She turned her head slowly, the brilliant glow of the well-fed crystals making it to her mind as bright blue blotches in a blur of gray. A breath dragged a fair amount of blood along with it as it swirled into her lungs and rushed quickly out again as an agonized cough. She was out of strength, out of time--and no doubt out of luck, as well.
Bagu smiled as he watched Myranda stand unsteadily. The time had come. He motioned to a nearby guard. Somewhere far below the stands there was the rumble of a sliding gate.
Out of the corner of her eye, Myranda saw motion near the other door. Until now, her tormentors had been unleashed upon her from the gates below the privileged seats of the generals. She shuffled until she was facing the massive wooden door. It crept open inch by inch. Low, tooth-rattling rumbles came from behind the door. They were sounds that seemed to reverberate off of the very sky and shake the air in her lungs. Sounds that spoke volumes of size, of ferocity.
In a dizzying blur of motion, the doors were thrown wide as something massive burst through them, its patience at an end. Myranda's vision chose that moment to begin to clear. Whatever it was, it was massive. Larger than the three dragoyles combined. Its shape was the same. The image grew gradually less fuzzy. A massive neck craned high into the air. Wings like the sails of a ship unfurled; one was whole, the other hung in shreds. Finally, the last of the haze drifted from her vision. This was not mockery, nor imitation. What towered before her was a dragon of nature's design. Onyx-black scales armored its belly, smooth, with a faint gold sheen. The scales of its back were black, mottled with streaks of the darkest crimson.
Myranda dropped to her knees. There was no use fighting now. Let it end--but let it end quickly. All she could do was hold onto the last glimmer of magic she had. That, at least, the D'karon would not have. The monstrous beast thundered toward her, the very world seeming to quake with every step. She closed her eyes. A few more titanic footsteps came, then a sound like a dozen plows being dragged through the unwilling ground at once. Myranda tensed. A rush of air knocked her backward. She hit the ground.
There was nothing. Complete stillness. Even the roar of the crowd faded to utter silence. Oblivion. Deep in the back of her mind, Myranda questioned why. Why, if her end had come, if she'd been thrust into the void, did the pain of her mortal form persist? Why did she feel the warm trickle of blood down her arm even in death? Then a hot wind rushed over her. A very real wind. She opened her eyes.
The head of the creature, the terrifying face every bit as large as Myranda’s whole body, hung over her, staring down. Another breath heaved from its nostrils and washed over her.
As she waited for the horrible mouth to snap open and bring the end she thought had already come, her mind recoiled in anger. Those eyes . . . The torturous life she'd been forced to endure was bad enough, but what demented agent of fate would mock her in her final moment with them? How could the monster that killed her have such beautiful eyes? Delicate slits in deep gold irises. Eyes that seemed so emotional. Eyes that seemed so insistent. Eyes that seemed so familiar. Those eyes . . .
She felt her mouth begin to move, a foolish hope fighting its way to her lips. Myranda tried to pull it back. It was too late.
"Myn?" she whispered.
The eyes were suddenly alight with ecstasy. The mighty creature threw back its massive head and released a roar that was overflowing with the joy of reunion. Both minds were flooded with powerful emotions and endless questions--but, for this moment, joy washed them all aside. Myn dropped her massive head down for Myranda to scratch. The injured girl tried to reach the spot atop her old friend's head but couldn't. The golden eyes turned to her again expectantly, now seeming for the first time to see the state her friend was in. Myn drew in a breath that carried with it the acrid scent of Myranda's blood. The eyes changed. Fury surged up from within. She turned her gaze to the generals. They shot each other looks of anger and accusation.
Finally, Bagu's voice raised.
"All of you! Attack! Kill them both!" he ordered.
The soldiers of the audience instantly leapt to their feet. They flowed like a tide over the walls and into the pit. The dragon's massive maw erupted with flame that licked the ground and pushed back the soldiers. A low sweep with her tail cleared the area behind her. Taking a step forward so that Myranda was directly beneath her, she continued to defend her friend.
