by J. T. Hartke
When his feet grasped rock, he folded his wings back along his arm and over his shoulder, while leaning forward on this thickly padded knuckle. Beyond the sulfurous scent of brimstone, a musky, more familiar aroma rose to his nose. It brought up memories of hunting lessons, and long songs of the history of dragons. Groovax snorted and crawled toward the dark cave looming nearby.
A loud snort and belch of smoke rolled out to meet him.
“So you have returned to me.” Arravox’s thick, basso voice rolled out toward him, still as strong as ever. “After a century, you find your way back to your father.” A head with horns twice the size of Groovax’s rose from behind a lip of the cave, covered in emerald and bronze scales. The great dragon’s green eyes focused. “I had forgotten how much you look like your mother. It has been too long, my son.”
Groovax bowed his head and sinewy neck. “It has, father. The world gets away from us…in more ways than one.”
The elder dragon heaved out of his cave on scarred forearms and battered wings. He drew in a deep breath of his son’s scent, and then leaned forward until they touched foreheads for a brief second before Arravox backed away “I have sensed as much. So the great wraiths have returned, have they? That young fool Leolan’s trap didn’t last for a tenth of the time he promised.”
Groovax shook his mane. “Some of our kindred have joined with the orc host Galdreth has created. They answered the Dragonsoul’s call. Quite a few died, and now most of the rest hide with what little treasure they gathered.” He curled his lip in distaste. “Vordrex led them, but now he cowers in the Dragonscales for all that I can tell.”
A bellowing laugh emerged from deep in Arravox’s throat. “That black bastard has been a fang in my neck since the Wars. He was ever enamored with Galdreth’s promises of treasure.” He laughed again. “After all these years, I would bet his trove still does not glitter nearly so well as mine – earned without betraying our race to dark powers.”
Uncertainty looming in the back of his mind, Groovax watched the elder dragon coil his tail as he sat. “I need your help, father. We must stop Galdreth. The Chaos released has already begun to spin the world out of control.”
Arravox scoffed, and the sound echoed throughout the volcano’s caldera. “What world? All I see is a quiet island and an ocean full of fish.”
“Father, I—”
The old dragon flung out his wings. A few tattered holes lined the leathery membranes. “Come, my son. I have been sleeping for weeks. Let us hunt together. We will see if you remember what I taught you so long ago.”
Dust whirled into the air as Arravox beat his wings. Groovax felt the flow of power as his father lifted into the air. A few strong flaps and he cleared the volcano’s rim, his yellow, chipped teeth showing from behind a grin.
Groovax leaped after him, pounding his wings and drawing at his power in order to keep up. If I pester him, his mood will go sour. For now I will placate the old beast, and we will see if his mood softens.
Nothing broke the undulating surface of the ocean save the island and a few white caps stirred up by the breeze. Groovax blinked at how far ahead his father already flew. A warm feeling spread through his massive heart. The Ancient One can still soar.
He rushed forward, thrumming his wings in time with his mighty heart. His power streamed out behind him, aiding his surge. Soon he could almost reach out to nip his father’s long, streaming tail.
Arravox’s great voice carried over the wind. “I often find Bluefin along this underwater ridge. One of the reasons I chose this island as my home. That, and the isolation. Bringing my trove here was quite a task.” He tilted his wing and peeled to one side and Groovax followed. “The volcano is mostly extinct. The hot spot moved some ages ago, for I sense a new island almost touching the surface not far to the south. Perhaps, in another few thousand years when you are ready to retire from this world of yours, it might be ready for you.” His father laughed in the wind. “Perhaps we shall be old neighbors.”
Groovax snorted then turned to the waters below. His sharp gaze picked out large schools, flashing about in the depths. The smaller fish moved toward the surface and the bigger ones followed. One held still for a split second, orienting itself for a charge at the ball of sardines, and Groovax folded his wings. He turned and darted toward the sea, his power giving his dive speed.
