Ren of Atikala: The Empire of Dust

by David Adams

  “Dragon!” came the cry from the gates, words that echoed throughout the city. Alarm bells rang, and I heard, even from the great distance, shouts and cries as the warriors rallied. “A copper dragon appears!”

  “What in the Hells are you doing?” I hissed, flying closer, trying to keep my voice low so that only he could hear me. “You think to show yourself? They’ll never understand!”

  His expression held a mixture of repressed fury and a profound sadness. “Do you think I have not seen?” he said, his deep voice shaking the stones under his feet, louder than I had ever heard him. “Do you think I have not smelled the fire from above? Nor smelled—”

  “Tyermumtican,” I said, desperately hoping that this issue would not cause me to lose my dear dragon friend as well. “Wait, you don’t understand—”

  “Nor,” he said, simply raising his voice over mine, dwarfing it, “smelled the burning of the wood? Heard the screams of the dying as their assassins quietly speared them to death?” His huge eyes narrowed, and his maw opened, acidic drops splattering onto the stone. “You were meant to strike their weak points, not massacre farmers!”

  My chest hurt. My face burned. “It was not—not like that—”

  “Did you think I would not find out?” He stalked around on the ground, huge tail swinging like a whip in the air. “Could you possibly think I would not come to repay the deaths of so many innocents upon your city? Did you learn nothing from my tale of Silverdarrow?”

  The dwarven settlement he had razed to the ground. We had passed it on our journey here. The memory seemed like a lifetime ago.

  “I did,” I said, holding up my hands. “It was not my command that did this; Ilothika, she acted—”

  “WAR—MON—GER!”

  Tyermumtican’s thunderous roar reverberated around the cavern, shaking the ground and rocking the walls, throwing up stones. I clapped my hands over my ears and looked, instinctively, up towards the ceiling, full of fear. All eyes at the gates of the city followed mine, but no cave-in happened, aside from handfuls of dirt and rocks that rained down slowly, daintily, leaving thin trails of dust in their wake.

  Tyermumtican’s expression changed. Softened. The rage melted away and was replaced by…something else. Compassion? Regret?

  “I trusted you,” he said, voice cracking. “I believed in you.”

  “Man the ballista!” came a shout from the wall. “Shoot its heart!”

  “Halt!” I called over my shoulder, hoping it was loud enough. “Do not fire!” To make sure, I floated down, positioning myself between him and the gates.

  “Tell me that you didn’t do it,” said Tyermumtican. “Look me in the eyes and tell me this wasn’t you.”

  I locked eyes with him, wings of fire beating behind me, framing his face in golden light.

  “It was not me,” I said, with all the truth and conviction I could muster.

  I wasn’t sure it was enough. He studied me, with his draconic senses, massive face scrunched up like a wet rag as he tried to see if I was lying to him. He looked at my face, my fingers, my tail…everything.

  “Leave all of this behind,” he said, exhaling slowly, the air blowing smoke away from my body. “You were right. It was a mistake to fight Contremulus. We have both made errors in our time; for both of us, there is nothing we can do for the dead. What matters is the future, and the future is not yet set in stone. You have the power to change it right now. The Goldscale has no quarrel with Ssarsdale. Only with you.” He rustled his wings and then folded them against his back. “Come away with me, instead. Travel with me across Drathari, south…south as far as south goes, across this continent, hop the islands to the Longspear territories. To the great sands. We will carve out a territory there…we can have lives, safe and far away from all of this. We will talk, listen, and share stories every day until there are no more days, until everything else is dust, and we are consigned to oblivion. All you have to do is say that you will come with me right now, unconditionally, and leave everything in this godsforsaken city behind you.”

  I wavered, the doubt almost enough to cause me to lose concentration on my wings. The idea of us flying south as far as south went, to some mysterious place I had never even heard of, suddenly gripped me like a vice. Magmellion whispered in my ear, trying to dissuade me, but I couldn’t even hear his words. All I could see was Tyermumtican’s eyes, big and copper and full of hope and fear.

