The Dragon Chronicles

by Ellen Campbell

  Ophiliana blamed herself for the stillborn eggs. Perhaps it was I that was at fault. Both parents contributed, after all. A stunted seed could not grow in even the most fertile soil.

  Sometimes, when she looked at me, I sensed something in her eyes. A longing for another opportunity. I was not the only gold dragon in Drathari; many others, old and strong, would value her as their mate. After a few centuries of grief, she would move on.

  She would find another.

  She would find happiness.

  It would be better if I was gone.

  At least I would know what would happen to me. My body would be found, eventually, then carved up and sold to dragonbone collectors. My teeth would become enchanted weapons. My scales, armour for nobles. This was the fate of all our kind who were not preserved.

  I burst from below the fog, expecting the shadowy darkness of a frozen land covered in night, but the surface twinkled with torchlight. A fiery river winding its way out of Northaven. Two thousand men or more, marching north, to the very edge of The Crown of the World.

  To our lair.

  The humans were coming for us.

  My death would have to wait. I flared the tips of my wings, the strain pulling on exhausted muscles and tendons. I used my forelegs as brakes, extending them out, the limbs shaking as the frigid air buffed them.

  I pulled up, only a few hundred feet from the ground, and I flew toward our home as fast as I could.

  * * *

  I flew into the wind, my wings aching, and I felt the fire grow in my belly once more; the warmth spread throughout my whole body, melting away the lingering ice.

  I cast as I flew, flashes of magic lighting up the night. Arcane power flowed through me, reinforcing my scales, sharpening my claws. Preparations. I was good at them.

  As I drew close, it was apparent that the approach of the human armies had not gone unnoticed. All of our servants stood by the cave entrance to our lair, armed and armoured. Even Dorydd had a halfling’s sword.

  Ophiliana was in human form; long blonde hair tumbled down her shoulders and her back, and she wore a fine suit of plate mail, her hands folded neatly in front of her.

  She had no weapons. She needed none.

  That told me she wanted to talk to the approaching army. I landed beside her, folded my wings and focused inward; my golden scales melted away and I shrank down, becoming a man.

  Humans responded better to their own kind.

  “What did you do?” she asked me, her tone curious and not accusatory. Her skin was pale and clammy, the wounds of the birthing unable to be hidden by shapeshifting magic. She should not be here.

  “It wasn’t me,” I said. “The armies have been marching for some time.” I lowered my voice to barely a whisper, leaning closer to her. “Are you strong enough to fight?”

  “Let us hope it does not come to that,” she said, a slight tremor in her voice. She kept her hands folded, eyes on the growling light on the horizon.

  The torches of the human army approached, a snake of light worming its way between the frozen hills and mountains of the Crown of the World. We stood in the cold, letting the wind blow against us, waiting.

  Horses approached. Four of them, mounted knights, lances glinting in the moonlight. As they rode towards us, Ophiliana clapped her hand over her nose and mouth as though she might be sick.

  And then the stench hit me as well; rancid and black, like a rotting beast, half metal and half carrion, infused with dark magic. A dark taint carried on the wind.

  Bane weapons, aligned to dragonkind.

  These humans were not coming to talk.

  I touched Ophiliana on the shoulder. “We should attack now,” I said. “These are their leaders. Take the head off a snake and the body will wither.”

  “We must give them a chance,” she said.

  “Must we?”

  “Always. It is right.” Ophiliana stepped forward, her voice magically amplified. “Identify yourselves, men who come with flame and steel to these lands claimed by the Sunscale and the Goldheart.”

  The horses stopped, the weapons raised in parley, banners fluttering from the tips. The heraldry of Northaven. The City by the River.

  My mate could see them as well as I, even in the dim light. This was merely diplomacy.

  I had no patience for silly games.

  The leader trotted his horse forward, hooves kicking up puffs of snow. “I am High Priest Praxis,” said the man as he removed his helm, revealing pale skin. He had a lance in one hand, shield in the other, and an oversized two-handed sword strapped to his back. “Of the church of Tyranus. We ride from Northaven.”

