Call of the Dragonbonded_Book of Fire_The Dragonbonded Return

by JD Hart

  He moved closer, deftly turning the long stick in his hands. Spinning on his heels, he brought the stick up and over his head in a controlled arc for the measured strike to properly restrain the boy. But as the stick shot forward, his vision went black. The makeshift staff struck something hard and snapped. Before he could react, something the size of a tree trunk hit him in the chest. The force of the blow lifted him off his feet. Moonlit trees rushed past. He fought to breathe, but his lungs refused to work. It did not matter. Carlon struck a tree with a resounding crack. A fog took him as he slumped forward, arms and legs splayed awkwardly.

  Conner had given his most valiant effort, but he was no fighter. If he had one millistone of energy remaining, he would have used it to kick himself for not letting Pauli give him a few lessons on combat. But Conner had always contended that Eastland farmers did not need to learn such skills. He had been sorely mistaken. Hopeless and helpless, eyes closed, he waited for the stroke that never came.

  Something heavy hit him in the chest, sending him reeling backward. Then there was a sickening, bone-crushing sound. He rolled to his stomach, panic taking him. He tried to stand, but he was struck again from behind. He staggered from the shock.

  To Conner’s utter amazement, he was lifted from the ground with a single jerk. Moonlit trees and bushes about him receded as he rose higher. He tried to scream, but his chest was clutched in a lumberjack’s vise. He struggled for air, pulling at the clamp about his chest, no longer caring that he could see more and more of the mountainous landscape below. It was fate that the blackness of unconsciousness claimed him.

  Festival of Midsummer’s Night

  Jonath waited patiently near the royal balcony as he marked the moments leading to midnight. It had been a taxing and at times stressful day, but with only the finale of this year’s Festival of Midsummer’s Night remaining, he began to relax and take in the magnificent sights around him.

  Poets and balladeers had been known to travel to Graystone Castle from all corners of the Harmonic Realms, even the unclaimed outlands beyond, just to gaze upon the castle’s beauty under the full moon of Erebus. But on this particularly calm, starlit night, Erebus seemed to reach down and touch Graystone Castle’s three towers. A flag fluttered from each tower in recognition of the three Harmonic Realms—Griffinrock’s bright red griffin rearing on lion’s legs with wings spread wide before a sky of azure blue, Elvenstein’s majestic white unicorn with long flowing mane and tail upon the summit of a grassy hill, and Grenetia’s black pegasus flying over a summer-green forest and crystal blue lake.

  To Jonath’s left, Tyresus and Beggar waited anxiously on perches. His eyes darted to where seven of the thirteen Mystic Doyens, along with the Keeper of the Mystics Order, Dane Norterry, had gathered in their blood-red robes, quietly admiring the evening’s festivities. Behind the doyens, the Mystic Oracles in their pure white robes huddled around an ancient text Sir Giles held before him. Oblivious to the surrounding celebrations, the oracles gesticulated in animated discussion. Their appearance was disconcerting; they seemed as disoriented and uncertain as Jonath felt. The light touch of a hand drew him from his troubled reflection.

  The king gazed at the woman pressed against his side and returned her warm, reassuring smile. A rainbow of colors danced along the finely cut jewels in her crown, accentuating the sparkle in her eyes. His heart skipped a beat. He did not want to be awakened from this dream.

  But the queen’s words shattered the enchantment. Without altering her loving expression, she spoke for the first time since leaving the royal banquet hall. “I am still upset with you, Jonath. So do not flash those beautiful gray eyes my way and think you can make up with me so quickly.”

  Jonath’s smile faded. He had been pleased that Dane had chosen to stay for the night, and not only because it was a perfect excuse to stay clear of Duchess Mariette’s incessant references to the king’s heritage. The king had placed Dane’s banquet chair near his own, and as the wine flowed through the evening, the two began to recount fond moments from their time together as Mystic pupils. Each story they told brought a raucous response from those around, forcing those farther away to lean or move closer in hopes of catching the next tale, their expectant looks goading the two all the more. By the time Dane told of the night he’d levitated Jonath’s bed into an old oak tree outside their dorms, the two had half the hall’s attention.

