Ascension: The Dragons of Kendualdern

by Sam Ferguson

  Algearon nodded. “You lost a third of the upper portion of the bone. It was shattered. I removed the shards I could find. There was nothing else I could do for it.”

  Gorliad stared blankly, not sure what to think, say, or feel.

  “Come on out then, let’s see if you can walk,” Algearon said.

  Gorliad pushed forward, taking a step with his left leg. It felt numb and tired, but it was strong. He moved his rear legs, keeping them under him for stability. His right foreleg no longer reached the floor. It hung several inches above the stone.

  Algearon sighed and shook his head. “Useless,” he said as he eyed the withered leg.

  Gorliad went to stretch his wings to help himself maintain balance. As he did so, his left wing hitched, and failed to open. Stunned, the young dragon turned his head to look at his wings. His left wing had atrophied, and the bone in the middle had a large bump over it that prevented the middle joint from extending fully to open the wing.

  “Your wing is also useless,” Algearon grumbled. “That is even worse than I had expected.”

  The black hatchling sniffed the air in front of Gorliad and then sneered, turning its snout up and trotting away to lay down by the fire in the hearth.

  “Who is this, and why is he in my room?” Gorliad asked.

  Algearon snorted. “Actually, this is the new prince, Beleriad. And, now that you are maim, I am afraid you are in his room, not the other way around.”

  “What do you mean?” Gorliad asked as he limped out from the treasure pile and closer to Algearon. “I have always been here.”

  Algearon nodded and smoothed his beard down against his chest. “I’ll be plain with you. You were injured badly, and almost killed when you ran out to fight the challenger by yourself. You came here to recover. In the meantime, the high queen laid another crowned egg.” Algearon thumbed at Beleriad. “In the intervening months, he hatched and is now under my tutelage and training.”

  “What of me?” Gorliad asked.

  Algearon shrugged. “You are maim,” he replied, as if that should explain it all.

  Gorliad glanced to the black dragon and then back to the dwarf. “I will speak to my mother,” Gorliad said.

  Algearon held a hand up in the air and shook his head. “The high queen is not to be disturbed.”

  Gorliad lowered his head, placing the horn on the end of his snout just inches away from Algearon’s face. “I shall speak with my mother.”

  “You are maim,” Algearon said. “You have lost your birthright. You no longer carry the noble bloodline.”

  Gorliad pulled his head back and gray wisps of smoke snaked out from his snout. He looked down to his leg, and then shot a puzzled expression at Algearon. “What are you saying?”

  Algearon folded his arms over his chest and arched his bushy right brow. “You are fallen, Gorliad. You can no longer inherit. Tradition holds that maimed dragons are to be servants. Even one such as you, once called son of the king, is now nothing more than a servant.”

  “I am a prince,” Gorliad replied evenly.

  “You are maim, an untouchable by dragon standards. You should feel lucky and honored to be allowed to be Beleriad’s servant rather than cast out from the mountain and run off to the hunting fields.”

  Gorliad blinked and looked to Beleriad. “I am his servant?” he asked. He turned back to Algearon, not sure what to make of it all. “I thought you were my friend?”

  Algearon shook his head adamantly. “I am no such thing. You were my charge. I told you that from the beginning. I live to serve King Geldryn. While it was his will that I serve you before, you are no longer fit to be called prince. I serve Beleriad now, and you serve him as well.”

  “I will speak with my father,” Gorliad said. “He will set this right. You can’t argue with him.”

  “Who do you think ordered this?” Algearon shouted. “Look into my eyes. Form the connection and I will show you the words King Geldryn spoke when he disowned you. He looked down upon your broken body and knew that you were no longer of any worth as a prince. Now accept your lot and take your place as your brother’s servant or I will be forced to punish you.”

  “Punish me?” Gorliad replied in a whisper.

  Algearon moved in close and thumped Gorliad’s chest. “I am the royal hatcher. I am in authority over all who are assigned to serve Beleriad. That includes you.”

  Gorliad slumped to the floor, tears welling in his eyes. He looked to the floor, not knowing what to do. “How shall I serve?” he asked at last.

