Dreamwander (In The Ruins of Eden Book 1)

by Kildare

  “I’d plead you reconsider.”

  The Imperator listened to his answer without the slightest sign of emotion. He resumed walking. They tread upon the fresco of a fierce-looking lion, emblazoned with a radiant light. Cillian waited for him to continue, noticing then that he looked down at the old man. He had been shrinking for so long he had forgotten what it was once like to be young and tall and peer down at older men.

  “Don’t worry, Cillian. I’m only testing you. If you wanted the throne, I suppose you would’ve already taken it. I doubt anyone could stop you. It’s something else you want. I haven’t yet deciphered what that is. Maybe it’s best I don’t know.

  “Though my succession has been on my mind of late, that isn’t why I needed to speak with you. Word came last night that the dragon has attacked more villages along the eastern coast, sixteen now, torched vast fields, killed thousands of people, and even more livestock. For too long that dragon has desolated our lands. If I could see one last labor finished, it’d be the death of An Scrios Dearg.” The dragon’s name meant Red Ruin.

  “You want me to kill the dragon?” Cillian asked, trying to veil his question to sound like he was repeating the old man’s words.

  “Were I a younger man, I’d bear this doom myself. Please kill Red Ruin for us, and relieve us of his terror.”

  The Imperator waited in silence. How could Cillian turn down such a request after the treatment he had just received? The Imperator and the people had proclaimed him their champion. Now was no time to be cowered by fear.

  Who was he kidding? There was no dragon to slay. None of this was real. He was pretty sure none of this was real.

  “I’ll slay the dragon if I can, though I don’t know how.”

  The Imperator smiled warmly. “You’ve never failed this empire in its need, but I don’t intend to send you to your death. There may be a means of killing this dread beast.

  “Long ago, so the tale goes, a clever dwarf promised to craft the most splendid necklace ever created, as a gift for a dragon, if in return the dragon would provide its fire for the forge to make the necklace, and a brooch for the dwarf’s own use. To seal the deal, the dwarf opened a sack full of jewels he promised to inlay within the necklace. Blinded by greed, the dragon consented, assuming it’d devour the dwarf after taking possession of the jewelry.

  “But the dwarf plotted other designs. He ignited a flame far hotter than any he could create on his own with the dragon’s fire. Instead of crafting a necklace, the dwarf forged a sword.

  “Now the dwarf’s forge was inside a cave too small for the dragon to enter, so while the dwarf toiled within, the dragon waited outside. Each time it inquired about the jewelry’s progress, the dwarf replied that a more beautiful necklace didn’t exist in all the world. When the dwarf finally finished his art of war, he commanded the dragon to close his eyes while he brought forth the necklace. The dragon’s lust greater than his caution, it obeyed this request. When the dwarf directed the dragon to gaze upon what his own fire had wrought, it opened his eyes expecting to see its gift, but instead saw only the chop of the sword.

  “So the dragon was ended, and the greatest of all swords created. The dwarf named it Anbhás. It’s said to be unbreakable, and so sharp that even the scales of a Timber Dragon are no match for its bite. For a great age, the fate of the dwarf and the sword were lost, for dwarves are reclusive and guard their treasures more jealously than even dragons. Yet the world has strange ways of revealing even those things which are meant to be kept hidden, and so it came to pass that one of the dwarf’s heirs, the renowned bladesmith Sindri, came into possession of Anbhás.

  Cillian interpreted the sword’s name as Violent Death, a fitting description.

  “Sindri, in all likelihood,” the Imperator continued, “was transporting the sword to his cave, where he intended to stash it away and spill no words over his new possession. He was leading a packhorse bearing the sword and other treasures through the mountains when they came upon a bear. The horse spooked and fled, not stopping until miles down the trail where a woodsman happened to be felling trees to build himself a house. The horse was a strange sight, for the man was deep in the woods where few ever ventured. He approached, took control of its reins, and led it to a corral he had constructed where his own horses were held.

  “Seeing the exquisite sheath, the man drew out the sword to take a closer look at what marvel must be held within. He knew right away he had never witnessed so fine a blade. In comparison, the bright edge of his ax looked little sharper than stone. Tempted to test the sword’s strength, the man found a young sapling the size of his thumb and with one swing, shaved off the top of the tree like a whisker. He found a tree the diameter of his wrist and it too he deprived of its height. Surprised, he inspected the sword for notches but found no mark of damage.

