Merry jumped at a sudden static shock. Gully had stealthily reached over to touch the small of her back. He was now doubled over with laughter. She knew Gully; he would never grow tired of that prank. He was too annoying to have that kind of power!
“Can’t you do anything about him?” she asked the sword. She wished it would become the old man again; she didn’t like talking to the thin air.
“It would be imprudent for me to take control at this point.” The sword spoke directly in her head. “I am still not entirely sure how he is able to wield me at all.”
She didn’t like the implications of the sword taking control, but she also didn’t like the way Gully’s hair was standing up and waving slightly like it was alive with a life of its own. Or the extra nervous energy—even more than normal—that he seemed to have as he paced around the room swinging the sword.
She dodged another of his shock touches as he came back over to her. Gully stepped in uncomfortably close and looked up at her with a huge, maniacal grin.
“What’s with the worried face? Never fear, I can protect you now.”
She couldn’t really blame the sword for the mania—that was pure, undiluted Gully. The only difference was now his wild game was all too real.
“Young masters,” the sword spoke out loud. “We should get going; there is no telling how much longer this room will be safe.”
“What do you mean?” Merry asked.
“I cannot be certain what has transpired in the cove above, or which dragon is likely to come through that opening next,” the sword explained. “It would be best to expand our exit options.”
“I think he means we should go explore,” Gully explained eagerly.
Ratnosk made his way carefully out of the safe, dark tunnel and into the sea cavern. The bright, horrid sunlight was streaming in the cavern opening and reflecting off the ocean waters, casting light to the deepest recesses of this cave.
Reaching into his belt pouch with one clawed hand, he pulled out his goggles of shadow and carefully placed them over his eyes. Protected from the harsh glare of day, he made his way across the narrow ledge and around the bend into the main cavern, where he immediately stopped at what he saw.
Two savage-looking Fokari sat on the rocky ledge above the water, no more than twenty feet in front of him. And floating in the water in the center of the cave was a large boulder of ice. In the heat of summer, that could only mean one thing. These were sorcerers and this was an attack on the tribe!
The invaders seemed as shocked to see him as he was them. This was his chance to escape, warn his people, and become a hero accepted back in the nesting circles. He turned on his tail to run back along the narrow ledge to the tunnels and ran headlong into the claw of a dragon.
There are few higher honors than to be slain by one of the Great Ones, true incarnations of divinity on earth, except perhaps to be chosen to serve. He threw himself prone and hoped for a quick death—it was the most a second-rate trap-jack like him could wish for when in the presence of a god incarnate.
“What are you doing here, little one?”
The Great One spoke to him in the true tongue! He shuddered in excitement. Her voice was like the dulcet tones of the dragon harp in the Hall of Choosing. The Great One was allowing him to live, at least for now, and she had actually spoken to him! He gathered his resolve and responded in the ritual formula that each of the people were taught from hatching, but never dared hope to actually use.
“Oh, glorious and powerful master of spirit and elements, I have no greater wish, and there is no greater fulfillment, than to serve you in both my life and my death. Take of me what you will and I will give you my all.”
Even to his ears, his voice was high and unworthy, his pronunciation coarse, his tempo horrible.
Huge eyes of deep green regarded him for a moment. The undulating light reflected off the waves at the cave entrance highlighted the spectacular glow of the Great One’s shimmering bronze scales. Ratnosk held his breath awaiting the answer that could define his existence.
“Just great!” the dragon sighed, one powerful claw going to her head, “Kobolds!”
Merry mourned the loss of her book as they walked down the corridor of stone; she would have liked to map these corridors as she went. She had started out counting paces, but gave that up to keep up with Gully; he didn’t even seem to care that she had the light. The feel of the magic sword he grasped tightly in his hands was good enough for him as he forged ahead.
She held up her glowing club to cast its light as far as possible as they stopped at the top of a stairway. There was no sign of a bottom, but there was the faint slosh of water.
“No,” she whispered as Gully started down. “We want up.”
She didn’t want to mention to Gully that she already felt they were under sea level. It was odd that the room they came from had a water level just below the floor, yet these stairs went down quite some ways. When they opened the chamber door, she had felt her ears pop, and there was constant moisture dripping from the walls and ceiling of these corridors.
She couldn’t help feeling that this place was filled with air, like the old tin cup she used to play within the bath. One casual tilt and the precious air would bubble out.
They backtracked to a four-way intersection, Gully pushing past with a static shock to get back in front. All four corridors faded into darkness at the far reaches of her light. To the left was the way they had originally come down.
“Go right again,” she mouthed to him, motioning with the club.
This passage went perhaps a hundred paces and ended at a door. They had a difficult time getting that first door open between the two of them, and this one looked even more solidly wedged shut. She motioned him back from the door.
“We kick it in and I charge?” Gully asked in an excited whisper.
“No. We go back and see where the other passage goes.”
“What? Are we just going to wander back and forth, afraid of going anywhere?”
“A smart warrior knows the lay of the land. And keep your voice down.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, maybe because it’s smart! Just do it.”
She thought for a minute and then whispered, “Inazuma, can you see what’s behind that door?”