The water rushed around him with a splash, but he did not slow. The huge tuna shot forward, and Groovax caught it with his jaws, clenching tight against the wet, slippery fish. He curved his wings and pushed with his power, shooting out of the water. He pounded for air and tossed the tuna high into the sky. A deep breath and another twist of his power and flame seared the outside of the fatty fish, leaving a meaty, smoky scent on the breeze. He clamped down, swallowing the fish in three delicious bites. A few wing beats later and he hovered near his father.
Arravox lifted one eye ridge. “You saved none for me?”
The old dragon flipped backward and hurtled down into the water. Groovax circled above, watching his father through the crystal blue as he flashed out with teeth and claws. He came up with a tuna in his mouth and a shark twice as large in his hind claws. He beat for air and tossed the tuna, consuming it raw and whole.
Groovax sniffed. I have not smelled his flame in a long time.
Arravox flew by. “Come. We’ll share this toothy monster back at my cave…and talk further of your concerns.”
The flavor of the shark did not please as much as the tuna, but Groovax thought back to the last time he had split a kill with his father. That warm feeling in his heart spread to the tips of his wings. “We have not done this in centuries.”
Arravox ripped a fin free and gobbled it down. “A millennium. It was before the war when last we shared a freshly hunted meal.” He picked a hunk of shark meat from behind a sharp tooth with his pointed claw. Arravox sucked it down. “That was my war, Groovax. And I paid dearly for it. A hundred of your elder brothers and sisters flew out with me to aid the Elves, and none of them returned. Only me.” He hung his head, the shark no longer interesting him. “I came home to your mother alone, and only you and Melvax had remained with her. You were dragonlings then, unable to even make fire yet. But she could never forgive me the loss of all our brood.” He looked up at Groovax. “I would have died to keep her love, sad truth that it is.”
Settling back, Groovax let his father speak, unwilling to interrupt the rare voluntary offering.
“When she died, my heart broke all over again, and I swore I would never mate with another.” The ancient green dragon settled back on his haunches. “Your uncle Vordrex mated enough for both of us.”
Groovax thumped a knuckle on the stone. “He is barely older than I, and a dark heart to match his scales at that.”
The elder dragon snorted and went back to his meal. “He is your problem then, even if he is my youngest brother. He chose Galdreth long ago, and I think he has always regretted it. But his pride is too great – too great to allow him to admit his choice was wrong.” He snapped a piece of shark. “He will hunt this prey to the end.”
Picking at the tender cheeks of the shark, Groovax nodded. “I understand, Father.”
Arravox stopped eating to gaze at his son. “You are almost as strong as I ever was, and twice as smart. You get that from your mother.” He butted his head on Groovax’s shoulder. “Pick your allies well. Stand for what you believe. I am too old to do it. Besides, none of my allies are still alive.”
Groovax sat still, his father’s words echoing in his head. A pensive warning echoed at the edge of Arravox’s advice. And just who among the living are my allies?
Death darkens every man’s door. – Caladrius Dreamwalker
Lord Doctor Tymin Marten smacked his dry lips, his tongue like a wad of sandpaper in his mouth. He scrabbled about in the loose scree for a grip with his one unblemished hand. Finding a solid r
ock to grab on to, he pulled himself forward another few inches. The tattered velvet of his cape caught on a twisted piece of armor, causing his silver broach to jab into his neck. He thrashed about with his mangled hand, missing two fingers and still leaking blood. The clasp came loose, as did his cape, and he dragged himself an inch or two farther. This time when he flailed with his good hand, he felt the damp lap of the edge of the Gallond.
“Water,” he croaked.
Marten slapped his wet fingers against his lips, ignoring the grit and mud to suck at the sweet wetness. Another strong pull and his face rested in the mud, with little ripples of river water lapping against his forehead. He swallowed sand as he sucked, causing most of it to come right back out in a vomitous cough. Once he regained control, he pulled himself deeper into the river, and then drank greedily. The water tasted of blood, but Marten did not care. His only desire was to slake his agonizing thirst.