Myranda's aching mind pushed her confusion and joy aside. There would be time for that later. For now, they had to escape. Her vision was filled with Myn's black-gold belly scales. Around the edge, lit by the orange light of a burst of flame, she saw the tattered remains of her left wing. A spell hurled by Bagu splashed across Myn's hide and she recoiled in pain.
Myranda didn't know if she had the strength left, but it was her absolute last hope. She swept together the scraps of her spirit and sculpted a healing spell. Slowly, the shreds of leathery flesh began to pull together. The crystals tore hungrily at the spell, but Myranda continued. Darkness began to creep in around her. She struggled to keep her mind about her as the last of the ruined wing became whole.
Myn flapped her restored wings. Gale-force winds swept over the soldiers, knocking them to the ground. Long unused muscles worked like never before. The dragon scooped up her dazed companion and leapt with all of the force her massive legs could muster. She rose skyward and set her eyes on the horizon.
Chapter 15
Icy wind rushed past Myranda as she struggled to keep her loose grasp on consciousness. Rooftops, treetops, and open field streaked by her half-lidded eyes and shrank into specks below her. The dark sky and Myn's dark form blended. The only sounds were the whistling of wind, the heaving of breath, and the leathery flap of wings.
It wasn't long before the sound of other leathery wings joined in. Myn peered back. Keen eyes spotted the forms of a veritable fleet of dragoyles among the darkness. She wheeled and soared high into the clouds. The black beasts followed. Soon the world was a haze of gray as they swept through the very clouds. Drawing on instincts developed over generations, Myn maneuvered blindly yet precisely until the vast flock of dragoyles was ahead of her. She could have then dropped below the clouds and made her way to safety. She had other plans.
These men had stolen her away. They had held her, tortured her, changed her. They had hurt her friend. Escape was the last thing on her mind. She drew in close and puffed up her chest. An intense column of flame blasted from her mouth, roasting the riders of half a dozen of their attackers. The others scattered and wheeled. She was twice the size of the largest of them. None lasted long against her. Slashes of claws, whips of her tail, blasts of flame, and devastating snaps of her jaws made short, vicious work of every last pursuer.
The dragon continued onward until the first rays of the sun peeked over the mountains. With the brightening sky, the clever beast knew that it would not be difficult to spot her. She picked out a dense stand of trees and touched down on the ground. As gently as a mother caring for one of her own, Myn placed the shivering form of Myranda on the ground. She sniffed nervously at Myranda. The young wizard tried to pat the creature reassuringly, but she could not stop herself from trembling. The massive creature stood over her ailing friend and lowered herself carefully to the ground, folding her claws over the human's form and gingerly pulling her closer in a sort of embrace. When Myranda was properly nestled in her grasp, Myn let loose a burst of flame.
Myranda could feel the heat rush through Myn's veins, taking the chill instantly from her. Surrounded utterly by her friend, hearing only the distant, deep thump of the massive creature's powerful heart, Myranda, for the first time in ages, felt something she thought she would never feel again. She felt safe. She drifted into a deep, exhausted sleep.
Myn released what could only be described as a sigh of contentment as she felt the tiny form of Myranda slip into slumber. A deep, fundamental happiness filled her as she too drifted into a blissful sleep, finally whole again.
#
Deep in th
e capital, far to the north, a feeble old man sat in a large, ornate chair. On his head was the crown that had been worn by his forefathers, the Crown of Three Kingdoms. For two generations now, it had been the only crown of the north. It was the very one that had adorned the head of the King of Vulcrest on the fateful day when he lost his life just a few paces too far south and began this endless war. Rescuing it from the Tressons had been the first--and, in many ways, the last--great triumph for his people in this war. Now it sat on his head. To his people, it was the symbol of his power. For the sake of hope, they were allowed to believe it.
Within the castle walls, though, there was no doubt where the true power could be found.