“I’m afraid not,” the sword responded. “My magic does not allow me to see through objects as solid as metal, wood, or stone.”
“Then we go back and keep looking,” Merry said definitively.
Perovich whistled appreciatively as he approached the towering statue of bronze. By the blessed gods, the eyes look like real emeralds! He wished Merry was here to see this before he plucked them out.
Faintly rippling streams of shimmering light were coming from one of the deeper pools above; a vast sheet of transparent material formed the floor of the pool and held the water in place. The light cast from the sun was still to the front of the statue, but by midday, it would shine directly down.
The other end of the chamber was cloaked in shadows, but Perovich could make out a statue of a huge bearded man with a greatsword. The eyes appeared to be sapphire but were smaller than those in the dragon statue. Also, it was in darkness and was a more vertical climb.
So, humming happily and grinning like a kid, he took out the length of rope he had with him and assayed how best to manage the two-story climb up the smooth bronze neck to the top.
By the time he finally reached the great horns that rimmed the creature’s head, his grin had changed to a grimace of determination. It had been slicker and harder than it looked, with two close calls that set his blood racing. If he fell and was hurt here, no one would know where he was.
It was funny how he didn’t think of that until he was hanging upside-down by his knees twenty feet in the air.
His torch, left below, had long since sputtered out. So, he sat resting for a moment on the dragonhead with only the dim, wavering light filtering through the pool above. He was enjoyi
ng his conquest and assessing the safest way to remove the large green gems when the shadow fell upon him. He looked up into the water suspended directly over his head and almost fell off the statue.
He found himself only scant feet from the maw of a dragon of the darkest sort! The creature’s pale-yellow eyes glared at him from its ebony skull-like face. Its head was framed on either side by a pair of large, slightly curved horns, and its vicious-looking teeth jutted from its mouth even while closed. It was pure black, looked utterly evil, and he was sure it was looking at him with malicious glee.
It raised its claw and struck at him. The invisible floor of the pool didn’t so much as vibrate. The creature now appeared to be roaring at him, if such was possible underwater, but he could not hear it. Perovich couldn’t help but wince as the dragon spat a huge quantity of nasty-looking green bile at the magical barrier directly over his head. Other than clouding the water a little, there was no effect.
Slowly regaining his courage, Perovich reached up and touched the barrier just above his head. There was no feeling, neither warm nor cool to the touch; his hand was simply stopped on a perfectly smooth barrier of magic.
He then did what was arguably the stupidest act of his short life, one that was already filled with a grand parade of spectacular foolishness. He taunted a dragon.
Ratnosk couldn’t help but feel the new mistress was somehow displeased with him. And the more he bowed and scraped, the less happy she seemed. Here he was, the first representative of his tribe to be in the presence of a dragon for a dozen generations, and he was failing miserably to please her. Worse, he was failing his whole tribe, and at this rate, she would fly off, and it was all his fault.
He wasn’t displaying his sincerity enough. He needed to try harder, perhaps with the dance and chant of servility.
“Just stop! Stand still, be quiet, and let me think.”
He froze in place, holding as still as he could. It was an awkward position, and he had to shift his tail slightly to keep from falling over. Even in the smallest things, he could not serve properly. He waited for her to smite him for that transgression, but the killing blow did not come.
“What’s your name?”
Her question startled him; it sounded like she was asking for his name. For an instant, he entertained the fantasy that he was to be a chosen one, a direct servant of a dragon. But then he came to his senses—she must be asking for his tribe name.
“We are the humble Bendtail clan, oh Magnificent One,” he replied, his voice squeaking in his nervousness.
“How many are in your tribe and how far from here do you nest?” the dragon asked, moving lower in the water so she no longer towered over him. Her eyes were now level with his, although they were each almost as large as his entire head. Her jaws could snap him up in one bite and swallow him still squirming like he would with a small tunnel-runner.
He was taking too long to answer, Ratnosk thought with panic, but he didn’t dare get it wrong. Holding still, he missed the use of his claws to help the count in his head.
“One hundred and forty-four, including the latest hatchlings, if it pleases you,” he said, thinking how pathetically small and depleted his tribe had become. “And our current tunnels are but a fifteen-minute walk from here, oh Glorious One.”
He carefully kept his pose and barely dared breathe as the dragon regarded him for a few moments.
“Relax,” she commanded. He found that hard to do, but tried to comply.
“What’s your name, little one?”
He could barely contain his joy; she was asking for his personal name. He was chosen! He wanted to dance, but opted for a first-degree bow as he said, “Ratnosk il Nurhoth, trap-jack, third-class of the Bendtail clan.”
“Very well, Ratnosk, I am Rukastanna of the Greymantle clan,” the dragon said.
He couldn’t believe his great fortune. “Yes, oh Rukastanna the Radiant and Benevolent, it shall be as you command.”
Then the dragon seemed to grow in size. Bringing her jaws frighteningly close, she said, “These humans and their family are under my personal protection. If any harm comes to them from your clan, then I shall declare vendetta on the Bendtail and expunge them from existence.”