A few minutes later, he had pulled himself over to lean against a boulder to watch the eastern sky darken. I dragged myself twenty yards across that battlefield, through guts and muck and rent steel. It’s only a few thousand more across the grassland.
“If only I still had my beautiful legs,” he whined as he looked down at the bloody stumps below his knees. “If only I had the strength to heal my feet back.”
I should be dead.
“Damn that beast that trampled me!”
Through the haze of pain and despair, a piece of Marten realized that he spoke to himself – that madness was the only thing left to him. Knowing that accepting his fate would crush the last of his spirit, he let the madness take him, embracing it like a savior.
He flopped over on one side, the pain mostly a dull ache that covered his entire body. His psahn leaked out of him just as his blood did. But I have drained the energies of many…
“And my life force is still strong!”
A wracking cough tore through him, bringing up a small spray of blood that was lost against the already crimsoned ground. Once it came under control, his breath returned in weaker gasps. A warm numbness coursed through his remaining limbs, and his mind wandered around the edge of strange dreams. Marten felt himself drift away and he realized he did not care.
Tearing through the sense of calm, a cold, icy grip manhandled him back to consciousness. “Oh, you don’t get off that easy, Lord Doctor.” The voice remained calm and quiet in his ear, but its chilling tone drove fear of darker things than death into his heart. “I marched all the way out here dressed as a fool infantryman with three jobs to do, and the orcs pretty much handled them for me. They took Arathan’s head, leaving me nothing there. It looks as if the bastard is their prisoner, out of my reach for now. Thank the Source that they only took your legs. And praise it that there are plenty of horses left for me to ride back to civilization.”
Marten struggled to open his eyes, but their weight pressed down on his entire head. He felt a sucking sensation at his psahn and thrashed about against it.
“Oh, you’ve tasted many, haven’t you, my Lord?” The calm voice chuckled as if it were owned by an old friend. “Though, I mostly smell street urchins and wine-soaked beggars on you. For shame, doctor. Our gift is such a rare and powerful one. To waste it on the weak is…well…a terrible waste.” The voice made a clucking noise, scolding Marten like a disappointed teacher. “I have drained archdukes and princes, wizards and priests. I have tasted a woman who gave birth a dozen times, and a virgin not far into her blossoming.” Marten imagined a ghastly face smile behind his closed eyelids. “And now I will drain you.”
Marten heaved backward and with a last, desperate thrust of his Talent, threw up a shield similar to the one used by Maddi. The desperation in his heart strengthened his psahn, and a desire to live rekindled in his heart. He squeezed all of his strength into protecting himself, but a sad, scared piece of his spirit cried out that it would never be enough.
“Well, now, isn’t that something new and interesting.” The voice paused for a moment. “Yes…very interesting. I wonder…where did you learn that, dear doctor?”
“My…my student,” Marten grunted through dying lips. “She is ss…stronger than I ever…ever. I ssshould have…”
He could not force his mouth to work. Fear of his life essence being drained drove him to struggle, however futile his efforts might be. His anxious heartbeats drove more bleeding from his wounds, and Marten felt himself weaken further. He gasped for heavy breaths and the air reeked of his own death.
“Hmmm…perhaps I will find this student of yours when I return to Daynon.” The voice came closer, now hovering near his ear. “Perhaps I will insist that she be a part of my reward since I have been robbed of the life force of a king and an earl, and most of that of a Lord Doctor.”
The shield Marten had thrown up shattered at a stab of the assassin’s psahn, not just because his own life force was weak, but because the voice held a Talent beyond anything Marten had ever sensed. It crumpled every ounce of his defenses and grabbed his psahn like a mastiff shaking a ragdoll. The assassin sucked it from him, and Marten no longer had the will to resist.
