by Tara Janzen
Somehow, that news had heartened him. Not that the daughter appeared to have the depth of powers Nemeton had wielded, but because Morgan thought it fitting that someone close to the ancient, time-traveling mage would bear witness to the fulfillment of the bargain he’d made. That Madron was a blood relative only made her presence more fitting in Morgan’s mind.
“I remember your daughter from Wydehaw and during the battle for Balor. I pray she’s well,” he said. The conversation was only slightly idle. He did hope for Edmee’s well-being, and he hoped to manage a bit more well-being for Edmee’s mother by distracting her from the dark all around them.
“Aye. She married an Ebiurrane pony-master, Tabor Shortshanks, and lives in the north. They have three babes and another on the way.”
It all sounded good to Morgan. He looked ahead to where Avallyn strode along with the grizzled Quicken-tree captain, Trig. If he and Avallyn lived long enough to have children, Morgan would count himself blessed indeed.
Trig was another one he remembered from the battle for Balor. He’d been Rhuddlan’s captain and was still captain of the Liosalfar, though he and Mychael seemed to share the authority of leadership.
“Four children should keep her out of trouble,” he replied to Madron, then instantly regretted the words, realizing what he’d said.
The curious look the druidess gave him proved he’d been imprudent, for the kind of trouble Edmee had been wont to get into with Dain Lavrans was not the kind a girl shared with her mother.
“Ceiul ahead,” Mychael called back from the front of their line, saving Morgan from any explanation.
Avallyn knew where the rune marker was, the information being far more accessible in the future than it had been in the past, and she led them to it without any hesitation or wandering.
’Twas there, standing in front of the long, rectangular marker, that Morgan felt the full weight of the feat they must achieve. Succeed or perish was their creed, and looking around the cavern, Morgan couldn’t help but feel that they were too few to manage success.
Trig stood by, ready to slide the crystal hilt of his dreamstone dagger into the top of the notches keyed into the marker by the long-ago Prydion Magi. Madron had pulled four pouches from her belt and was lighting a sanctifying fire to bless them and act as a beacon, though retreat was an unlikely occurrence, being as good as death.
No, once they started forth, there would be no turning back.
Math had taken his place by Trig, a guardian of Ceiul. Avallyn knew her place was with Morgan, and she stayed close, her dagger drawn and ready.
Mychael was the most enigmatic of them all, his face giving away nothing. It had been ten years since he’d been the dragon, and though he’d had dealings with them since, not since the last battle with Dharkkum had they been seen in war.
Morgan pulled the Magia Blade up out of its scabbard and hoped to hell he was ready, for the time had come. He nodded to Trig, and the Quicken-tree captain slipped his dagger’s hilt into the marker’s lock.
Naught happened at first, and Morgan wondered if Naas and Moira had failed to secure the other two runes. Then the dreamstone hilt lit with a flash of pure blue light. Like a laser, the light cut across the cavern to the far wall, and the dagger began to move, sliding down through the notches one small increment at a time. Each move was exaggerated on the opposite wall, carving lines two feet high. The first rune revealed was Ammon.
No one doubted that the way to Kryscaven would be opened when the dagger reached the bottom of the marker: only the manner of the revelation and what awaited them on the other side was unknown. All six had weapons at the ready. Dreamstone blades were kept warm and glowing in both steady and unsteady hands.
The light from the marker dagger blazed in a single tight beam, incising the remaining two runes on the cavern’s far wall, scoring them into the rock. Sparks flew in every direction, smoke wafted off the burning stone, until the three runes were complete. Then the light went out and the noise stopped—and within seconds, the whole wall sloughed away into a pile on the floor, almost more mirage than earth and stone.
Clouds of dust and ash billowed into the air, yet behind the pile, off in the distance, Kryscaven Crater could be seen, its amethystine wall soaring up into the shadowy darkness of an immense, domed chamber.
“Prydion magic,” Mychael said, drawing a leaf-bladed sword from the sheath on his belt. He nodded toward Kryscaven. “We’d best get there before Ddrei Goch and Ddrei Glas, or there’ll be nothing left when we do. Even with your Magia sword, Morgan, you’ll find them untamed beasts.”