  “Fly away with me,” he said, his tone quiet now, pained, aching. “Think no more of pain and death.”

  How could I say no?

  “I will,” I said, taking in a deep breath. “I’ll go south with you. South as far as south goes, together, and we’ll talk and share stories, and be together every day until there are no more days.”

  “Swear it,” he said, the effort needed to speak the words cracking his smile like broken pottery. “I need to…I need to hear you swear it. On everything you own, on everything you hold dear, on everything you are—every piece of you. Swear.”

  “I swear,” I said. “I swear, Tyermumtican, I will. I promise, we’re going to—”

  A black blob tipped with silver dropped from the ceiling and hit Tyermumtican in the head.

  Valen.

  It happened so quickly I could barely process it. His strike was perfect; the dagger slipped between the scales of Tyermumtican’s neck, into the flesh, past the bones and deeper.

  Tyermumtican’s head jerked up, as though he were scratching an itch, and then his whole body went limp. He slumped onto the ground, shaking it with the impact, and he lay still, eyes rolled back into his head.

  “I got him,” said Valen, belief a ghost in his voice. Blood soaked his hands, arms, chest. “I got him!”

  “What did you do?” I asked, my voice a scratchy whisper. Then louder. “Valen, what have you done?”

  Valen walked along Tyermumtican’s head, along his snout, to the tip of his nose, bloodstained arms held wide. “I killed the dragon!” he shouted, his maw split in a wide, eager smile. “I did it! I killed him!”

  Tyermumtican’s lifeless eyes saw nothing. His blood spread in a black stain on the stone.

  The kobolds of Ssardale exalted as one, a massive shout breaking out amongst the defenders. They cheered joyously, celebrating, pouring out into the cavern that held the main gate, grabbing Valen and lifting him into the air. They extolled him, crying his name. Valen! Valen! Dragonsbane!

  I cried, too, for entirely different reasons.

  ACT III

  Like Father, Like Daughter

  THE BLOOD IS STRONG IN all of us.

  We inherit more from our parents than we realise. There is more to us than our appearance, our mannerisms, our values, behaviours so deeply ingrained within us we may not even know they are there, are passed along from parent to child. The process is imperfect. Some attributes disappear forever, some go into hiding for some generations, some are composites of others or made entirely from new cloth.

  Khavi liked to kill. Apart from the gnome Marjaana, someone we knew as No-Kill, there wasn’t a time when he wasn’t happy ending something’s life. He seemed to care little about the reasons for it or the consequences for doing it; simply the act was enough for him. He had feelings, surely, and even complex thoughts on occasion, but more than he loved anything else in this world, he loved to kill.

  Like father, like son.

  Contremulus and I shared more than a direct lineage. Our thoughts, our goals, our ambitions were similar; so was the way we saw the world. Becoming a lich had permanently altered his perception of reality, and I was not subject to the same, but he knew what the transformation would do to him and willingly accepted these changes.

  Becoming a lich did not turn Contremulus evil. The darkness was within him all along.

  Just as it was within Valen.

  Just as it was within me.

  What did I have that my father did not? Why did I not, eventually, decide to lock away my soul in a tiny box and choose to l
ive forever?

  The answer was more clichéd, more humble than I ever imagined, but it was also true.

  I had friends.

  My friends stopped me from treading down my father’s dark road. I had Dorydd, whose growing horror at my actions showed me I was wrong to do as I had. I had Banehal, the paladin, whose unwavering commitment to justice told me more convincingly than his magic did that I was doing ill.

  I had Tyermumtican. For a time.

  How I regret his death every day. We could have been happy…his words regularly echo in my ears. South as far as south goes. Together every day, until there are no more days.

  I do not think I have ever felt so terrible about anything I had ever been party to. Khavi’s death was a tragedy, unavoidable, but Tyermumtican…he was so wise and fragile and beautiful that he should have been above such a thing. To strike him was like striking a child. Ironic, then, that his killer was not yet an adult.