  Algearon shrugged. “That, I haven’t figured out just yet. With your useless body, I am not sure you will be good for anything. For now, just move to the corner of the room and stay out of my way.” The dwarf started to move away but stopped suddenly and turned back to Gorliad. “One final thing. You are no longer allowed to use the words mother and father when speaking of the king or the high queen. You are a lame dragon, and as such you are not allowed to have family connections.” Algearon pointed to Beleriad and shook his head slowly. “And he is not your brother.”

  Gorliad went to the farthest corner of the chamber he could, limping with hopping steps and a broken heart. His weak wing flopped above him with each step, but the pain in his body was insignificant compared to the hole he now felt in his soul.

  From the corner he watched as Algearon read from the tomes of instruction to Beleriad. The young black hatchling devoured the knowledge, learning the same lessons that Gorliad had once learned. To add insult to injury, Beleriad appeared to be mastering the lessons faster than Gorliad had.

  Throughout the day, lesser dragons and other dwarves came into the chamber to add their instruction. Dwarves taught about the inner workings of the mountain and the mines. The dragons spoke of tradition and law. None of the visitors so much as glanced at Gorliad, despite having been his tutors only the day before. At least, in Gorliad’s mind it was as if only a day had passed.

  How could all of his friends turn their backs on him so easily? Was it the simple passing of time? Algearon said months had gone by. At that moment, Gorliad remembered other words Algearon had spoken. A horrible sting stabbed at Gorliad’s soul as he recalled Algearon’s lecture that there were no true friends for a dragon. Perhaps Algearon had been right all along.

  The day dragged on. Gorliad watched from the corner as servants brought in platters of meat. Half of a cow, a small boar, and a pair of pheasants. Out of habit, his leg muscles twitched and he almost made to stand, but he ignored the impulse when the platters were set before Beleriad. He watched the black hatchling eat his fill. Algearon sat in a wooden rocker in the opposite corner, eating bread and cheese and sipping something from a pewter mug. None of them spoke.

  Gorliad’s stomach growled loud enough that Beleriad stopped and looked up from the cow carcass he was devouring, blood dripping from his black chin. The red eyes fixed on Gorliad for a moment. The burgundy dragon matched the gaze with his pure white orbs. The two dragons studied each other for a moment. Then, the connection formed. Gorliad wasn’t sure whether he or Beleriad had initiated it, but the connection formed all the same and the two shared their memories with each other. A free flow of the last few months streamed into Gorliad’s mind as he watched his mother and father come in and out of the upper nursery to be with Beleriad. He noticed that occasionally his father or mother would look to the pile of treasure wherein he had been buried, but by and large they were concerned with Beleriad. They never made any attempt to uncover him, or ask about him.

  All of the tutors that had been assigned to him, he watched as they were reassigned to Beleriad. None of them offered a word of protest. None of them even glanced at the pile of gold. It was as if he had never hatched in the nursery. He watched as he saw Beleriad’s very first few days, nestled snugly with their mother and sharing connections with each other. He saw his father also form the connection with Beleriad. Then, he saw only the inside of a shell, and the connection ceased between him and Beleriad.
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br />   Gorliad dropped his head down to the stone floor and let out a long sigh.

  Beleriad ripped a leg from the cow and brought it over toward Gorliad. The burgundy dragon looked up, feeling the first bit of warmth and compassion since waking from his slumber. Beleriad slowly set the leg down before Gorliad and then took a couple of steps back. He didn’t speak, he just watched with those red eyes.

  “Beleriad,” Algearon called out in his lecturing tone. “Why do you offer your food to servants?”

  Beleriad turned around and looked at Algearon. “I saw his mind,” he said in a young, squeaky voice. “This dragon is my brother.”

  Algearon set his mug down and stood from his rocker. He pointed a stubby finger at Gorliad and shook his head. “That dragon is no brother of yours!” he boomed. “He is maim. He is disfigured, and disgraced. He is no longer fit for his previous station.”

  “But he hatched of my mother, and the blood of my father courses through him,” Beleriad replied.