  Tyranus. God of contracts and papers. Also one of sacrifices and binding. Long dead, like all the others. No friend to the Wyrmmaker, but hardly our enemies.

  “State your purpose,” said Ophiliana. “We have no quarrel with the Tyrantian church.” A half-truth to placate those who had come to harm us. “We mean no harm to you.”

  “We have come for your heart.”

  At least they were honest about their intentions.

  Ophiliana grimaced, her fingers intertwining. “Long have dragonkind been your allies,” she said. “And protectors.” She stressed it, rolling the word on her tongue. “If you turn on us, Wasp-Men may venture north and decide that you are easy pickings. Raiders will come across the sea. The elves—”

  Praxis curled back his upper lip. “Your fearmongering does not scare me, worm in human’s skin. The Wasp-Men are busy dealing with their slave rebellion. Raiders will be easily defeated with the gods on our side once more. Elves are flighty cowards, their eyes turned inward, focused on their own problems.” The high priest looked at both of us, through us, as though we were steak. “Dragonkind have suffered the least in this Age of Betrayal. You have kept your magics, source of your power. It is beyond time you shared it with all of us.”

  I focused inward, bolstering my voice as well. “We have suffered too,” I said, images of our ruined eggs flashing into my mind. “We lost our connections to the divine. Our suffering is shared.”

  “Spoken as lords to peasants, complaining that a plague’s dead spoil the view of their lands. You know nothing of suffering, dragons.”

  Anger bubbled inside me, stoking the flames that cooked in my belly. “You know nothing, fleshling.”

  A tense silence fell, broken only by the howling wind and the occasional snort of one of the horses.

  “Do not do this,” said Ophiliana, the tremble returning to her tone. “Please.”

  Begging. Is that what we were reduced to? I clenched my teeth to keep fury spilling out.

  Praxis pulled the reigns of his horse, turning it back towards his army. “It is already done,” he said, and then he and his retinue rode away.

  So it would be war. I stepped back, casually resting my hand on Dorydd’s hand.

  “Child,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Return to the lair.”

  “My Lord, I would stay with you. I am sworn to your service.”

  This was no place for a dwarf so young she had to wield a weapon for a halfling. “You misunderstand,” I said. “I am assigning you the most important task of all. Someone must protect the eggs.”

  Dorydd accepted the lie. Reluctance painted all over her face, she turned and left.

  Ophiliana smiled her approval, although it was a gesture that concealed great pain. “I did my best,” she said. “I did.”

  “I know.”

  Ophiliana rubbed her abdomen absently as the wind whipped her hair around. “I hope we do not have to kill too many of them.”

  “Unfortunately for High Priest Praxis,” I said, inhaling through my nostrils, the air stoking the flames inside me. “I do not.”

  * * *

  Arrows washed over me like rain, each wood and steel drop splattering against my scales and breaking. I clapped my wings together. The force of the air blew a group of archers off their feet, scattering their bows into the snow, and then I exhaled. />
  A cone of flame fell over them. They screamed with the terror of fleshlings exposed to raw fire; their screams faded abruptly as the fire stole the air all around them, seared their flesh to ash, and then they were still.

  Another hail of arrows fell on me but these ones stung; their tips glowed a faint blue, magically enchanted. I tipped my left wing, spilling the air from it, arching over and falling toward the ground, avoiding the worst of them.

  Anticipating this, the humans sent in the cavalry. A dozen men on horses, lances lowered. They galloped across the snow, shields raised to protect themselves.

  Fools. I took wing again, a few feet off the ground, and my flame washed them away. The scent of roasting horseflesh stung my nostrils. From the smoke, a single rider burst through, her clothes aflame, lance lowered and aimed at my chest.

  It bounced off and broke in half. It was not dragonbane.

  I knocked the shattered shaft away with a foreclaw, snatched the rider off her mount with my tail, and squeezed. Her armour groaned as I crushed it, and with a snap, collapsed. Her body burst like an overripe fruit, gore painting the snow crimson.

