Return to Dragon Planet: Book one of the Dragon Planet Trilogy

by S A Robertson

  Of course, for many elves, and most certainly the young, the very idea of what it meant to come to the end of such a long life was thoroughly alien. But for Meera, death was no stranger. Just weeks after she had been born, her father had been lost to the very same dragon that now hunted the plains once again. He had been moving from farmstead to farmstead hoping to warn the owners that the dragon was abroad; that they should seek shelter in the town bunker until the monster had passed. He was on his way to a human settlement—in the farthest reaches of the Emerald Hills—when the dragon had struck, and he never returned. As for Meera’s mother? Well, it’s often said that some elves could die of grief. Those who chose to take life partners forged a bond-oath that tied the two elves together not just physically but spiritually for the rest of their lives. And the death of one could often be a blow to the soul from which some could never recover. Just three short standard years later, Meera learned her mother had drifted in the trees of the Great Eastern Forest, her body found, by a group of wood elves, propped against the bowl of a tree. The toll of losing a great love had been too much.

  Yes. The dragon had taken much from Meera. It was why she often lingered at the window at night, her attention turned to the sky as her grandmother cleared away the dishes from the late evening meal, fearful of the dragon’s return. Several villages not so very far from Tarasei had already been targeted. Although, the wise elf leaders had assured the people that there was no threat to their own little community. The dragon was only after livestock, they had assured the people. Tarasei made its living from cultivating the rolling green hills, planting crops and orchards. They were safe. At least, that was what they had said before they had fled with the others.

  Still, tonight Meera had a reason to be less nervous. A storm was approaching. Flickers of lightning flared in the darkness where the hulking presence of the Great Eastern Forest was at once a source of welcome proximity and an ancient, unknowable menace. Like an ocean, such vast tracts of woodland were another vital source of replenishment for all manner of elven needs, while at the same time afforded the greatest of respect for all the dangers that lurked within. Not that Meera had ever ventured much into Throgorolind. Since the re-emergence of the dragon, it was deemed too dangerous to trek too far east, and the elves of Tarasei had had to content themselves with the offerings of a small local wood instead.

  “There’s a storm coming, grandmother,” Meera murmured then, aware of her own pensive reflection in the glass, her wide, dark eyes and long, dark hair framing the face of a child with the bright intelligence of an adult. “From over the forest.”

  “Uh huh…” Grandmother Yula set the dishes on a bench and winced. Her back was aching again, and only rest would ease it. Even the Waters offered few comforts for her aging body these days. “One can only hope, dear. The rain will be welcome.” She lowered herself onto a dining room chair with a sigh. The dishes could wait.

  “But dragons don’t fly in storms, do they, Grandmother?” Meera said. For some reason, the storm made her feel uneasy.

  “That’s right, dear. I’ve told you that many times before. That’s why storms are a good omen. And why we both should sleep better tonight. Which reminds me. It’s already way past your bedtime. Once again you’ve fooled your old grandmother into talking way too much and now it’s late.”

  Meera searched the darkness again as another bright flash filled the night. “Hmm?”

  “If you don’t want the black figs, then I’m afraid you must think about bed. I might even retire myself. My back is aching again.”

  Meera finally turned from the window. “Are you alright, Grandmother?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. It’s just my body is not quite as robust as once it was. I need a little sleep to recover these days. That’s all.”

  “As long as you’re sure.”

  “Quite sure, child. Now, I will do the dishes in the morning. Then we can pick up our conversation where we left off.”

  Meera smiled. She enjoyed her talks with her Grandmother. The old woman knew so much history about Terevell and had been alive when the great old King Garial—to Grandmother’s mind the greatest of all the High Kings, the fairest and the wisest—had been on the throne. And Meera had to admit, she was quite tired after a busy day’s study, learning all the botany that was necessary for every young elf, as she briefly glanced back into the night again.

  Suddenly, however, she felt a lurch of alarm.

  Was that a monstrous shadow in the darkness against another flash of lightning? Or just a cloud?

  Then the town bell began to toll.

  At once, Grandmother Yula sat up sharply in her chair, a brief flicker of pain giving way to panic. “Oh no,” she whispered. “Not this.”

  “It’s the dragon…” said Meera faintly, feeling a cold trickle of terror. “Grandmother! It’s the dragon! But you always said…”

  “I know what I said.” Grandmother Yula pushed abruptly to her feet. “Meera, we need to get to the bunker. And quickly.”

  “On the other side of town? But it’s too far!”

  “Hurry, child! There isn’t time!”

  Meera scurried away from the window and rounded the table to grab hold of her Grandmother’s arm. She helped her to the door, and they shouldered their way out into the darkness of the evening. Another peel of thunder boomed out to the east. But Meera also thought she heard a distant roar. The Red Death. How was it possible? Dragons never flew in storms.

  “It’s coming!” An elven woman rushed past them in a flurry. “The dragon! They’re opening the bunker. Quick!”

  Meera, infected by the urgency cried, “Grandmother, this way!”

  They ran into the street. At least, as far as they were able, with Meera pulling her grandmother behind her, heading toward the old briarwood tree in the town square. It was here elegantly constructed wooden buildings clung to the sturdy trunk and the higher branches. It was the living anchor of most every elven village and their only hope of sanctuary, for beneath the briarwood’s huge roots a great bunker had been constructed long ago, built from the hard, green granite that had been transported down from the Drekkenfell. It was a haven big enough for two hundred souls to wait out a direct dragon attack, so long as the monster didn’t try and claw its way inside. The only problem was, Grandmother Yula was already losing pace, despite Meera trying her best to haul her along behind. Behind them came a second, closer roar.