  But the queen had grown annoyed by her king and champion’s unseemly display. Izadora honored him with her most disapproving glare, while her sister, Mariette, sat at her side looking aghast at the man’s unabashed and all-too-expected behavior. Aware of their disapproval, Jonath had attempted to stem the Keeper’s inebriated tongue with several coughs and glances, but finally was forced to resort to a hard kick under the table to the red-robed figure’s shin. The king felt a pang of guilt observing Dane later walking with a noticeable limp. Still, the evening had been the perfect remedy for his mood, if not for Izadora’s temper.

  “I am sorry, my queen,” he apologized sincerely.

  But before he could continue, Izadora entwined her arm in his, never taking her eyes from the royal balcony. “We will discuss this later.” She patted his arm reassuringly, making it clear he could expect more.

  But Jonath held no concerns. The trials they had faced together with the royal family over her choice of a serf-born king had proven their bond of trust was stronger than anything that could be wedged between them. He placed his hand on hers. Moments before the stroke of midnight, the matriarch of Griffinrock and her husband stepped forward to the castle balcony fifteen paces above the castle grounds.

  He had shared many Festivals of Midsummer’s Night with his queen, yet each year, he was left breathless. Moonlight shimmered off the River Tresdan flowing southward around the castle’s island while the magically enchanted castle stones glowed a muted silver, turning Graystone into a towering beacon for the last-minute travelers arriving for the festival’s final event. Throughout the castle grounds below and on into the city across the River Tresdan, a vast sea of people in colorful clothing and costumes ebbed and flowed in a tide of dancing and singing. Since Hemera’s setting, freemen had celebrated next to noblemen and bonded serfs next to guildsmen, while minstrels, troupers, jugglers, troubadours, and every other style of artisan offered their talents to rejoice in another year of Harmonic life. Tomorrow, they would return to their normal lives, beginning a new year by preparing for the changes coming with the cooler season. But here at the Festival of Midsummer’s Night, for this one night each year, social status was discarded.

  Several below noticed the royal couple’s appearance on the balcony, signaling the final moments of the year. Shouts rose from the Royal Gardens of Graystone. “Queen Izadora! Long live the queen!” Blissful faces gazed skyward to glimpse their matriarch, and they too joined in the chorus until it morphed into an exalted chant echoing throughout the castle grounds. “Queen Izadora! Long live the queen!”

  For several moments, the queen stood admiring her subjects below, for she loved the people of Griffinrock as greatly as they loved her. She nodded lightly toward the red-cloaked doyens. Mystic Lady Noray incanted the Air spell Voice, then nodded back to the queen.

  When Izadora spoke, every person throughout the castle and city could hear her as if she stood next to them. “To the good people of Griffinrock, to those visiting from our sibling Realms of Elvenstein and Grenetia, and to the Outlands beyond, I bid you serenity and goodness.” She spread her arms wide, waiting for the accolades to subside. “Every Midsummer’s Night since the signing of the Treaty of Alignment ending the Anarchic War five hundred and fifty years ago, the matriarchs of Griffinrock have spoken those words of goodwill for all who are guided by the ways of the Harmonics. But this night, more than any before, I am deeply moved and humbled by the generosity, kindness, and love of the people of our fair Realms. It is my privilege, as with my ancestral mothers before, to inaugurate the five-hundred-and-fifty-first year of prospe
rity into existence. I am honored to serve as Griffinrock’s queen. You are truly a great people. Long live the people of the Harmonic Realms! Peace be with the Harmonic Realms!”

  Izadora raised her arms toward the star-filled sky, a signal to the three Shaman Dons standing inconspicuously to her left. Caped in the flowing earthy brown robes of the Board of Shamans, the grandmasters pushed up their sleeves and began to incant. Jonath could sense the powerful pull of Fire as the dons drew deep from the elemental wells. He knew they pulled equally from Earth, though as a Mystic he could not perceive it. The moments slipped by while the three figures continued to gesture in perfect synchrony. Below, the shouts of anticipation reverberated off the castle’s magical stones in a growing crescendo of excitement. The very air on the balcony began to crackle with life. The stones beneath them trembled.

