all the others of its kind were no more. That he had brought about that dragon’s end was a nearly unbearable thought, and he couldn’t get the vision of that selfless creature out of his mind.