  My heart hurt just thinking about it.

  It was my fault. Valen’s arm guided the knife that killed Tyermumtican, but blood of Khavi or not, he had been with me in Ssarsdale, learning from what I’d done, absorbing my every word and deed and making them a part of himself.

  Valen. The kobold I treated as my own child; he had Khavi and Faala’s blood in his veins, but I was his parent. I cradled him as an egg. I protected him as a hatchling, and I disciplined him as an adolescent. I made him what he is. He learnt all from me. And I, in turn, learnt from him as well.

  For better and for worse.

  — Ren of Atikala

  CHAPTER XVII

  KOBOLDS CAME, AND THEY HAPPILY carried Valen away, borne on their shoulders like a hero. Derodohr approached, said some words, then left. Sirora asked me a meaningless question that I completely ignored. Pergru pestered me about the cavern being blocked by the body.

  Dragons were strong, powerful, tough…it seemed impossible to me that a single kobold’s dagger, one made for a child, would be enough to end him. He was faking it. It was another one of his lessons. My friend was trying to scare me.

  I stayed by Tyermumtican’s side as the last of his blood drained out onto the stone. His scaled body cooled. I waited with him as his claws became rigid, immobile, tightening up in death. I waited, and I waited, and I waited.

  Eventually my nose showed me the truth of it. The smell of flesh just starting to rot, and just at the edge of my sight, Flesh-Cleaners skittered about, looking for a chance to scuttle in and feast.

  He was gone.

  It wasn’t fair. I’d done everything that was expected of me. I said I’d leave, and then—like some kind of cosmic karma—I had barely a moment to be in that state before it was taken from me. If I could trade myself for him, drain my blood into his, bring him back somehow, I would have. I wished I could.

  I didn’t know how long I was there for. Long enough that Sirora came back.

  “Leader Ren?” she asked, her voice quiet. Even she could see I was not myself.

  “Yes?” I said, the first words escaping my lips, which were dry and cracked. “What?”

  “Obviously you are in pain,” she said, coaching her words carefully. “I did not know you were…acquaintances with a copper dragon. Such a thing is confusing to me, and I do not claim to understand—”

  “You’re right,” I said. “You don’t understand.”

  She folded her hands together in front of her. “Despite this setback, which I understand is substantial, Ssarsdale needs a leader. They still do.”

  “That leader isn’t me.” I shook my head. “No. It’s not…it’s done. It’s over.” I touched Tyermumtican’s snout. “I could have gone south. Should have—should have just gotten away from here and never come to Ssarsdale. If I hadn’t, Valen wouldn’t have trained to become a Darkguard, and Tyermumtican wouldn’t have—”

  “Could have been, would have been, should have been.” Sirora shook her head. “There are infinitely many possibilities that could have been, but there is only one is. We cannot deal with whatever potentials your mind conjures when there is but one simple immediate truth. And that truth needs leadership.”

  “I’m not your leader,” I said, bearing my teeth. “I’m the cause of your misery. Contremulus only wants me. Tyermumtican was right. If I leave, his eye turns away from Ssarsdale and to whatever hole in the dirt I run to. We don’t have to fight this war.”

  Sirora’s eyes glinted in the dark. “You assume that I am miserable.”

  “Are you not?” My voice cracked. “How could you not be? Contremulus marches on us, and every battle we lose…”

  “Every battle so far.” Sirora craned her head. “I do not wish your current misery upon you, Ren, this I swear, but…perhaps today’s events will give you some perspective.” She extended her thin hand. “Come, let us return inside.”

  “I want to stay with him,” I said, not taking it.

  “I will have the warriors move this dragon’s body inside the city. If it is your wish, and he was truly our ally, I can have his body taken to the eastern tunnels and placed with all the others.”

  I would like that. I could still visit him sometimes. Could still…

  “Do it,” I said, and finally, I took Sirora’s hand, and she pulled me up to my feet. She was a lot stronger than she seemed. “What should I do?”