  Algearon crossed his arms and arched his right brow, tapping the toe of his left foot. “Take it back,” he said. “The food belongs to the prince.”

  “As prince, I can decide to share,” Beleriad countered.

  “As prince, you should learn your station, else you follow in Gorliad’s path, and find yourself similarly disinherited.”

  Silence filled the room and Beleriad looked back to Gorliad. The black dragon said nothing for quite some time. Algearon grew impatient. The dwarf cleared his throat and smoothed his beard over his chest and he moved closer to Beleriad. He looked to the black hatchling’s eyes and spoke in a soft, but threatening tone.

  “What will it be, Beleriad? Will you rise up to your station, respecting and adhering to tradition and the law of the dragons? Or will you follow after your own foolish, naïve notions of how the world around you should operate? I promise if you choose the latter, you will end up the same as him. You will be no king. You will know only defeat, and will fall from your inheritance to become a servant. You will be a mouse among dragons.”

  Beleriad stood tall and rigid. Only a couple of seconds passed, and then the black hatchling reached down and took the cow leg in his mouth and moved back to his platters.

  Algearon smiled and watched the hatchling. “Well, at least he listens to me,” he said. The dwarf glanced back to Gorliad. The hard, cold eyes bored into Gorliad’s soul, taunting him and filled with scorn. “It is a shame you could not have been more like Beleriad,” he told Gorliad. “You could have made a fine prince.”

  Gorliad felt anger and resentment rise within him as a hot fire. He opened his mouth to speak, to rebuff the churlish dwarf he had once counted as a friend, but instead a bright flame erupted out from him. The hot fire burned the back of Algearon’s clothes and singed his hair before he could roll out of the way. Beleriad stopped eating and looked up with wide, terrified red eyes.

  The burgundy dragon stood in disbelief. He had meant only to speak, not to throw fire. For once, Algearon too seemed at a loss for words. The dwarf lay upon the stone, looking up at Gorliad and holding his left hand out before himself.

  Gorliad fled. Limping along with his highly precarious hopping step forward followed by two quick steps with his back legs. He tried to straighten his wings again, but only the right wing responded. Tears fell from his eyes as he made his way for the exit. No one made a move to stop him. No one called out for him. They let him go.

  He passed by the two sentinel dragons outside the chamber. He heard one of them mock him as he gimped along. The second dragon sniggered and called out a name, but Gorliad wasn’t listening. He was focused only on getting out. The same, familiar halls now felt cold and hostile. The very walls felt as if they were closing in on him, threatening to crush him into oblivion and blot out his memory, his disgrace, from the mountain.

  But he had done nothing wrong. He had only wanted to help fight, to protect his home. Was that not a princely thing to do? Was it not the same thing expected of the king whose blood ran through his very veins? How then, could he be so detested? Could no one see beyond the mutilated leg and the damaged wing?

  He ran on, hopping and limping until he collapsed by the same pool of water he had played in before. He moved to the pool’s edge, wanting to gaze upon his own reflection and see himself from the outside, as the others now did. He looked down into the water and studied his right shoulder and foreleg. Even in the fading twilight, his scar appeared thick and long over his joint. The leg was not only shorter than his left, but also much thinner. Some of the scales in the back folded in upon each other, forming a gnarled flap of extra scales and flesh. Gorliad managed to flex his foreleg, extending it forward a few centimeters and just barely wiggling the talons. Even such a small accomplishment caused him excruciating pain, forcing him to stop. He relaxed and closed his eyes.

  He reopened them to study his left wing. He stretched it as far as it would go, about two-thirds of the full extension, and noted the new shape of his bone. The bump over his knuckle, and the warped wing bone below the humerus loomed over him plainly, even when he relaxed his wing and folded it against his body.

  There was no wonder why the others looked upon him differently now. He was different. It was then that he noticed the pool he was using to study his reflection had also changed in the months since he had last been there. Now the water was no longer clear. It was murky, and filled with algae. It stank of muck and rot. It looked nothing like the inviting pool where he swam and played with other hatchlings.

  A familiar voice called out to him from behind.