  In unison, the three dons threw their arms wide, eyes cast skyward, and the night lit up with cascading images in brilliant colors. Using the sky dome like a painter’s cloth, the Shamans created breathtaking portraits—radiant flowers in tall grass on rolling meadows, snowcapped mountains painted under a deep blue sky, rugged coastlines with mist rising from massive waves that beat against the rocky shore, and ever-changing dunes of desert sands sparkling like polished emeralds in Hemera’s light. Jonath was captivated by the shifting kaleidoscope. On and on, the stream of sky paintings flowed, each image exploding to life with a series of loud hissing pops, high-pitched whines, and booming sizzles, only to have their colors run and blend like too much watercolor splashed on a dry leather canvas. Then the mix of dull browns and drab purples faded from existence in time for the next painting to be born.

  As quickly as it had started, so the show came to an abrupt end. The painful stillness of the night assaulted Jonath’s eyes and ears. Ten thousand people were transfixed in silence, afraid moving or speaking would break the spell. Finally, applause erupted throughout the castle and city, and once more, the streets were flooded with the sounds of music, song, and laughter.

  Izadora’s forearm around his, the two waited in silent contemplation, absorbing the joyous celebration of the new year about them. Jonath thought how the Shamans’ show was life in a microcosm: life’s moments, no matter how beautiful and precious, are as painfully fleeting as the images in the starry sky. The best that can be done is to admire each moment then let it go, and have faith that the Cosmos will offer a different beauty in the next.

  He pressed his palm to the top of his queen’s warm hand. The troubling events in the Chamber of the Oracles that morning had intruded on his serenity. What could be made of a Cosmic balance of force? He was certain the Mystic doyens and Oracles had not told him everything. The Harmonic Realms were celebrating the start of a new year, but the shift also marked something much greater that they knew nothing about. He regarded the surging mass of people below. What would be these good people’s future when prophecy no longer could be foretold?

  Jonath considered telling his queen about the morning, but the little he understood would only exasperate her, especially with their daughter on her trek. He looked on as she waved at the people below. No, he would rather admire the beauty of the moment. Troubling discussions could wait until he acquired more information. His queen had plenty on her mind.

  When Cold Logic Prevails

  Indignant, Skye-Anyar-Bello Cloudbender faced the human with whom he had spent the early morning hours arguing over something that was as obvious as the marvel of his iridescent scales. In triumphant display, he unfurled his wings with the first rays of Hemera breaking over the mountain crest to the east. Then puffing out his chest and stretching his neck skyward, he rose up on his two bulky legs. “Then what do you think I am?” his voice boomed at the small creature before him.

  The human made an indiscernible gesture. “Maybe you’re a large bat. I have heard bats grow to be quite large in the mountains. Since I have not seen one here, that is a possibility.”

  Skye-Anyar-Bello twitched his tail irritably, snapping a pine sapling at its trunk. “Bats don’t grow near this large, they don’t have scales, and they surely can’t breathe fire.” He rocked forward, thrusting his face close to the human’s for added emphasis. “Have you ever heard of a talking bat?”

  The human adjusted the cloth wrapped about its head. “Okay, I concede you are not a figment of my imagination.”

  “Well, that is a breakthrough,” the dragon interrupted victoriously.

  “But how do I know you are really talking to me?” The human continued undaunted. “I got hit pretty hard on the head yesterday. I know a farmer who fell off his wagon and spent the rest of his life trying to convince everyone spirits from another plane spoke to him.” The human studied the display in front of him. “Besides, aren’t dragons supposed to have four legs?”

  He snorted at the human’s ignorance. “I am a wyvern.”

  This did not seem to impress the human, who responded, “Okay.” It sat blinking, clearly expecting something further.

  The dragon stared back. “Are you a guivre?” he asked irritably.

  “I don’t know what a guivre is, but I think I would recognize a dragon if I saw one,” the human shot back with a touch of his own annoyance.

  Skye-Anyar-Bello sighed wearily from trying to break through the human’s irrational logic. The creature was like an amphithere chasing its tail. He decided a different tack was needed. “A dragon once said, ‘Once you have eliminated all impossibilities, and only one possibility remains, then that must be the truth, no matter how incredible it seems.’ So why is it so hard to accept that I am a dragon?”