As she looked at him, her eyes seemed to shift from green to amber, the pupils narrowing to mere slits. The dragon opened her mouth wide, and from this short distance, he could clearly see sparks of lightning arcing across the rows of wicked-looking serrated teeth within her great jaws. He could smell the imminent storm bolt on the air. And even through his shadow goggles, the glare building deep within the dragon’s maw hurt his terror-widened eyes.
“Are we clear?” she snapped her jaws shut with a rumble of swallowed thunder.
It was the first he saw her truly look draconic, and it sent shivers of both fear and joy down his spine.
“Yes, oh Mistress of a Thousand Glorious Virtues,” Ratnosk cried as he prostrated himself again before her. “Shall we bring tribute, oh Incarnation of Supreme Generosity?”
“Yes. Yes, I think tribute would be nice,” the dragon said thoughtfully, her eyes returning to their deep green glow, and her entire aspect brightening.
“Oh, and you wouldn’t happen to have a boat, would you?”
4
Storm God’s Revenge
Perovich had no idea where this terrible creature had come from, whether it had been living here for days, or had just arrived. But here it was, and all his dreams were going to be snatched away, along with his loved ones.
He recognized the horrible visage of the dark dragon instantly; it matched the tapestries in both the temple’s Hall of Memories and Ravenford Keep’s great hall. It was also unmistakably the same jagged shape—although much smaller—as the great black skull in the dragon crypt of Ravenford.
Once a year, to mark the solemn remembrance of all those lost in the Desolation, the townsfolk of Ravenford walked by candlelight past the nearly five hundred markers of those who were lost. He and Hevik always paused to light seven candles for the parents and siblings he barely remembered now. And then they went down into the dragon crypt to stare quietly at the great bones and horrid skull.
They stopped that practice and closed down the dragon crypt years ago, and he had nearly forgotten the skull that had stalked the nightmares of his youth. But here it was again, a much smaller but no less horrible image of the Bringer of Desolation.
What overcame him then, even he couldn’t explain—perhaps a manic reaction instilled by the cruel twist of fate, bringing his darkest childhood fears to his moment of triumph. Even if the barrier above held, the creature was out there with what little family he had left, and Perovich prayed that the creature hadn’t noticed the fishing boat yet. And at that moment, he decided that he was going to do everything in his power to make sure that it wouldn’t.
A strange courage instilled by fatalistic abandon overcame him. He was going to keep this creature from his family, and while he was at it, he would have his treasure too, if only for brief moments. He gestured his contempt at cruel fate to the dragon above and shouted.
“Listen, you ugly wyrm, this treasure is mine! It’s not for moronic lizards that can’t even break a little glass!”
The dragon might not be able to hear him, so he added several more gestures to make sure his point was clear. Then he proceeded to pry out the eyes of the statue with his dagger. And he held up the huge gems, bigger around than his fist, to further mock the dragon. But it was already gone.
There was no telling how long it would take the thing to find the entrance, or whether it could even fit, so he tossed the gems in his satchel and went down the rope the fast way, burning his hands in the process. Just as he reached the bottom, he heard a crashing as the fallen tree by the hole he had entered was violently thrown aside. Gods, he thought, that was quick.
He left the rope, staff, and his sandals where they were. Grabbing his torch stub, he ran for the side of the room opposite from where he entered. In t
he dim light, he could just make out a dark arch between two pillars there. Running, he fanned sparks from the stub, snagged another torch from his bag, and lit it. As he passed the open arch, he threw the sputtering torch in as far as he could.
On his toes and as quietly as possible, he sprinted down to the dark end of the hall and the other statue. He heard the crashing from the stairs as something large was forcing its way through. As he approached, he realized the statue was of Alaric, the Lord of Storms, one of the gods that no sailor wanted to anger. The statue’s right hand rested upon the pommel of a greatsword, point down, in front of it. Its left hand held aloft a lightning bolt that glinted in the dim light. A cloak flowed down its back as if frozen in a storm breeze. The flared cloak provided just enough angle for him to pull himself upon it. Crouching in the stone folds behind the figure like some small child playing piggyback, he was off the ground and effectively out of sight of most of the room.
From here, he could see that there was a circular opening over this statue, too. But instead of looking up into a pool, it was a gold dome of some sort, with a rod and a sphere suspended from the middle of it. Both the sphere and the bolt held by the statue looked to be wrought of solid gold.
He forgot about golden treasure as he heard the dark dragon push its way into the room, and he began praying silently and reverently to the Lord of Storms for forgiveness for his wayward actions and thoughts.
Slowly, quietly, carefully, he pulled himself up and peered over the statue’s shoulder. Across the hall, he saw the creature heading toward the tunnel the torch had been thrown into.
The dragon that appeared so huge in the pool above him was dwarfed by the gargantuan statue of bronze. It was small for a dragon, but it still looked large enough to consume a family of fishermen in one meal—and savage enough, too.
The creature walked with a slight limp and held one wing a little stiffly as if it pained him. Was it injured in a fight? What creature could hurt a dragon like that, he didn’t know, but if it couldn’t fly well at the moment, the gods had given them all a chance. If only he could slip by the beast, perhaps block the entrance somehow to slow it down. With the Foam Lady turned with the wind and him at the tiller, the creature would never catch them.
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