“Snow falls endlessly there, building in great magical mountains of elemental ice, called glaciers. Only the barrier of the Reach keeps these glaciers from marching south to crush the frail lands of summer beneath their frozen boots.
“It is upon these mighty glaciers that the ice dragons mate and hatch their young. And it is beneath the greatest of the glaciers that the elder wyrm, Crustallumax, father of all ice dragons, has his vast crystalline hall.”
Uncle Vic looked impressed; maybe spending all those hours in the library had been worth it.
Irovnia sighed longingly, “That sounds so wonderful, like a blissful dream. A place where snow falls naturally from the sky onto all the lands, not just on mountain tops.”
She’s never seen even normal winter or snow! Merry suddenly realized. How far south was this ice dragon forced to live?
Of course, it wouldn’t do for a fortune teller to have to ask such questions. Merry needed more information, so she instead asked, “What are your thoughts on my note?”
“I don’t know, do you really think Crustallumax will be able to tell me my progenitor flight? Can I really meet them? Be accepted by them? How can I dare go north, like you say? I don’t even speak proper draconic! I’ve always been told that I’m tainted by humans, and that proves it. I will be driven out or slain by true ice dragons!”
The dragon’s feelings seemed to be coming out in a torrent like some ice dam had broken.
“But I can’t stay with humans. The best I could hope for would be another luxurious basement prison keeping some other summer palace cool. But most probably, like Theria says, they will just see me as an evil enemy no matter what I do. I will be reviled, hunted, and slain just for the color of my scales, and my ancestors from a millennia ago being on the wrong side of some war.
“But I can’t be like Theria, I can’t just hate humans. I can’t wage war to hunt and kill them, as the code of the Quinary says. And I certainly can’t eat them!” At that last point, Irovnia made the same disgusted face that Gully did when confronted with broccoli.
“There is truly no place for me!”
Irovnia’s childlike form looked on the verge of tears; in fact, a few flakes of snow fell from her eyes. Merry wanted to just reach out and hug her, but the icy chill that began radiating from her hands as she got upset reminded Merry of what this ‘child’ really was. Would an ice dragon even like warm hugs?
In the ensuing silence after Irovnia’s rant, both the dragon and her whole family were looking at Merry expectantly. She felt like she was tightrope-walking a razor.
Merry remembered clearly the time she found a baby bird fallen from its nest and brought it home. Pa said that they couldn’t possibly care for it, and it would most likely die in their care. He also told her that by picking it up she had doomed it as the bird’s parents would no longer care for it. The best they could do would be to put it back in the nest and hope for the best.
When she saw a similar-looking bird flying around the following season, she was overjoyed that it had survived. That is, until her brother told her, with typical Gully glee, that it had died and Pa had secretly buried it. Merry vowed to herself to at least try and save the next fallen baby bird.
But that analogy failed in the simple fact that a baby bird cannot freeze her entire family to death. And although she had a pang of guilt in lying to a child, Merry also didn’t want to get her family killed in a childish tantrum if this ‘baby bird’ got too upset.
Uncle Vic was making a subtle move on gesture with his hand and clearly mouthing go north out of the corner of his mouth. Merry sighed inwardly but outwardly projected what she hoped was a confident visage.
“If no matter what you do, you will most likely encounter heartache or failure, why not do what your heart most desires, and go north?” Merry said. “At the very least, you’ll get to see the lands of snow.”
“Snow,” Irovnia said wistfully, her face lighting up with simple delight at the idea of it. “Yes, I will.”
“Thank you,” Irovnia declared, climbing to the railing, “not just for freeing me from the princess, but for your wise advice. You are a true dragon-friend! Farewell, sorceress and heroes!”
Then she stepped off the railing into a blinding blizzard of snow that was blown apart by flapping wings. And the white ice dragon, Irovnia, flew north, over the cliff.
When the dragon was out of sight, all the strength left Merry’s legs and she sat down hard in the middle of the deck.