“Aye,” Madron said. “Mychael is right. All will go better if we are in place before the dragons come.” She turned to Trig. “Don’t let the fire go out, Captain. We’ll need it to find our way back.”
“Ye know I’ll be here,” the Quicken-tree man replied, his face set with grim determination.
“Step lightly,” Math said, wishing them an elfin Godspeed, his face no less grim.
Aye, and they’d need Godspeed to outlive Dharkkum, Morgan thought. At his signal the four set off by the light of their dreamstone daggers.
Chapter 26
Passing beneath the broken wall, they entered the domed chamber, its roof so high above them, it was lost in darkness. Morgan felt dwarfed by the towering hugeness of the cavern. ’Twas a mile from where they stood to the amethystine crystal wall that held their enemy and the purpose of their quest, the Lost Five and the Indigo Book.
The floor was littered with a fortune in broken crystals and opalescent veins of gemstone. They made their way carefully around the larger chunks of amethyst, Mychael in the lead. Morgan brought up the rear and tried not to worry overmuch about the dragons soon to catch up with them. He had the Magia Blade and a good idea of how to wield it to control the beasts. No one had taught him or told him. ’Twas something he knew, something he felt in the energy skittering along the runes marked on his skin, something he understood better with every pulse of his blood. Stept Agah had wielded the blade, and Stept Agah’s blood was his, and as the ancient Douvan king had brought the creatures to heel, so would Morgan.
They walked on in a silence broken only by the crunch of crystal shards beneath their feet. The air in the vaulted chamber was remarkably fresh, not sea-tainted like the air in Ceiul, making Morgan think there might be an opening somewhere above them. If there was, he wondered how far away it was and how difficult it would be to access. Having more than one way out could only help.
About a hundred yards from the crater, he noticed something strange about the crystal seal over it. He said nothing, but his gut started tying itself into a knot. The others all stopped within the next few steps, and he knew they’d seen it as well: something moving behind the deep purple seal. Something big and dark, like a giant, writhing shadow.
“Dharkkum,” Madron whispered, and the knot in Morgan’s gut tightened.
He’d seen it on the comstation in Rabin-19, and he’d seen it racing toward him and Avallyn on the weir platform in Claerwen, admittedly with parts of the Warmonger still attached, and both times the sight had filled him with cold dread. But this... this pulsing, bulging, gargantuan tornado of destruction was beyond any plan they’d devised. That the amethyst seal held it at all was a miracle only a fool would tamper with.
And he was the friggin’ fool. He ground out a curse between his teeth and thought that life lived as a drunken sot in Racht Square had not been completely devoid of pleasures. He’d had plenty with the wine, and if eventually he would have died from indulging in the Carillion concoction, well, the operative word was “eventually.” As it stood, he gave himself about another half hour to live.
“This is insane,” he said, loud enough to make sure everyone heard him. He wanted his stand made clear.
“It is written” was Madron’s reply, her voice sounding stronger, as if in this most dangerous of places, she had finally found her purpose in braving the deep dark.
God’s balls. They had
a naked singularity off the cusp of a black hole from some far-flung star system, the weirdest mess of “no-laws physics” in the universe staring them in the face, and a pair of dragons—dragons!—coming up behind them ready to eat their lunch, and all Morgan had to control this circus with was a sword that had already damn near killed him.
He wanted Aja, and as desperately as he wanted the boy, he was twice as thankful Aja wasn’t with him. He could die knowing he’d at least spared the boy this, and then he remembered where he’d left him and knew he hadn’t spared Aja anything. Chances were that Claerwen hadn’t survived the day he and Avallyn had spent sleeping off their journey in Carn Merioneth.
As for himself, he was trapped in a great hole in the earth with a druidess, a dragon-shape-shifter, and a faerie woman so beautiful and so much a part of his heart, he knew he couldn’t be anyplace except by her side. He’d come a hell of a long way for a man who’d once warded himself against magic.
He swore again, a foul word that didn’t begin to encompass his frustration.
Then, to make matters worse, the floor trembled beneath him. The dragons were upon them.