  “At this point, the man’s senses returned, and he realized the owner of the horse would be loath to lose such a sword and might be of a nature he didn’t want to enrage. So he sheathed the sword and let loose the horse. Not long after, the dwarf came huffing along the trail in pursuit. After Sindri caught his horse, the woodsman asked him questions about himself and the world at large. All the dwarf’s answers were curt, but he did give his true name, a mistake he’ll soon rue.

  “The incident might’ve been lost there if not for a patrol stopping at the man’s house for the night while in pursuit of the bandit Rebel Sly. They heard the man’s strange tale, but paid little heed for none had ever heard of Anbhás before. Few alive now know its history. The leader of the patrol reported this to my son, who included it in a message to me, more out of entertainment than any informational value because he too doubted the woodsman’s tale.

  “I’d told the tale of the dwarf and the dragon to Lucens a few times as a youth, but I suppose he’d forgotten. I have not. Though their failure to capture or kill the Rebel Sly was a lost opportunity, their story of the sword’s reappearance was a far greater blessing.” The Imperator stopped and looked out over the garden. “Cillian, I need you to steal the dwarf’s sword. With Anbhás, I believe you’ll be able to kill Red Ruin.”

  “If this is what you request of me, then I’ll retrieve the sword and slay the dragon,” Cillian heard himself say with the brash confidence of a younger, more foolish man. He was a little surprised at his own cockiness. He was rarely boastful in word or act.

  “If anyone can kill a dragon, it’s one of the Tuath Dé.”

  Cillian was taken aback. In the Irish myths, the Tuath Dé, or the Tribe of God, were an ancient race that dwelled in Ireland. In the distant past, they were gods, but after the introduction of Christianity, the clergy desired to stamp their presence out, and converted them to demi-gods who were defeated in a great battle by the invading Gaels.

  As part of their surrender, the Tuath Dé agreed to dwell within the hills and mounds scattered across the island. Afterward they became known as the aos sí, or the Dwellers of the Mounds. The aos sí were believed to be able to move between Earth and Tír na nÓg, the Otherworld. The Church’s efforts to stamp out the old religion only partially succeeded, with the pre-Christian myths denigrated to fairy tales. In some remote parts of Ireland, people still believed in the magical powers of the aos sí, even to the present day.

  Before Cillian could question the Imperator about his odd comment, a young man entered the garden. “Your Majesty, the dragons are ready.”

  “Excellent.”

  “The dragons?” Cillian asked.

  “Sindri’s lair is too far away to journey by horse. The dragons will be much faster. Come. It’ll be a long trip. I’m sure you don’t want to waste any time.”

  The Imperator led Cillian through a doorway into a long passageway leading away from the gardens. The young man walked close behind.

  “Do you know how I received the dragons?” the Imperator asked.

  “I don’t.” At the moment, he didn’t really care, too focused on the fact that there were dragons. Wasn’t he
supposed to be killing them? What was going on? A question he was getting tired of asking.

  “When I ascended the throne I was given two Timber Dragon eggs. A more priceless gift I couldn’t have expected. Their eggs are exceedingly rare. Though the adults are much smaller than the monster Red Ruin, they are still quite impressive.”

  “So you want me to ride a dragon?”

  “Of course. You’ve ridden the dragons before. You’re acting quite strange today. It seems the triumph has unsettled your wits.”

  “The crowds were more than I expected,” Cillian replied, hoping his excuse sounded genuine.

  “I didn’t expect so many either, but the people adore you.” He chuckled. “When I first entered Siderea, I was given a much different reception.”

  They were nearly past a mirror before Cillian noticed it hanging on the wall. He stopped and stared at his reflection. He barely recognized the man he saw looking back. The thin white hair, the milky blue eyes, the liver spots, deep wrinkles, and bushy white eyebrows had all disappeared. Staring back was the face of a much younger man. It was his face, no doubt about that, only from fifty years ago. He stepped forward to look closer. His eyes were so bright blue. Had they really once been that blue? He could no longer recall. He touched his ears and nose. They had shrunk, felt like foreign objects, not real features of his face. He ran his hands through his hair. It was so thick. And black.