“Oh, I had so hoped for an epic battle – a test of wills between two…well not equals obviously, but at least someone who might have offered me a challenge.” A soft sigh followed Tymin Marten into oblivion. “Perhaps if I can find this student of yours…”
Peace is only wrought through victory. – Wild Tiger
Slar leaned against the freshly carved stone parapet. Early summer spread across the Northlands before him in a splash of colorful wildflowers, dancing with the grasses in the soft breeze. Beyond the last pines, the rolling hills of sun-warmed tundra stretched to the horizon. Most of the straggling conifer trees had been cleared around the new gate, as yet without a wall. It marked the outer limits of the new city that sprang up around the base of Dragonsclaw. Slar’s private chamber stood well above it, carved into one of the upper faces of the tunneled-out mountain.
“It’s still not high enough for me to avoid the smell of all those Mammoth Clan fools.” He spat over the edge, watching the gobbet drop toward the distant collection of new buildings and field tents. “They win one battle and think the glory is all theirs. Thank the Flames most of them remain at Highspur.”
Otherwise, the rest of us would be outnumbered.
The doeskin curtain separating his terrace from the inner chamber fluttered aside and Tealla stepped out to join him. Her eyes met his for one moment, then lowered.
“Your son, Sharrog awaits at your door, my Warchief.” Her fiery gaze again met his. “He asks to speak with you.”
The sourness in his stomach at thoughts of the Mammoth Clan faded. “Bring him to me.”
Tealla bowed and disappeared. Moments later, Sharrog walked out on the terrace with a frown.
“Why so dour, my son?”
The young orc’s features wore much more than the year and a half of toil they had spent in Galdreth’s service. “You should see the lines on your own visage, Father.” He leaned against the stone, carved with dragons and flames. “Our victory lies sour in my stomach. I should rejoice at smashing the Human army. I should rejoice for my kin who died as honored warriors.” Sharrog pulled on the thick gold ring in his ear. “But all I can see is the numbers who have died. Even though the enemy fled, our own horde was so weakened by the battle that we were forced to return to the Northlands. We did not even plunder their cities or chase their survivors into a hole.”
Slar shrugged. “It was the command of Galdreth. You were there when our master appeared to Sargash and me after the battle.” The painful old acquaintance in his gut flared at thoughts of Galdreth and of Sargash. “Tonight we will unite Galdreth with the vessel. Then we will have time to gather another harvest, and next spring we will swing southward with an even greater host than last time. Only there will be nothing to stop us until we reach their walled city of Gavanor.”
Placing both hands on the rail, Sharrog stared out over the summer-painted Northland tundra. “Grindar once told me your reasons for following Galdreth. That only by uniting the clans to move southward could you save the Boar Clan from the encroachments of the others. I see the wisdom of this.” He turned to look at Slar. “But now our clan is even weaker than before, and the Mammoths are many times stronger. The Rams and the Wolf are decimated even more than we. Only the Bear and Snake could challenge them, and they are their closest friends.” Sharrog looked down at the swarm of builders and warriors far below. “I fear that this halt is to allow Mammoth to consolidate their power before moving southward. I fear they may well try to eliminate you.”
Though he felt no mirth, Slar forced a laugh. “Sargash would never harm me. I am Galdreth’s chosen Warchief.”
Sharrog’s frown deepened. “That’s what I fear most.”
His son’s words shook Slar to his core. They brought up thoughts he had tamped down after their close victory at the Gallond. The fiery knot in his gut burst into a searing flame. A hint of blood rose to his tongue and Slar felt a sudden urge to vomit. He spat over the side of the mountain, away from his son to hide the spittle’s pinkness.
“You should rest and eat well before tonight’s ceremony.” Slar wiped his chin. “I want you to lead the Boar soon. Maybe someday lead all clans. Meet me here an hour after sunset and we will go down to the chamber with the shamans together.”
The young warrior bowed, turned, and left through the doeskin curtain.
Slar watched the orcs working at the foot of Dragonsclaw for a while, but the preponderance of Mammoth Clan banners moving among them kept the pain in his gut from settling. And I still left half of them at Highspur.