  “Just rest,” said Sirora. “I’ll take care of everything for now.”

  I couldn’t leave Tyermumtican. I couldn’t. I also didn’t feel tired—how long had it been since I’d slept, anyway? Pergru had offered me the use of his quarters; I should take him up on that offer.

  As much I wanted to stay here, I knew I couldn’t. It was time for me to go.

  “Handle him carefully,” I said, and I walked into the city. I felt lightheaded, as though I were not truly me, but watching myself through a scrying lens.

  Somehow, I recalled Pergru’s directions to memory, and even more amazingly, managed to follow them. South of the spire. Stalagmite. Red tip. It was right where he said it was, a squat, single story dwelling with a hexagonal door.

  I pushed it open. The room was empty. Four walls and a stone floor, with glowbugs crawling on the ceiling. I moved over to one corner, reached up, and undid the strap to one of my pauldrons.

  Tired. It hit me all at once. Suddenly I was so exhausted I could barely think. I felt as though I’d been awake for a week.

  You have, said Magmellion in my head. Eight surface days since you last slept, to be precise.

  “Why…” my mouth hurt. My teeth hurt. My eyes burned—an unfamiliar sensation and most unwelcome. “How can this happen? Why did you say nothing?”

  You wear my body, you have some of my properties. Not all of them, but sleeplessness is one.

  “Surely it…has not been eight days. Not…possible.”

  There is no sun in the underworld. Time moves fast when you never get tired. You will become accustomed to it; you still need to eat, and grow hungry, so measure your days in your meals.

  I would do that. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  You did not ask.

  I wanted to complain to him about this, but for now, my whole body ached. I curled up on the floor, still dressed in my armour, and I—too tired to cry—just closed my eyes and let my utter exhaustion do the rest.

  I slept, and I had absolutely no idea for how long. When I woke up, surrounded by the bustle of Ssarsdale, I felt as though I could do so again for twice as long.

  My body was sore all over. Armour was not meant to be slept in. Slowly, gingerly, I peeled it away, wiggled out of the chain underneath, and I slept some more.

  Kobolds were tough, industrious, but even we had our limits. I had well surpassed mine in every way.

  When I finally woke up, I stretched myself out, stood up, and stared at the pieces of metal that lay scattered on Pergru’s floor.

  Everywhere I’d been, every moment of my life, I always had a goal. In Atikala I wanted to master my magic and be the best patrol
ler I could be. Do my duty. In Contremulus’s dungeon all I wanted to do was survive. Escape. In Ssarsdale all I wanted to do was kill him.

  Now, in this new stage of my life, I wanted nothing. I couldn’t even drag myself out of these borrowed quarters. Why? What would be the point? If I got everything I ever wanted, it wouldn’t include Tyermumtican. Or Khavi. Or Dorydd, probably, or Tzala, or…anyone.

  My life was an empty husk.

  “Good evening,” said a voice from the door.

  A dwarven head poked itself around the corner. It was a man, tough and strong, with a big bushy beard that was the colour of rock, grey and rough.

  “Who are you?” I asked, barely looking at him.

  He stepped inside, closed the door, and his form melted away. He became a kobold—for a second I hoped that he might be Pzar—but this one was female. Blue scales. When I saw who it was, my hope faded.

  Z.

  “Saw your dead friend,” she said, settling on the ground and curling her tail around her backside. “Tough break.”

  I glared at her. “I don’t want to talk about that. I just don’t…I just don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You sure?” Z craned her head.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Touchy,” she said, holding up her hands. “Tyermumtican was my friend too, you know.”

  “And yet,” I snapped, “you don’t seem to be aggrieved at all at his passing.”

  “Things live and die. My kind live a very long time indeed, and we get used to this kind of thing. Elves, too. Which is why we tend to cluster together. Long-lived races have a lot in common. We see the fire in the hearts of your kind as a sort of…”

  She kept talking. I just stopped listening. I could not care less about another lesson—another piece of history or world politics or interesting factoid. I struggled to even understand what Z was doing here.