  “Cillian, do you see something you like?” the Imperator asked. “I’ve never seen someone appear so happy looking at his own image.”

  “It’s—it’s—it’s nothing.” He caught back up to the Imperator’s side, and sputtered out, “Let’s go see these dragons.”

  The resumed their walk, the old man prattling on about the dragons. Cillian heard none of it. All he could think about was the image reflected in the mirror. How was it possible he was so young? Magic? A miracle? A dream? He had to be dreaming, though he didn’t feel like he was dreaming. Everything felt too real. Whatever the truth, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop smiling. He felt like such a simpleton. Luckily, the old man was too lost in his own speech to notice.

  “Fell three hundred feet before she caught me,” the old man said. “Never did that again.” The Imperator laughed and turned to Cillian. “Whatever you do, don’t do that. You might not be so lucky.” The Imperator sighed. “I wish I was still young enough. I used to travel for weeks by dragon to survey the empire. Grants a unique perspective. And there’s nothing more exhilarating. Not even war.”

  They had reached the end of the passage. Heavy wooden doors barred their path. As Cillian turned to the Imperator to ask what he had advised him not to do, the youth pushed open the doors, flooding the hall with light. He turned at the sound of a low rumbling, startled at the sight of a monstrous form rushing in at him through the doorway.

  I

  -------

  3

  Cillian stumbled to the floor. The dragon was upon him in seconds, its muzzle inches from his face. It snorted, blowing off his cowboy hat.

  “You’ve surprised him, Ira,” the Imperator exclaimed, rather gleefully. “I doubt that happens often.”

  Cillian rose to his feet, embarrassed at his own reaction. He slowly picked up his cowboy hat and slid it back on, buying time to regain his composure. His whole body shook from the fear and triggered adrenaline.

  The dragon sniffed him from toe to head like a giant dog. Ira’s short, square, thick head was as long as a man. She was capped in blue scales, darkest along her back, lightening toward an underside supported by strong, muscular legs. She looked similar to a smaller version of a winged and horned Brontosaurus. If this was a small dragon, how big must Red Ruin be? What had he agreed to?

  Ira’s piercing gaze focused laser-like on Cillian. The iris shifted like a raging fire around the pupil, the hue changing from a cool blue to a blazing white. The flame had a hypnotizing effect that reminded him of the strange spell Mórríghan had cast over him. His fear drained away, replaced by a calm serenity, as if he had been sedated.

  With a sudden snort, the dragon stepped back, unfurled massive wings, shook them, and tucked them back against her side. Each wing finger was tipped with a long talon. A green dragon stood next to the blue. The green ignored Cillian.

  “General Aduro will accompany you,” the Imperator explained. “He knows the lay of the land.”

  The general was tall and muscular, with ebony skin, sharp features, and short, graying, wiry hair, and wore the armor and black tunic of a high-ranking soldier. He stood at crisp attention, failing to mask a smirk. He had witnessed Cillian’s fall.

  “It’s good to see you’ve returned,” the General said.

  The Imperator motioned toward another man. “I think you’ve also met Njáll, our dragon master. If you have any questions, ask him. He’s the most knowledgeable man in the empire where dragons are concerned.”

  “Hello, Cillian. In case you’ve forgotten, Ira is the blue, female dragon, and Serenus is the green, male dragon. Ira has taken a liking to you, so you’ll be riding her.”

  Cillian looked around, expecting a ladder or some sort of scaffolding to climb onto the dragon’s back. He saw nothing.

  “Ira, take him up,” Njáll commanded.

  Before Cillian had fully realized what was happening, Ira had grabbed him in a firm grasp with her front hand and set him back down onto her back. A jolt of delayed adrenaline kicked in. He was ten feet off the ground between folded wings rising fifteen feet higher. Foot-long horns protruded from each shoulder blade. A leather saddle was strapped behind.

  Njáll instructed Cillian to lie flat on his stomach, slip his arms and legs into the fastenings, and cinch the belts tight. The restraints were rigid, but comfortable. To steer right, he had only to gently tug the shoulder horns to the right. To turn left, tug left. Press forward for down, back for up. Simple as that.

  “Is that all I need to know?”

