Dragon's Fire (Beating Back the Darkness Book 1)

by Tiger Hebert

  As the title so cleverly suggests, here there be dragons. It is quite true, you know, and not just a bit of folklore and fairy tales. Dragons are beasts that bring about much speculation and conjecture. Generally speaking, they are not believed to be natively of Aurion, and that is correct, for the most part. No, they are not from Darnisi or any other part of at least what could be considered the natural world anyways. Rather, it is understood that they come from a distant place.

  Far to the south, past the jagged peaks of the Mar’Kren Mountains, past the open seas south of Aurion, past the rise of the Sea Ridges, and further south still rests the Under Seas. Well, they really don’t rest at all. In fact, the Under Seas, which are almost fully encircled by a dramatic stone ridgeline that rises from the sea itself, are quite volatile and tempestuous at best. It is nothing but inhospitable, and the few that have seen it and lived have only provided but a few records of it. It couldn’t even be guessed as to what caused the chaotic and volatile nature of the region, not by any scientific reasoning anyways, especially for the great maelstrom that exists within the confines of the basin-like Under Seas.

  The stormy vortex wanders throughout the forgotten stretches of ocean. And it is within the very mists of the raging storm that the dragons themselves are said to come from. Some believed it to be an evil spell recited by some wicked deity, and that the spell itself would give birth to these winged menaces that terrorize the hearts of men with fear and dread.

  Other historians believed there to be yet another dimension altogether that could be found beyond the mists of the Under Seas, and in that strange world, these beasts reigned supreme. However ridiculous both ideas sounded, there was some truth to be found from both of the generally accepted hypotheses. The tale behind the discovery of what you are about to read is quite fantastic indeed, if not nearly impossible to believe. As spectacular a story as it might be, the tale behind that is best served for another time altogether. So onward we go.

  The dragons did, or perhaps do still, come from another realm or dimension. In the draconic tongue, forked as it may be, the name would have been Karvut Cthakra Illvu Saatra Korvome. The closest translation into the words of men would mean something to the effect of cursed rest. The definition alone did not justify the name, as it could not carry the heavy emotional sentiment that accompanies Karvut Cthakra Illvu Saatra Korvome. In the draconic language, the very phrase itself is reviled with bitterness and hatred. It carries memories of anguish and, with it, the deeply seated desire for revenge.

  Karvut Cthakra Illvu Saatra Korvome was actually not a separate world from Aurion, but rather it was in some way a distinct underlying—or perhaps overlaying, depending on perspective—layer of Aurion as a whole. It was not a realm of man, nor dwarf, nor elf, nor goblin, but of dragons—many, many dragons, for it was their prison.

  The dark and stormy world within a world was ripe with these wicked wyrms. They came in many shapes and sizes, but not as one would expect. Deep within their caves and stinky wretched holes the wyrms slept and slept. They did not beat the air with the force of their terrible wings. They did not pillage castles and burn villages. They did not guard hordes of gold from brave and mad treasure seekers and burglars. No, they slept in a deep and powerful sleep. But in that deep sleep, they did do those terrible and dark deeds. They toppled towers with the flick of their tails and devoured princesses with rows of piercing and crushing teeth. They spewed fire and spread darkness. Castles were left in ruin, cities in ash. They slept upon mountains of gold and the bones of men. They would sear the conscience of men and the hearts of women. It was their purpose, it was their mission, and it was all that they ever dreamed to do, for it was their design.

  These cursed creatures each dreamed and dreamed for the Day of the Dragon. That is the day in which he or she would be woken from their slumber, the day that they would be roused from the deep caves and dark holes in which they waited. It would be the day that they would feast on the flesh of the living. It would be the day that they would wage their own personal war upon the Ancient One who sentenced them to this existence. The Day of the Dragon would be the day their revenge would begin, and it was the day they would pass over from their realm into the mortal realm as it were known.

  The specific events that would take place or what would bring about the Day of the Dragon is still not understood, to be truthful. What is known is that through some invisible force, perhaps the touch of an unseen hand, these great creatures are roused from their perpetual dream. What happens next has best been described as a ripping or a tearing open of the heavens themselves in the midst of the circling clouds. Beyond that darkness is another storm, something like a storm within a storm, but just beyond the reach of the first. It is at this time that the chosen dragon is roused to consciousness.

  They do not yawn or rub their eyes, and they certainly don’t wait for tea and biscuits. No, their seething hatred rouses them before the slits of their wicked eyes even open. Rage and fury erupt and fill the once-silent resting place of the beast. The already turbulent sky fills with ominous swirling clouds. It is into that maelstrom that the mighty dragon will fly. Once the beast dives through into the newly darkened eyelet in the heavens, he is gone forever, never to return to Karvut Cthakra Illvu Saatra Korvome. The dragon will then break into the mortal realm in the midst of the violent vortex that patrolled the Under Seas. It is at that point that the dragon is free to wreak havoc upon our world.

  Now, you should know a bit more about dragons and not just their home world. Despite what the denizens of Aurion commonly believe, there is not just one recipe for dragons. From all accounts, there are a variety of dragons. Their physical appearance, as seen after their manifestation into the mortal realm, often was indicative of the nature of their power. The very legends of dragons themselves only made mention of a few types of dragons, but I understand there to be far more.