  A satisfying victory but distracting. I was too close to the ground. I needed to fly again. I beat my wings, dropping the bloody corpse to lighten my load.

  A ballista bolt whistled as it flew past me, missing my scales by inches. The tip was forged of black metal; adamantium. Strong enough to pierce even my hide.

  Another flew towards me. I could not afford to drop again. I prepared to accept the hit.

  Ophiliana snatched it out of the air, her wings casting a shadow over the human army, and broke it in half, tossing both halves away. She bled from a dozen small wounds all over her body—the arrows had been effective, it seemed—but she seemed stronger than ever.

  I climbed. A bolt of lightning, wizard’s work, struck me in the gut. My muscles jerked and twitched as the energy ran through me and I lost altitude, gliding instead.

  Pain.

  “Find the wizard!” I roared, focusing inward, drawing upon arcane magic. A white cloud grew from my clawtips, a poisonous gas that floated towards the ground.

  It drifted over human footmen. They fell, gasping, clutching at their throats, limbs spasming as their muscles tightened. No pity.

  Ophiliana dove toward a group of soldiers, falling into them in a flurry of claws and teeth. She was a golden blur; her roar drowning out the battle cries of the fleshlings as she tore them to pieces, their steel as paper to her rending talons.

  I flew over them, bathing the area in flame. It would not harm my mate, of course, but it intensified the misery of the humans whom Praxis seemed happy to send in waves to die. I saw the wizard, a tall elven man surrounded by a protective wall of foot soldiers, and adjusted my aim. He danced as he died.

  One less threat to deal with.

  Ophiliana took to the air once more. I banked, moving to fly alongside her, ready to attack again.

  And then suddenly, agony in my left wing. I faltered, falling out of the sky, crashing heavily into the snow, throwing up a cloud of white powder.

  A ballista bolt had broken my wing. Yellow bone protruded from my scales. I knew the limb was useless.

  My main advantage was gone.

  I yanked out the bolt with my teeth, spitting it on the ground. A line of pikemen ran towards me, dropping into a formation, shields raised. I breathed. The flame washed over them, but their wall of wood protected them. They emerged from the flames, shields alight, weapons thrusting at me.

  I shifted back and cast, conjuring a line of acid from the tip of my claw. The pikemen, though, were well trained; they resumed their wall, and the fluid hissed as it met the hungry flames that clung to their shields.

  A pike dug into my chest. Another hit my left foreclaw. A third nearly took my eye. I tried to cast again but the spell died on my lips as steel slipped beneath the scales of my throat. I slapped it away before it could kill me.

  I was in trouble.

  Ophiliana saw and plummeted towards me. She flared, bringing her dive to fifty feet above the ground; she clapped her broad wings together, inhaled, and the air around her rushed inward, heralding another gout of flame that would turn the tide.

  A ballista bolt struck her in the back, turning her breath into a pained whimper. She fell out of the sky, limp, crashing to the ground with a thunderous rumble.

  The humans exulted; a primal cry of triumph that almost drowned out my voice.

  “Ophiliana!” I screamed her name over and over. “Ophiliana! Ophiliana!”

  The pikemen dug their steel into me, pinning me to the snow, and heavy chains were thrown over my body; a heavy hammer broke my other wing, and my limbs were bound. I struggled. Thrashed. Tried to melt the iron with my flame; it resisted the heat, white-hot flames bending around the metal. A steel collar was latched around the top of my neck, keeping my head pinned. I couldn’t move. The iron was too heavy. My wounds too great.

  The humans had prepared.

  Ophiliana crawled towards me, sobbing quietly, a golden trail of blood marking her path. The humans descended on her, throwing chain after chain over her body, each held by six men.

  “Contremulus!” She shouted. “Teleport to Eastwatch! Save yourself!”

  I could, and could not. Would not.

  “I am here!” I screamed, fury and fire coming with my words. “With you, beside you, always! We shall endure this together!”

  Heavy hammers broke her wings. The cries of her pain reverberated off the mountains.