A quick glance proved that the others felt the shaking of the floor too, and all four of them had the same reaction—to break into a dead run. No one wanted to be caught in the middle of the chamber with fire-breathing dragons about.
Avallyn was at the crystal wall in seconds. Tlas buen, Madron had called her unusual quickness, elfin speed. Aja, Morgan remembered, was even faster.
Avallyn looked back from the wall and yelled, “Hurry!”
The darkness inside writhed, drawing her attention. In the next second, her hands went flat against the wall, her body stiffening. She’d seen the Lost Five, Morgan thought. Ten years in the grip of devouring darkness couldn’t have left any of them in anything other than gruesome condition.
Behind him, Madron was gasping, and he could imagine how long it had been since the druidess had run for her life. Pivoting, he went back and grabbed her arm. Mychael must have had the same thought, for he’d backtracked as well, and between the two of them, they practically lifted Madron off the ground as they raced for the wall.
When they reached Avallyn and looked beyond the seal to the crater, Morgan was startled to see that the Lost Five were all whole, appearing frozen in time and no worse the wear for being trapped with the devouring scourge of Earth. Their features were clear, their stances unyielding: Ailfinn, Rhuddlan, Wei, Varga, and Owain, all of them standing close to a stone ring alive with rainbow-colored flames.
“The fire still burns,” Madron whispered breathlessly.
And the book was there, Morgan confirmed with grim satisfaction, held in Ailfinn’s hands, just waiting for some stupid bastard with no sense of self-preservation to steal it out from under Dharkkum’s nose.
He couldn’t believe that bastard was him. Self-preservation had been his and Aja’s holiest religion, and by God, they’d done well by it.
“Rhuddlan?” the druidess asked, looking deeper.
“They’re all there, all five,” Morgan assured her.
A trembling in the walls stopped him. Chunks of rock shook loose from up above them and tumbled down in a deadly rain, sending them flat against the wall for meager cover. The floor quaked beneath their feet, and all of them stumbled, trying to keep their footing. Far on the other side, for a moment, Morgan could still see the glow of the fire Trig and Math were tending. Then a blast of smoke and flames sweeping out of the tunnel from the Serpent Sea obliterated everything in Ceiul from view. The floor shook again, vibrating with the repercussion of something huge striding across it. Another cloud of smoke sparked through with fire was belched into the cavern and out into the giant domed chamber.
“Sticks,” Avallyn breathed, and Morgan agreed—friggin’ sticks.
These were the dragons from Tamisk’s pool, beasts in full blood and filled with fury, cauldron forces conjured for war. More flames backed by a ferocious roar poured into the chamber.
He tightened his grip on the Magia Blade, and the sky blue crystal lit with a violet flash at its core. Heat raced up his arm, the heat of power, raw and urgent.
An enraged shriek followed the roar—Ddrei Glas—and more smoke billowed into the chamber, smoke laced with greenish blue flames. Behind the veil of smoke came the dragons, Ddrei Goch’s incarnadine hide flashing like the flames of hell, his scales sheened with seawater, Ddrei Glas a rippling Leviathan, her leathery green wings spread wide and ready to take to the air.
They roared again, and the fearsome flames licked at the crater’s seal. Closer and closer they came, steam rising from their bodies to mix with the billowing smoke, the heat of their breath threatening to fry him where he stood. Their claws scraped and scrabbled over the boulders of broken crystal, the razor-sharp edges as naught to their inch-thick scales.
Once inside the dome, Ddrei Goch lifted his wings with a screech. Rivers of seawater ran off his forelimbs, draining onto the floor with the force of a cresting wave. It broke against the wall at their backs, soaking them all.
God’s beasts, Morgan thought.
The dragons of Merioneth were likely to kill them long before they noticed Dharkkum. Destruction was their nature no less than it was their enemy’s.
But they could be bent to his will, and he dare not wait any longer to force them to their knees.
“Ddreigiau!” he shouted above their cries, holding the Magia Blade high, determined to rule. To not rule meant death. “Gorchmynnaf ichi ddyfod!” Dragons, I bid you come.