The great doors of the entryway were pulled open by the team of masked soldiers who stood guard. Through the towering doorway passed a small, meticulously-dressed man, a pair of silver staffs adorning his back and glinting with the gleam of gems. The king watched in silence as the man known to him as General Demont marched through the great hall. The sound of his purposeful footsteps echoed off of the vaulted ceiling of a hall designed to be the site of vast celebrations. Save for the occasional honored funeral, it had been unused since the coronation. The general, a stern look in his eye, quickened his pace, walking past the king without so much as a glance. A few steps more brought him to a door.
Demont opened the door, finding the room beyond pitch-black. He closed the door behind him. A dozen candles hissed to life, casting their yellow glow on the form of Bagu, his face a scarred mass of anger. His eyes gazed intently at a massive sand timer. An unnatural, halting stream of grains tumbled toward the bottom. Only a few healthy palmfuls of sand had yet to fall. Whatever the device measured, it was nearing its end.
"Well," he said, fury dripping from the word as it left his mouth.
"The dragoyle riders were defeated. Myranda is out of our grasp," Demont said.
Bagu's fingers locked around the arm of his chair, the wood groaning under his grasp.
"A Chosen one . . . just seconds from death, has escaped. What do you have to say for yourself?" the senior general fumed.
"What do I have to say for myself? This is none of my doing!" Demont objected.
"None of your doing? You had in your stables a dragon that belonged to the Chosen One, and you didn't think it was worth mentioning!? You allow me to reunite a divine warrior with a powerful ally and the resulting escape is none of your doing!?" Bagu raged.
"If the intelligence provided by your precious Epidime is to be trusted, then that could not possibly have been the Chosen One's dragon. She traveled with an infant dragon, the size of a dog. The beast my creatures brought back to me was adolescent if anything, nearly full-grown. There can be no confusion on that matter. And as for allowing you to unite them, I warned you not to use the black dragon. It was not a weapon, it was a target! A brute! A blunt instrument! I plucked that beast from nature and shaped it to my needs to serve as fodder for proving my beasts. It was never under control. It was never meant to be controlled. This is on your head. You were the one who wanted an example made of her," Demont stated.
Bagu released a long, angry noise somewhere between sigh and hiss.
"Can you track the beast?" he asked.
"Faintly, and not at all if she manages to remove the enhancements," Demont replied.
"She will seek to free the others. Have you recovered the soul gem from the other human?" Bagu asked.
"The largest piece, yes."
"Kill him."
"We've not yet located the smaller piece. Without his aid . . ."
"Kill him!" Bagu demanded.
". . . as you wish," Demont relented.
#
Elsewhere, another figure navigated a large, dimly-lit tunnel. There was an overpowering stench of brimstone, and a thick coat of soot clung to every surface. Ahead, a faint glow signaled the end of the path. Desmeres approached a nearman. Its was face undisguised and its hands were gripping a staff that marked it as one of the rare spell casting variety. It was guarding a web of bars that crisscrossed the tunnel with no apparent door.
After flashing a medallion emblazoned with a handful of indecipherable symbols, the creature gave a nod. The staff was raised and the web seemed to come alive, shifting and twisting like a family of serpents until the way was opened. Twice more he was forced to reveal the medallion and await the parting of bars before he finally reached a large, natural cavern. The air was thick with smells that burned the nose and stung the eyes, and combined with the stifling heat, made breathing difficult. A channel had been carved into the stone floor of the cavern, from which an ominous red glow radiated. Thin black wisps of evil-smelling fumes hinted at what lie at its bottom. The channel formed a ring around an irregular shaped stone spire that jutted up from the molten rock below.
Attached to the spire was an assassin.
Lain's hands and feet were not secured to the stone. Instead, they seemed to disappear into it, as though the spire had swallowed them and hardened. His head hung limply, his chest painfully drawing in the occasional wheezing breath. The telltale lines of a whip's lash stripped his flesh. Wounds trickled, and blood-soaked bandages cocooned the upper part of his chest and one shoulder. As Desmeres approached the edge of the channel, the head lifted to show faded, cloudy eyes that tried and failed to identify his blurry form. A weak sniff brought nothing but fumes that burned at the lungs.