“Well done.” Pa put his hand on her shoulder and smiled down at her.
“Get comfortable,” Uncle Vic said, looking over the railing at the ice, “We’re going to be here a while.”
“Can we blast it?” Gully asked eagerly.
“Sadly, it would not be as effective as you think,” Inazuma responded.
“I’ll try breaking up some of the ice, and maybe I can save a bit of it,” Uncle Vic mused. “There’s always a rube in the market who’ll over-pay if we tell him it’s dragon-ice.”
“It is,” Merry pointed out.
“Still just frozen water,” Uncle Vic replied.
“I’ll go check on Ratnosk,” Uncle Wex said.
“Really?” Uncle Vic raised an eyebrow at the thought.
“Yeah, the little lizard has kind of grown on me.”
A half-hour later, they spied Ruka slowly approaching their beach. She was swimming backwards, struggling and hauling something large. Looking through the spyglass, Merry gasped, “The dragon!”
“Yeah, we know Ruka’s a dragon,” Uncle Vic pointed out.
“No, she’s got the fire dragon! Look.” She handed the spyglass around.
Everyone was equally stumped, and they had to wait another half-hour for Ruka to make it to the beach. It was nearly full dark, with the retreating sun only painting faint pink traces on some high, wispy clouds. Merry once again evoked light upon her club, and they all cautiously made their way down the beach to where Ruka was. She lay panting, with her head laying just out of the surf. Next to her was the crimson head of the fire dragon. It was covered with large spines, and its jaws were half again as large as Ruka’s.
Ruka raised one claw weakly in their direction as they approached and gasped out, “No, don’t bother lending a hand, I got this. She only weighs three tons, and doesn’t float.”
“Why?” Pa asked the question they were all wondering.
“Good question! Not only don’t they float, but I think fire dragon muscles are made of solid rock. And who needs that many spines? It’s like hauling a sack of boulders, but in a porcupine sack!”
“No, why did you…”
“Why is a beautiful dragon, dragging a dragon onto your beach? I bet that isn’t something you get to ask every day. And now I’ve beat you to it.”
It was strange hearing that sarcastic girl’s voice coming from that serpentine throat. Merry was certain there was some kind of magic to it. But it made it clear enough for them all to catch the faint, desperate dodging behind her attempts at humor.
“Unfortunately, it looks like it was all for nothing, she’s mostly dead already. I don’t know what to do… but I’ll think of something…”
“Ruka,” Uncle Vic said quietly.
Ruka suddenly rose from the surf and scrambled up to Uncle Vic so quickly that everyone else took a step back. She stopped with her jaws only inches from his face. And sniffed.
“Vic?” she asked in a soft, tentative tone.
“Yeah.”
They were all shocked when he reached out to cradle that deadly jaw against his chest, and even more surprised that she let him.
“You just can’t watch anyone die,” Uncle Vic said quietly.
“No, never again,” Ruka’s reply was just a soft rumble, almost lost amid the sound of rolling surf.
It was a long, tiring climb back toward awareness, punctuated by little jolts. And the only reward for the climb was terrible aching pain that permeated her whole body. Theria had just decided t
hat it was not worth it and began to sink back down when she heard the voice.
“Ha! Foul beast, there will be no mercy for you!”
Everything was still fuzzy. She had no clue how she came to be bested by some knight. Despite the pain, her body seemed distant, and she couldn’t move a single claw. Her hearing was warped; the knight’s voice sounded strangely high, even for a puny human speaking the common tongue. Just opening an eye was beyond her. But she struggled with titanic effort to do so.
Slowly she finally managed the exhausting task of forcing up the lid of one eye. Focusing seemed to take even longer, but eventually, she made out the form of a skinny man-child. He stood upon her shoulder, holding a wooden stick like a sword. The boy wore no armor, just a garment around his loins. And so cold were her scales that he could stand upon her in bare feet without burning. They seemed to be on a beach of some kind, with glistening stars partly blocked by a dark looming cliff, and icy lapping water nearby. And it was cold, so cold!