  The red drakes are the most decorated, if you will, as they are the picture most people have when you mention a dragon. This is quite understandable because, well, we have far more recordings of the red dragons, and the first records of their appearance date back to well over six thousand years ago. Fire wyrms and fire drakes are all names for the same powerful beasts who boast great size and strength. Mighty wings carry the scaled wyrms through the air with the speed of a loosed arrow.

  The potency of their fiery dragon breath can only be matched by the intensity of their greed. They are beasts of pure wanton desire who long to establish great hoards of treasure. The vast majority of legends regarding dragons speak of these very proud and boastful creatures that revel in mercilessly laying waste to entire kingdoms before claiming the ruins as their own. Once these dragons establish their great hoard of wealth, they will often be found sleeping upon the mountains of silver and gold, dreaming about the day that they will greet thieves with hellfire.

  Only one recorded account of a frost drake has survived the long years, forty-six hundred to be exact, but it told of a truly magnificent beast. Frost drakes are believed to be the largest of the breeds, and by no small margin.

  The one account of such a wyrm describes it to have been easily twice the size of even the largest red drake ever seen. The creature was said to have quite a magnificent appearance, with a shimmering coat of mail-like scales. The arctic snow-white brilliance shined bright until the angle of the lights shifted, and a wave of electric blue seemed to wash over the length of the beast’s body. The constant tide of shifting colors was hypnotic and alluring, and as such, it was the end of many brave and foolish adventurers and treasure seekers.

  While this frozen wyrm did dwell in an icy mountain hold, as you might suspect, it was not what you might think, as this occurred right in the midst of the Jaicent Mountains of Kiereboren, in the heart of the old world. It is written that the very presence of the chilling creature brought a winter’s wrath upon the lush and tropical region. The frost set in and maligned the region as an unrelenting winter set upon them.


  That frost drake is said to have guarded her stolen treasures with the frozen grip of an unimaginable cold, one that not even the burning light of the summer sun could penetrate. The methods of the frost drake were slow and methodical, often winning the war with attrition rather than brute force, almost as if she toyed with her victims, like the cat does with the field mouse. Tales tell that the drake cared neither for the mountains of treasure nor for the priceless artifacts that could be found in her keep, but rather she grew her hoard simply to increase the allure of her trap, one that ensnared many a courageous fool. It wasn’t until some years after the beast’s death that the Jaicent Mountains thawed.

  The emerald drakes were entirely different from the aforementioned breeds. The first known incidence with an emerald drake was about three thousand years ago, but there have been at least another six incidents over the course of time. Those records also indicate that these were the smallest of all known drakes, in some cases being smaller than the common horse. They naturally got their name from the green scales that covered their bodies. These unforgiving creatures thrived on spreading misery and strife. Seeking to sow bitterness and offense, they were as cunning as they were deadly. The plagues of their cerebral assaults are even greater than the poisonous clouds spouted from their toxic lips. They did not seek out treasures or castles; rather, they sought out the living, where they might sow hatred and division among the kingdoms of men.

  The most recently identified breed of dragon is the shadow drake. Previously, a shadow drake was believed to have terrorized the eastern reaches of Antirri, but even that was almost a thousand years ago. Only a tiny amount of literature made any mention of these darkened beasts from ages gone by, but new reports of the dragon have reached us here in Tempour. Yes, that is right, a dragon here in Darnisi, in the present age. That would make him, or her, the first known dragon in the West.

  This particular monster’s name is Slayvin. Apparently, this foul demon of a beast is a shade of black that even night does not know. His blackened hide, like layered stones of onyx and obsidian, is covered in jagged scales and rigid spikes. Those who have witnessed the beast and lived to tell about it say that this wicked creature is truly an abomination, like a specter or dragon revenant. The haunting descriptions of the undead dragon are hopefully more terrifying than the beast himself, but I am doubtful. It is said that unlike other great wyrms, this beast is a hardened shell, with no innards save for churning and boiling flames within. He is a massive creature but only average in size among dragons, by all that we can tell. Larger than the greens but still smaller than the reds, I would suppose.

  Yet he is crafty and rarely relies on brute force. Much like the emerald dragons’ lore would suggest, he appears more than willing to allow the very people that he lords over to do his bidding. Twisting their words and thoughts into actions, he guides them with his corrupted hand. Like the noxious gasses of the emerald dragons, the shadow drake’s words and ideas are toxic. Fear, doubt, and unbelief spread among those in his presence. All dragons emit an aura of dread; it radiates right out of them. But it sounds as if this Slayvin is a master of it. Witnesses that have returned from reconnaissance missions have reported tremors and night terrors lasting weeks beyond their mission, and it all appears to be from extended exposure to the dragon fear. While we are still gathering intelligence on Slayvin and his plans, what we do know is that he does clearly fit the limited description of the black dragons of old. More to come…

  There are some reports of other types of dragons, but until further investigation is completed to corroborate these claims, they will remain uncategorized and noted as mere speculation.