"It is me, Lain. Desmeres," he said solemnly.
Lain's form shuddered almost imperceptibly at the sound of the name.
"It . . . looks as though they have finally found a cell you can't escape from," he remarked, venturing a peek at the magma shifting along the distant floor of the channel over which Lain hung.
A painful breath left Lain.
"You and I knew it would end this way for one of us. It will please you to know that you did manage to teach them their lesson. I was paid in full for my services," Desmeres said.
"You won't live long enough to spend it," Lain wheezed.
"No one could live long enough to spend that much gold," he replied.
"Why did you come here?"
"We spent seventy years as partners, Lain. I owe you at least a final visit," Desmeres answered.
A raking cough shook Lain.
". . . the others?" Lain asked.
"Captured. All of them," Desmeres stated. "Although . . ."
Lain's eyes shifted to him.
"They don't trust me, Lain. As is to be expected. They only tell me what they think I need to know. Still, it would take a fool to miss the fact that something is going on. Troops are moving, reinforcing forts. It must be the forts where the others are kept. They are all being carefully protected . . ." Desmeres explained, stopping suddenly.
His eyes turned to a half-seen form in the shadows, then to the bandages on Lain's chest.
"Everyone except for you . . . Something has happened and it has got them worried. I've got a feeling that they will soon have a new task for me. Hopefully, it will be a few days more before they contact me. I've nearly finished some . . . items. Things my wife convinced me to make. It would be a shame if they moldered in one of the storehouses rather than finding some use," Desmeres mused.
Lain released another breath and let his head lower once more.
"Well. I'd best try to find what there is to find about this final Chosen. I don't suppose we will meet again. Good luck to you," Desmeres said.
He quickly set off, his back tingling with the expectation of a blade.
#
Elsewhere, under a slowly brightening sky, Myranda stirred. Even after a short day and a long night, the black pit of sleep was slow to let the world in. As her mind crept back to her, thoughts clashed. She knew that she was outside, but why was she so warm? She knew that she could scarcely be in any more danger, but why wasn't she afraid? Her eyes opened and beheld the answer. Myn was already awake. She held Myranda carefully against her, all the while keeping a vigilant watch with every available sense. M
yranda pushed gently at the grip and the dragon obligingly released it. The shock of cold air that reached her now that she was no longer protected swept the last trace of sleep from her mind.
The dragon stood, its head rising to nearly the treetops. As the young wizard's eyes shifted over the unfamiliar features of an old friend, the dragon suddenly remembered that it had been ages since she had performed her most cherished of duties. Instantly, she vanished into the woods, heedless of Myranda's calls for her to stop. The enthusiasm of the bounding steps was the first thing, save the eyes, that Myranda truly recognized about her friend. Trees swayed like tall grass, accompanied by a creaking and snapping tumult that retreated quickly into the distance. In barely a moment, the earth trembled with Myn's return, a deer clutched in her massive jaws. She dropped it on the ground before Myranda and looked about for a pile of wood to light. Seeing none and growing impatient, she turned to a sizable young tree and, with frightening ease, reduced it to splinters. The act took the merest swat of her massive claws. No sooner had the pile of wood settled than a blast of flame set it alight.
Myranda looked in awe at the results of Myn's traditional morning errands scaled up to her new size. As the glow of the vastly excessive fire cast its dancing light on the trees around her, Myranda's mind began to work. She would need something warm to wear, and quickly. For now, she brought a few spells to mind that would take the edge off of the cold that the fire had not been able to fully keep at bay. Her stomach reminded her vocally that she was well overdue for a meal, and the fact that a suitable candidate now lay beside her greatly amplified its complaints. That could wait a bit more. The gash that the worms had torn in her arm had been reduced to an abrasion, and her ribs and shoulder were sore but no longer broken. There were any number of things about her body that could have benefited from immediate attention, but none needed it.
In short, she was in terrible shape, but not in danger. This was fortunate, because even if she had been at death's door, there was something else that was far more important to her right now. She took a few steps back and looked at Myn.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 107