  Praxis dismounted. He walked towards Ophiliana, unstrapping the two-handed blade from his back. The scent of the dragonbane steel intensified and the weapon glowed with a fierce, inner light.

  “Stop!” I commanded. “Praxis, stop this at once!”

  They didn’t. More chains were thrown over Ophiliana. A metal ring clamped her jaw closed. She struggled as I struggled.

  Praxis, his face singed, stepped forward. He reverse-gripped the blade and climbed up on top of Ophiliana’s blood soaked chest. He probed with the large weapon, ungainly, searching for the gaps in her scales.

  “Stop!” I said again, this time unable to keep the panic, the knowledge of what they were about to do out of my voice. “Please!”

  Praxis looked at me. Our eyes met. Some kind of communication took place there; mundane, non-magical. I did not want him to do this. In some way, he did not, either. His earlier fierceness, bluster, anger…it faded now that the moment was before him.

  Praxis believed he had no choice.

  “There are other ways,” I said. “Other means. We can still fix this.”

  The blade’s edge moved away and I found Ophiliana’s eyes. She was at peace, smiling at me, her bright golden eyes full of quiet joy.

  Praxis thrust the tip down into Ophiliana’s chest. That light withered, waned, and died.

  All things blurred. Became distant.

  The humans cut out her five-chambered heart. They broke through her scales with picks, sawed through her bones, and removed it. It was the size of a horse. They laid it out on the blood-soaked ground as an offering to the sky.

  Nothing happened.

  They tried to burn the heart.

  Nothing happened. Dragon’s hearts could not burn.

  In desperation, as the sun’s light crept over the mountaintops, the heart was cut into pieces and consumed. Dragonflesh could not be eaten by humans; they burst into flames, frenzied bonfires that danced to their deaths, reduced to ash.

  Nothing.

  Eventually, the humans went home. I barely watched them go. I could only stare at Ophiliana. Her lifeless, cold body frozen, the heat of her flame long since snuffed out.

  I shapeshifted, became human. The chains were now far too large to hold me. I staggered, naked and bloodied, to her corpse. I touched her face with a human hand.

  Despite it all, she was still smiling.

  That was the first time I truly felt the absence of the gods. No divine being could
ever allow something like this to happen.

  I cried.

  A dragon’s cries are thunder on the landscape; deep, booming, a roar and a whimper together, deep and mournful and beautiful and terrible. Northaven, the city of the river, would hear my pain; they would know my agony, my loss, my suffering.

  Grief and anger were parent and child. Ophiliana’s death could not be final. Could not be. I would not accept it.

  She had to be preserved.

  Our servants—my servants now—crept out of the cave. They saw the devastation. They saw the body.

  They knew what I was going to do.

  * * *

  I half-carried, half-dragged Ophiliana’s body into the dark of the cave. The servants offered to help me, but they were far too small. She was my burden to bear.

  Down, down into the cave, into Drathari’s stone. I turned down the passage that led to the alchemy room, where Dorydd had taken the egg.

  She stood there, shortsword in hand, and I offered no explanation for what had happened. My battered body, her butchered corpse, was all Dorydd needed to see.

  The preservative fluid, an amber, viscous liquid obtained at vast cost from Valamar, was stored in a giant glass vat in the centre of the chamber. It was surrounded by smaller vats, almost all of them containing an egg. They were frozen and inert, kept from rot and decay, forever sleeping until the gods came to undo their horrible error.

  Only the main storage vat would hold Ophiliana. I pried off the lid and, spilling only a little, I lowered my mate into the stuff. The amber enveloped her, wrapping her body in timelessness.

  There she would stay until I could raise her.

  The symbolism of this worked for me; a mother should live with her children, their father guarding over them.

  But for how long? We had waited so long for the divinities to return. A hundred years? A thousand?

  I would eventually wither. I would eventually die. I trusted no servant with this; only I could bring Ophiliana back. Bring them all back.

  In this Age of Betrayal, I would have to find some way to live forever.