He strode forth, distancing himself from the others in case Welsh was not the language of dragons.
It was.
Two great, scaled heads swung low in a deadly sweep, and two pairs of luminous yellow eyes locked onto him, singling him out from the others and making the hairs rise all along the nape of his neck. Flames shot forth from their mouths as step by step they moved closer, crushing crystal beneath their bony feet and scraping sparks off the floor with their claws.
Morgan felt Avallyn come behind him and lay her hand on the small of his back.
“Croesawaf,” she whispered—welcome—and Ddrei Glas lifted her head and screeched, shooting more flames toward the unseen top of the vaulted dome.
Ddrei Goch lowered his head even more, the graceful rise of his neck arcing downward, his rigid crest throwing a shadow across half his face. He snorted, blowing smoke through his nostrils, and pinned Morgan with his shadowed golden eye. Deep orange streaks marked his iris, adding to the richness of the color. A pale lemon yellow hue spread outward from his black pupil, adding another layer of light, but in no way lessening the wildness of the gaze. The beast was primal, basely fierce, a fact forgotten at one’s peril.
Morgan felt his scrutiny like the deep-scent presence of a Claerwen priestess, skilled, searching, and distinctly unnerving.
The red dragon’s gaze narrowed, his knobby, scaled lid lowering to an intent angle, and Morgan’s instincts went on full alert. The bastard thing was considering whether or not to fry him.
“No,” he said softly, firmly, and brought the Magia Blade down on Ddrei Goch’s bewhiskered snout. He pressed the sword into the dragon’s skin, deliberately drawing blood. A small stream of it ran down the beast’s scaled hide, shimmering in rainbow hues. The golden eye did not shift so much as an inch, yet there was a shift in the creature’s awareness, a subtle flash of knowing that was echoed in the runes that marked his own skin. Ddrei Goch knew who he was, and like any wild beast, balked at being brought to heel. A master was easy enough to destroy, especially such a small master. One step of the red dragon’s foot would crush him, one fiery breath or one whip of his long, serpentine tail would kill him.
“No,” Morgan repeated.
Smoke issued forth from the beast on his next breath, and Morgan lifted the blade.
Released, Ddrei Goch jerked his head up with frightening speed and roared, a sound of pure dragonish fury.
Morgan held his ground, an
d his sword, and prayed he held the upper hand.
Ddrei Glas followed suit with a piercing cry, the cacophony from both beasts ricocheting off the chamber’s walls and loosening more stones. Great wings were lifted and brought down with driving force, and a rushing wind pushed Morgan back toward the wall.
“Ddreigiau!” He lifted the Magia Blade with both hands tightly wrapped around the hilt. He squeezed with all his strength and light burst forth from the thick crystal rod, a sharp-edged flash with a heart of violet racing along the edge of the blade and streaking through the air to strike the crystal wall. Sparks and shards showered out from the collision.
With the first crack in the wall, the deed was done; their doom was sealed. A wisp of Dharkkum leaked out, the thinnest trailing of death spiraling upward. Another chip of crystal fell out of the wall below the wisp and the thin trail grew thicker, spiraled faster.
Ddrei Glas picked up the scent first and with an enraged scream took off after the black spiral, beating her wings against the clouds of dragon smoke and taking to the air. Ddrei Goch retaliated with a fierce blast of flame aimed at releasing more of his enemy—and thus the battle was truly engaged.
A maelstrom was born inside the domed chamber, fueled by wind and fire and the seawater whipped up from the floor. Mychael had been there once before, with dragons all around and Dharkkum corrupting the very air.
Crystal melted from the wall, flowing into pools that quickly cooled. Steam boiled up from the floor, making the chamber unbearably hot. Sweat poured down Morgan’s body as dragonfire limned the crater and singed his clothes. The rainbow flames scored and melted crystal, scorched their boots and tunics, and left paths of burning heat on their skin. The wind grew stronger and hotter, filling up with the dragon’s smoke. It beat at them and tore their clothes, and Morgan realized they were completely, amazingly outmatched. Chunks of crystal were picked up by the wind and smashed into the walls.