  The human scrunched up its face. “Are you sure a dragon said that?” It paused, then added while waving its arms, “Oh, never mind.” It exhaled loudly. “Look, the logic is really very simple. If you were a dragon, then you would be the first dragon seen within the Harmonic Realms since the Anarchic War. That leaves the obvious question. Where have all the dragons been for the past twenty generations, through all the troubles and conflicts we have had since? No.” The human shook its head emphatically. “If there ever were dragons, the kind the ancient ballads describe, they wouldn’t have let things get to the current state of affairs. They would have been here all this time.” It hesitated, then added, “Maybe even bonding with humans, to protect the lands from Anarchic invasions.”

  The human stood and kicked at the rock it had previously occupied. “Oh, what am I talking about? Those are fables to give children false hope, pitiful offerings of sanity in a world gone mad. Maybe there were dragons long ago. I don’t know. But not any longer. If there ever were any, they died out with the Anarchic War.”

  Skye-Anyar-Bello listened to the human’s depressing words. Could humans truly have forgotten so much so quickly? True, the small creatures did not live as long as dragons, but the Ancients spoke fondly of humans with songs and legends to teach their young. Was this one crazy, or was it indicative of what humans had become—selfish and irrational? He pushed down the growing concern that he had bonded with a human version of a dragork.

  Skye continued, more softly this time. “We did not die out. When your War of Breaking ended, the Cosmos no longer needed our bondings, so we returned to our homelands.” He settled his body on the small patch of grass the two had taken to mark off the time since before dawn. Then he folded his wings against his body to give him needed warmth from the cool mountain air. “Maybe you should know I am as surprised by our bonding as you seem to be.”

  The human stumbled backward as if the dragon had struck him, waving its arms wildly between them. “Bonding?” it repeated incredulously. “No, that is not possible. I have trekked here to find a small, friendly animal to take as my bond.” It pointed south. “I have a fiancé back there. And I am starting my apprenticeship training under Master Cleaverbrook. I can’t be spending the rest of my life with”—it jerked his arms at the dragon—“a fire-breathing bat thingy.”

  Not sure what a fiancé or a Master Cleaverbrook was, Skye
-Anyar-Bello opened his mouth to continue his attempts to soothe the distressed spirit, but the human flew on with hardly a pause.

  “And don’t try to convince me we are communicating through some mental telepathy.” The scrawny creature leaned forward and pointed at the cloth wrapped around its head, tilted from all its wild gesticulations. “I know enough about bonds to know that doesn’t happen.”

  The fact the two could even hold this argument was enough to convince Skye-Anyar-Bello they were bonded. There was no other possible explanation. He leaned forward in mock imitation of the human, eyes narrowing. “How do you know we are not bonded? Can you sense the Calling any longer?”

  The human blinked. “No.” It faltered, then found a new rising column of air. “But it will come back once the throbbing in my head goes away. And that won’t happen with you chatting my ears off.” He bounded on, unaffected by the dragon’s logic. “If I”—he waved his arm between the two of them—“were bonded to a dragon as you suggest, then that would make me Dragonbonded. Well, I am merely an Eastland farmer, not some high-minded nobleman or defender of Harmonic truth. I don’t even know how to fight. So you see? There are holes all through your theory.”

  Skye-Anyar-Bello snort-sniffed at the humor coming from the animated creature. He leaned even closer to the human. “Dragonbonded? Bonding with a dragon does not make you Dragonbonded.” The dragon was losing patience. Maybe it was time to put this argument to rest. A definitive demonstration of their bonding was clearly needed.

  Without warning, the dragon’s head bolted forward, teeth snapping shut where the human’s head had been. His wings fanned open, sails catching a strong gust to give him balance while his head followed the creature in its roll. Teeth flashed and snapped, an attack that should have severed the human’s legs from its body. His wings beat down hard. Lifting and spinning in a single motion, the dragon whipped his tail around and down in a fluid arc. The earth shook from the impact, spraying dirt and dry leaves into the air.