  —Jonus Quillbearer VII, year 7597

  11 Exodus

  The crisp morning air smelled of autumn. The sun woke the sleepy land as it rose slowly into the clear sky. The silence was encroached upon only by the crackle of the campfires and the screech of the red-tailed hawk gliding above. The green hills were beginning to fade as the cold started to set in. The seasons were changing more than they knew.

  Ogron and Theros strode swiftly past the guards into the small DaggerTooth village. Ignoring the greetings of the others, they marched to the center of the village toward the chieftain’s large hide-wrapped tent. Rising quickly to cut off their advance, a young greenskin stood at the entrance of the tent with a large axe in his hands. He was greeted with a throaty snarl from Theros before he jumped out of their way.

  Flinging the tent flap open, Ogron moved inside quickly and abruptly snatched Mogrull by the throat with one massive hand. Before any words could be exchanged, Mogrull’s gaunt frame was effortlessly hurled out of the tent. The elder fought to catch his breath as he crawled on his hands and knees.

  “What is the meaning of this treachery?” cried out Mogrull.

  “Silence! Or I will cut that silver tongue from your mouth, you snake,” bellowed Ogron as he charged out of the tent after the elder DaggerTooth. “How could you betray your own people?” he barked.

  The commotion stirred the orcs, quickly drawing a crowd around the altercation. Forming a wide circle in the heart of the encampment, they stood and stared in confusion at the scene before them.

  “Betray my people? Hammerfist, you are mad! I am not the one who is leading my people off like lambs to the slaughter!” shrieked Mogrull.

  “I did not cast the shadow of the Zenari over our people, but I will certainly not march us into the mouth of the dragon either!” howled the chieftain. The crowd shuddered and let out gasps of shock and disbelief at the mention of a dragon. Murmuring broke out amongst the villagers.

  “A dragon? Nothing serves your purpose like dredging up folktales to scare the people into servitude. You cannot control the orcs through fear and deception, Hammerfist,” hissed Mogrull.

  “What do you have to gain from destroying our kind? What did he offer you?” questioned Ogron.

  Then there came a deafening roar in the short distance to the south. Immediately everyone shifted their attention to the source of the noise, and a terrifying sight met their eyes. A great black dragon stood in the valley before the village. He was surrounded by what must have been thousands of marching soldiers robed in black. He let out another hellacious roar. Then he stretched his neck toward the sky and loosed a torrent of flame into the air.

  Panic overtook the villagers at the sight of the great monstrosity. It was in that moment that Mogrull let out a wicked chuckle. An evil look fell over his face. Subtly he reached for a dagger from inside his tunic. Then he lunged toward Ogron, thrusting the blade toward his abdomen.

  Unaware, Ogron stood defenseless, his eyes fixed on the horizon. A mighty howl of rage erupted from the scene of the treachery, followed by a shrill cry. Shock washed over Ogron’s face as he turned. Staring down, he saw Mogrull’s crumpled body writhing under the weight of Theros’ great hammer.

  “The black dragon will destroy you!” hissed the traitorous orc with hatred.

  “He would destroy all of us, you fool! You have handed your people over to the beast. Do you not realize what you have done?” replied the chieftain.

  “No. My master will s-show you,” stammered the gaunt orc.

  “Stoking your master’s fire will not save you from the flames,” spoke Ogron with pity.

  “Send me to my master,” urged Mogrull as he rolled to his feet slowly.

  “You speak from out of darkness. Stay here, old chief,” implored the chieftain.

  “Let the snake go so he can join his kind!” barked the behemoth.

  “Theros, enough,” spoke the chieftain calmly.

  “I will reign in glory at the right hand of my master. You will rue the day that you did not heed my words, GrayHides,” warned Mogrull. He watched over his shoulder as he limped out of camp toward the approaching army. Theros began to chase after him but was motioned to stop by the chieftain with a gesture of his hand. They stood watching the old orc dash away over the southern hills.

  “We can’t fight thi
s force. We must evacuate the villages. Send scouts to warn the villages, and sound the drums!” shouted Ogron to the village.

  Orc women began herding the young children into the carts as the older men began pounding the leather hide drums. Boom-boom-boom, boom-boom-boom, boom-boom-boom. Three rapid beats on the drum echoed repeatedly over the grassy hilltops.

  “You men come with us to harness the hralls, and the rest of you load up the wagons,” ordered the chieftain before he dashed off toward the beasts that grazed nearby.

  Tree trunk sized legs held the massive creatures well above the tallest grass. Their wrinkled, sun-worn hides were sparsely populated by tiny sprouts of hair. Yet it was their sword like tusks that always stole the show.

  Grabbing the bridle of the closest beast, Theros began leading it to a wagon that was being loaded with children. The hrall submitted to his guidance quickly, moving its massive body into place. His fingers moved furiously as he worked to fasten the harness’s leather straps around the wagon’s two shafts.

  Ogron shifted his gaze back to the horizon, where the encroaching army grew closer, larger. It was happening too fast. They had to be only two minutes away by horse. Then he returned his focus to the task at hand. Wagon after wagon were hitched to the thick leather harnesses until all seven hralls were under load. Ogron rushed to the front of the caravan to the lead wagon.