“Once again, Gulhawk the Mighty is triumphant,” the boy crowed, brandishing his fake sword aloft. As he did so, he turned slightly and Theria saw the scar that ran across his chest.
She recognized this boy. It became clear that she was in purgatory and the spirits of those she had slain had come to torment her. But she didn’t mind so much. The boy’s weight was unnoticeable. She only felt the faint sparks that traveled down the stick from the boy’s hand when he struck her scales. But they were almost pleasant pricks of pain, compared to the constant soul-freezing torment that was her existence.
In fact, the tiny spawn’s antics of busily trying to behead her with a stick reminded Theria of her little Scorch. He would play such games, jumping at her with delightful viciousness.
She saw with terrible clarity now that her Scorch was dead, killed long ago by his cruel sire. In her grief, she had fled the molten lands and been ensnared by the Dragon Thrall Lord. Worse, that monster known as Theramon had clouded her mind, making her believe that another orphan dragon, controlled by Princess Anya, was her Scorch.
Neither of her Scorches had lived long enough to get their true dragon names. You don’t give little fire embers their names until they make it into their second decade because so few survive that long.
And she couldn’t fault that fake little one. He had been dear to her, regardless of the lie. And the deception was only possible because it was what she most fervently wished. Theria had deceived herself. And she couldn’t let him go to the fate that the master of lies claimed was his.
Maybe there was a chance if she recovered his body, and begged Princess Anya, that they could restore him. She had seen the priestess Jesira do it with humans but wasn’t sure it could be done with dragon spirits. And the cost would be terrible. But it would be worth it.
Of course, if she were truly dead herself, that was impossible. But why couldn’t she travel from this purgatory to unite with the spirits of her lost ones? With a sinking feeling, she realized that she had died in the water, and so was eternally damned.
“Gully, get away from there. It might not be dead!” a familiar girl’s voice called.
So, another slain spirit had come to torment Theria and tease her that she might still be alive.
“It will be dead when I’m done with it,” the boy responded.
Oh, what splendid ruthlessness! She was beginning to like this one. There were worse things to spend purgatory with than a little scorchling.
The girl brought a light over with her; it glowed on the end of a familiar-looking stick. Theria found the energy somewhere to shift her eye and focus on her. This was that girl alright, Meriwynn Fichgotz, the storybook author. The light she carried was enough for her to see Theria’s one-eyed gaze.
“Gully, run!” the girl Meriwynn hissed urgently.
The startled boy leaped off Theria with a gasp and ran to his sister. She placed him behind her and raised her glowing club. Was she going to try beating on her with a stick again? Theria wished she had the breath to chuckle.
The boy recovered slightly and moved to stand next to his sister, his little stick-sword held forward in both hands. There was only the slightest tremor to it. Looking through the veil, she could see his spirit encompass the stick with a very minor aspect of lightning. So, he was some fledgling spirit-blade? He probably would have grown up to be a dragon slayer, so it was just as well they were all dead.
“Ruka!” Meriwynn called out the side of her mouth in a nervously rising pitch trying to be heard without making too much noise, “it’s alive.”
They back out of Theria’s sight. She didn’t even consider moving her head to follow their movements. All that talk about her being alive was giving her a headache. So maybe it was true. So what? Theria found she had little interest in continued existence, one way or the other.
There is no fire. Some small, faint voice from within told her. I need to relight it. She looked deep to find her flames. There should be a roaring inferno spread throughout, but there was not even a small candle’s flicker in a corner.
Searching for a spark, she came upon the image of herself as a tiny wyrmling shivering in the cold and snuggling up to the still body of her mother, who would never shed heat again. She had hidden when the knights came, obeying her mother’s command, and believing her lie that everything would be all right. All that was left to her then was a cold corpse and a torn pennant of a rose.