  “I heard you finally woke,” Siravel said.

  Gorliad froze, unable to look behind and face her, partly for his shame at what he had become, and also because of setting Algearon aflame.

  “If you worry about Algearon, relax,” Siravel said. “I too would have set him alight had Geldryn not stopped me.”

  Gorliad turned, keeping his eyes directed at the ground. “I didn’t mean to do it,” he said.

  “I almost slew him for failing to protect you that day,” Siravel explained. “It was your father that insisted I let him live.”

  “It was not his fault,” Gorliad commented. “Algearon tried to stop me, but I wouldn’t listen.”

  Siravel moved her face next to Gorliad’s. “I need you to look at me,” she said softly. Gorliad looked up. “Tradition dictates that you cannot inherit. A lame dragon is not fit to be a ruler.”

  “Algearon told me,” Gorliad admitted.

  “But you can still be of great help,” Siravel continued. “Help Beleriad. Help him become the heir that you should have been. In this way, you will bring some honor back to yourself, and you will be a source of pride for the king.”

  “How can I help him?” Gorliad asked. “I cannot walk. I cannot fly. I have little to offer. Algearon said I am not even considered to be his brother. He said I am no longer to call you mother either. What can I do for Beleriad?”

  Siravel smiled warmly. “You have a strong spirit,” she said. “You can impart your courage to him. This is a quality of great kings.” She pulled her head back and spoke a little louder. “Your name, did I ever tell you that it means a binding chord?” she asked.

  Gorliad nodded.

  “Then be that. Be a binding chord. Be by Beleriad’s side and help him in any way you can. Serve him, and watch over him as he grows. You can do that.”

  “I will try,” Gorliad said.

  Siravel smiled wider. “Do you know what the name Beleriad means?”

  Gorliad shook his head. “It means second chance.” Her smile widened and she turned to look back over her shoulder. “Come, it is dark now, and we must return. I have spoken with Algearon and there will be no reprisal for your outburst earlier. Just be sure to keep your temper in check from now on. You must learn to listen to Algearon, as he oversees Beleriad’s tutelage.”

  Gorliad thought about the meaning of their names for a moment as he watched his mother disappear through the
trees. He still wasn’t sure how he could serve his brother. He wasn’t at all sure that he wanted to. However, the more he thought on their names, the more he began to realize that perhaps Beleriad could be a second chance for him as well. Maybe if he served well, he could somehow be reinstated. Perhaps not a full heir to the king, but at least accepted again as a prince, a member of the family. After all, his own name had a second meaning other than binding chord.

  Gorliad also meant conqueror.

  Chapter 17

  Gorliad awoke the next morning and lifted his head. A loud bell dangled and rang out from his neck. Confused, he looked down and saw a thick leather collar at the base of his neck with a large, brass bell hanging from the center.

  “The next time you try to run away,” Algearon started, “that will enable me to find you and bring you back.”

  Gorliad didn’t respond. He finished standing and looked to Beleriad. The hatchling still slept, curled up near the hearth. “What shall I do?” Gorliad asked.

  “Go and ensure that the young prince’s food is being prepared. He will be hungry when he wakes.”

  “When he wakes?” Gorliad repeated. “But I was only fed at night, upon finishing my studies.”

  Algearon’s face grew red. “Do as you are told, I don’t have to explain the instructions. You need only execute them. Go down to the prep chamber where they cut the fresh meat and have smokers in the back.”

  Gorliad nodded. He began the awkward limp, hopping along with his front half and shuffling with his hind legs. He made his way down the hall, his bell jangling and jingling with each and every movement he made. Each dragon he passed stopped and stared. It wasn’t enough that his body was crippled. Now he had to announce himself to everyone around so they could properly gawk and gape. The shame rippled through him, but he set his jaw and kept his eyes fixed forward. Inside he might be squirming and as uneasy as one of the bubbling geysers near the mines, but he was not about to show it to anyone.

  He continued down the caverns until he saw the chamber where they stored the dried meat for the dwarves. He turned inside, knowing that this was also where they prepared fresh meat for all of the hatchlings, including Beleriad.