  “Sure. Hell, I don’t know. I don’t ride these things. I’m not stupid.” The dragon master started to walk away before stopping to turn back. “Remember they can understand everything you say, so try not to insult them. Unless you can also fly. And try not to piss yourself.” With that last advice, and a creepy cackle, Njáll was gone.

  Lying on the dragon felt like lying on asphalt on a warm day. Heat rose off the blue scales in waves, uncomfortable, but not unbearable. Sweat pooled in a puddle beneath Cillian’s sternum and in the dip of his spine. He hoped once in flight, the air sweeping over would help quell the heat. If not, he could be in for a long trip. How long was this supposed to last? He had forgotten to ask.

  The Imperator waved at them. “I shall eagerly await your return.”

  “Don’t worry, Cillian,” Aduro said. “We won’t be doing any barrel rolls.” He winked and lit a grin. “I shouldn’t think so, anyway.” He patted Serenus on the side of his neck and commanded, “Away.”

  With an unfurling of wings and whoosh of air, the green dragon was off the ground and flying. Before Cillian could utter a protest, Ira followed, so abruptly he was sucked to the back of the saddle. A little warning would have been nice, though the dragon couldn’t exactly tell him. There was no command to secure the tray in a locked and upright position, or ding of the fasten seat belt sign.

  In seconds they were a hundred feet above the ground, leveling a couple hundred feet higher still. The view was too much. He shut his eyes and buried his head into the leather. Scent of lanolin. Faint memory of a sheep barn somewhere. The pain of fingernails digging into his palms brought him back. He loosened his grip and risked another look down. White walls, red roofs, wide blue ribbon of a river—everything moving so fast. How fast? A hundred miles per hour? Even faster? Like flying in an open cockpit plane. And so high. Why were they so high? Couldn’t they fly closer to the ground?

  Cillian tried to remain calm. Told himself he had nothing to fear. He was riding a dragon, to steal a sword, to kill a much bigger dragon. On second thoug
ht, best not to think about any of that or he was going to lose his mind. He walked a fine line already. He focused on his breathing, instead. Slow, deep breaths. His heart rate slowed, the sound fading out. Sweat drenched his hands. Maybe from fear, maybe from the heat of the dragon, probably both. The breeze helped a little. He grasped any positive he could.

  He calmed, or maybe just became indifferent, his brain overloaded on too many chemicals and blocking them out. He pushed himself up for a better view. In a calmer state of mind, he could appreciate his perspective, the spectacular unfolding of a map laid out. Fields and woods, lakes and rivers, little villages huddled together. He was flying on a dragon. Flying. On a dragon.

  Blank spots on the map filled in—a little village, castle, another village, more woods. They tracked the crooked chalk slash of a road dusty with travelers, little deviations around obstacles too big to move through or over—lakes, rivers, boulders. Always the road returned to its northern course. They followed for hours before it split, one track bending east, the other west. The signs of civilization grew fainter. Woods petered out to green plains curving over the horizon, the grass peppered with great herds of cattle or buffalo. Too high to tell for sure. Ruins of city after city, the crumbled foundations of farmsteads. No signs of people anywhere. What had happened? War? Pestilence? So many people didn’t just vanish. Hours later, houses, then villages, then cities sprouted again, the gash of desolation fading behind.

  All sense of time was lost until he noticed the shadows of the trees stretching out below. The sun’s sprint had gone unseen. In an hour it would vanish. From the northwest, a bank of clouds approached. A fat moon hung high in the sky. Cillian hoped they would rest before nightfall. They landed at the edge of a lake, but only long enough to relieve themselves. Aduro had packed some beef jerky and the two of them scarfed down a quick diner before resuming their flight.

  “No peanuts?” Cillian joked. It landed with a thud. No more jokes.

  They continued all through the night and long into the next day, stopping twice more before the final stretch. The lands jumbled, hills steeper and higher, valleys deeper and darker, the signs of civilization fainter. Hamlets were reduced to an occasional cottage, and the fields shrank to little clearings carved from the woods. A chain of mountains rose along the northern horizon. All signs of habitation disappeared. A solid carpet of trees spread out below, broken only by the occasional river or lake. The dragons gained altitude to climb over the foothills, snowy mountains looming beyond. They were far higher than Cillian had first guessed, closer in height to the Himalayas than the Rockies.