This was one of her first and most powerful igniters of inner blazing rage, yet it only left aged, cold sadness now. Where has my fire gone? Even the memory of her poor dead Scorch, doubly lost to her, did not bring healthy bitter fury, it only invoked staggering sorrow.
She tried to clear the miasma from her mind and remember what happened. After Theramon had goaded her with Scorch’s death and desecration, she had found the strength to briefly break free of the Dragon Master. She fought him with every ounce of her spirit and got totally thrashed.
Theria felt betrayed at the failure of her own power. She had been defeated before, but always knew deep down that she could overcome anything with a heart of fire. This defeat went deeper. It was a rape and plunder of her spirit such as no creature should endure. And then she drowned.
She faintly heard whispering voices over the ringing in her ears. At least her draconic hearing was still working.
“It’s not dead! You said it was dead,” Meriwynn’s voice was an accusatory whisper.
“First of all, it is a she,” a new girl’s voice replied calmly. “Seriously, you fish-guts need to work on your pronouns. Second of all, I said she was mostly dead; that’s a critical difference.”
“Okay, but what’re we going to do about her?”
“We are going to nothing,” the new girl replied. “You are going to get on the boat and tell your dad to set sail. The moon will be up very soon; the airship is long gone and the coast is literally clear.
“Sail up to Fisheye Cove and I’ll catch up to you there. And just in case, I’ll lend Gully Inazuma once more, now that he’s fully charged again.”
“Awesome!” This excited cry was voiced by that wonderfully wicked little scorchling again.
“No lightning unless necessary,” the new girl said firmly, “I’ll sense it, come fast, and it had better be serious trouble, or there will be.”
“Oh, all right.”
Several footsteps moved hurriedly away with a final whispered “Be careful” from Meriwynn. A single tread approached Theria confidently.
“Not dead? Good, I wouldn’t want to go through all that work just to haul a corpse here. You’re heavy!”
The dragon approached her in the form of a girl. Looking through the spirit veil, Theria could only see the girl. But she knew this one. She wasn’t sure why the storm dragon bothered with a disguise so deep, or what game she played. The obvious answer was to better torment Theria in the form of the most dangerous and hateful of creatures.
She knew this game; she was kept alive to be tortured and then killed
later. It was something Garrikon had taught her. She had escaped then, but she had a hard time generating any real interest in her fate at the moment. It was best to just get it over with quickly. So, she struggled to gather a little puff of air in her once-mighty bellows and play the game.
“Who?”
It was a ragged, faint whisper that would have ended in coughing from her seawater-burned throat if she had the breath to do so.
“Me?” the pretend girl casually walked over and crouched on her haunches near Theria’s head. Her tormentor was well within striking distance of her jaws; perhaps to demonstrate her current weakness.
“Hmm,” she seemed to seriously consider the question. “Formally as written in the Gol Draconis, I am Rukastanna ga Yatharia, et cetera and yawn all the way back to Leviantianus. You’ve heard it all before from my sister.
“In my dad’s culture, I’d be Rukastanna Greymantle. I usually go by the latter, although I’ve recently discovered that isn’t really his surname either, but a title. So, I’m just me; and I’d rather be called Ruka, by both friends and enemies.”
Theria tried to gather the breath for a formal reply. It was compulsive even in her present torpor; the proper forms had been literally beaten into her. Her traitorous lungs took that opportunity for the coughing they so desperately needed. A half-ocean of seawater seemed to come out as well.
“Whoa,” Ruka said, standing and stepping back from the spray. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Let me help you out. You’re Theriaxus, something, something, of the Ignoramus clan, right? You shouted it pretty clearly across the cove, but I was busy being on fire at the time.” She rolled her shoulders with a grimace. “So, hopefully you’ll forgive me if I didn’t memorize it.”
Theria was fairly certain that the mangling of her ancestor’s name was an insult in the common tongue. If she had even the slightest flicker of fire left, it might have enraged her.
Tales From Thac Page 42