  Wide-eyed with fear, Meera chanced a look over her shoulder and saw as great black shadow approaching through night sky, briefly revealed by another flash of lightning. There were screams all around her. Someone buffeted her and she almost fell, losing her grip on her grandmother’s hand. When Meera turned, she saw the old woman was momentarily adrift, staring about confusedly.

  “Grandmother!”

  Just as the first fires were unleashed.

  A dwelling on the outskirts of town was hit by a great stream of molten flames, the roof exploding. Tiles and splinters of wood were tossed into the air. The heat was enough for Meera to throw her arms up to her face in horror. Then the dark shape swooped right over her, almost as low as the topmost branches of the briarwood tree, before swinging out into the night again. Meera lowered her hands and stared after the dragon—much grander and more fearsome than she could ever have imagined—watching it sail up and away. But she could see it was already turning again. It meant to come back.

  Meera hastened to where her grandmother was standing and snatched for her hand once more. The dragon was climbing higher now, flapping its huge wings as it arced toward the town.

  “Grandmother. The bunker. We have to go.”

  But Grandmother Yula was now staring past Meera to the briarwood tree with dismay. Meera followed her line of sight. The remaining townsfolk were piling up against the great trunk, and there appeared to be a problem. It looked as though they couldn’t open the doors to the bunker.

  “They’ve locked it,” Grandmother Yula murmured. “The town leaders.
They must have locked it before they left.”

  “What? What do you mean?” Meera cried. “Where’s the key?”

  Grandmother Yula had no answer for her. Instead, she looked desperately about her, her eyes bright in the glow of the flames, until she seemed to reach a conclusion and snatched hold of Meera’s hand.

  “This way…”

  “No! Grandmother! Where are you taking me?”

  “This way I said,” and with a fearsome determination and sudden strength, Grandmother Yula shambled on, grimacing slightly with the effort, while Meera helplessly staggered behind her.

  The dragon began to lower through the night. It was more visible now as the town began to burn, a gigantic crimson demon with blue flames licking against its open mouth. The townsfolk pummelled at the locked doors to the bunker. Others screamed helplessly. They knew, perhaps, that their fate was already sealed, and some of them simply stood back, slack limbed, and watched their approaching doom. But not Grandmother Yula. She reached the well at the side of the square and began to yank at the wooden turning handle. Meera watched in bewilderment.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Where is it?” Grandmother Yula demanded.

  The dragon let out another shriek. Now people were running from the bunker, scattering across the square.

  “It’s almost here,” Meera whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. This is how father had died. This was how she would too.

  The well’s bucket emerged, rocking from the depths. Grandmother Yula grabbed it, pouring the water out, and lowered the bucket until it was hanging at the lip of the well.

  “Get in!” she barked.

  “What?”

  “Get in, child! I’ll lower you down!”

  “But…But…what about you? Grandmother! You can’t…”

  “Do it! Now!”

  Grandmother Yula looked behind her again. The dragon was almost upon the square.

  “Now!”

  Meera climbed up onto the ring of stone and climbed into the pail. She barely fit inside it and was obviously heavy enough to elicit grimace of pain from her grandmother who clung to the turning handle. But the old elf held it steady until Meera was settled, and then the bucket began to lower into the depths.

  “Don’t worry, child,” Grandmother Yula said. “Someone will be along to pull you free.”

  “Who will? What about you?”

  Grandmother Yula ignored her and Meera felt the bucket lurch on the rope. Then she was falling, slowly and steadily as she stared up through the round aperture into the star-filled night. There was another great, piercing roar, followed by shrieks and screams. The bucket juddered again. Meera’ clutched the sides, as it continued to drop, her view of the world diminishing until suddenly there was a flare of bright yellow light.

  When the dragon unleashed it breath, so the pail dropped suddenly, Meera letting out an echoing cry. She hit the water below with a great splash, blinded briefly by the searing intensity of the light above, and soaked by cold spray, the rope that had suspended her snaking down from above like a flaming tallow. Meera was almost capsized in that moment, the bucket rocking dangerously, threatening to spill her into the black water. But somehow, she managed to grab hold of the wall and steady herself as the bottom of the well was brightly lit by another tide of flames. And then came a great, thundering roar echoing high above, and the silhouette of the dragon blotted out the flickering brilliance momentarily before its beating wings dwindled leaving in its wake the sounds of crackling flame.

  Meera bobbed in her bucket at the bottom of the well. She stared up to the opening high above, fingers of shadows crawling along the walls in the light of the flames, at first too frightened to call for help. Then, after time, the fire gradually died away, and the darkness and cold of the well began to soak in around her. Finally, she mustered the courage to lift voice, small and strained, reverberating against the stone walls.

  “Hello? Hello! Is anybody there? Please! Someone!”

  Yet no answer came. Grandmother Yula did not appear above to crank her to the surface. No one from the village heard her calls either. And no matter how loud she shouted, Meera slowly began to realise she was alone. Abandoned. With little chance, she was sure, that anyone might save her.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks, Mallory, for all your great editing suggestions, help, advice, and encouragement.