The Summer Dragon

by Todd Lockwood

Father immediately pulled up a chair for Mabir, then he and Tauman moved the tables together. Soon all were seated in tense, awkward silence. Darian and I sat opposite each other in the center of the joined tables. I caught his eyes. He was pale, too. I clamped my hands between my knees to prevent myself from fidgeting. Kaisi returned with earthenware cups and a pitcher of water. For our Brood Day guests, she had even included a chunk of ice from the vaults. Then she vanished again, off to the kitchen to assemble our meal.

  Father cleared his throat before any casual conversation could be struck. “Friends . . .” He struggled to find words for a moment. “I confess that I have been withholding news the last few weeks, hoping it wouldn’t prove to be a distraction as we prepared for this day.”

  Tauman’s apprehension turned to shock. “Oh, High Ones . . . not Cuuloda.”

  Father nodded grimly. “The Harodhi have been probing the aeries at Cuuloda. We didn’t think there was any real danger, as Cuuloda’s high mountain ranges provide a natural defense. But now Captain Rov brings dire news.”

  Darian and I locked eyes again. He was ashen, and Mabir’s mouth hung open.

  Rov stood slowly and scanned the table. “It’s true. I received word only this morning by courier. Cuuloda has been taken by Harodhi.”

  Mabir moaned softly, put a hand to his lips. “Cuuloda is . . . was Korruzon’s most productive aerie. This is a bitter blow.”

  Tauman’s hands trembled on the table. “Were there . . . Horrors?”

  Rov nodded. “They drew us away with new Horrors in Ebrolin; spread the Dragonry thin. Then they overwhelmed Cuuloda with numbers. Refugees limp in from Haalden with horrible tales.”

  “What are they?” I asked. “The Horrors, I mean.”

  Rov glanced at Father, then fixed me with a grim look, his mouth a hard line. “Consider beasts made of mutilated men and animals sewn together, with helmets bolted to their skulls, weapons for arms. Walking carrion.” He paused again, eyes downcast, as if fighting with his own words. “They came out of Harodh by way of Tammuz, in the hundreds, and there was no stopping them. They are unquestioning, tireless, and brutal. They don’t sleep. They eat everything living and dead: the livestock, the grain stores, even the roots are dug out of the fields and consumed. They leave not a tree, not a bush, not a twig of grass, nor any living animal.”

  I’d never heard them described before. Not by anyone who’d ever actually seen one. Rov’s words chilled me. “Where do they come from?”

  “They’re constructs. Creations,” said Rov. “We don’t know how they’re made.”

  “Why don’t they just eat each other?” I asked.

  “They are in thrall to their creators,” said Rov. “Some foul magic keeps them under control. But when they’re turned loose, they’re hard to bring down.”

  The courtyard fell silent. Father had told us stories by the fire on many a winter’s night of his time in the Dragonry, but never anything like this. He sometimes wondered at the very fact of the Horrors; there had been no such monsters—only men and animals—when he fought in the war.

  “What about Ebrolin?” Father asked.

  “You’re right to wonder, since that’s the battlefront. Ebrolin is safe as far as the desert highlands of Tammuz. The only thing that slows them is a lack of something to consume. The homesteads are vulnerable because they bring life to the desert, though the refugees destroy all as they flee. But Ebrolin was a feint—Cuuloda was the prize they sought.”

  “Haalden?” asked Tauman.

  “Overrun.”

  “How far have they pressed?” Father again.

  “They were stopped at Chaaladan, but the bridge had to be burned to do it.”

  “What happened to the brigades there?”

  “Unclear. But the Horrors must be held to the far side of the canyon. Cuuloda is surrounded by mountains, so they are somewhat contained. But the province is lost. The Horrors have been given a place to gather and consolidate their strength. They’ve burrowed in, where our Dragonry can’t assault them. Worse, our forces in Ebrolin are divided, facing not only north but west now as well. I fear Harodh will press us hard in the coming year. Their use of the Horrors has grown.”

  Jhem leaned forward, her eyes wide. “What about the broodparents and the clutches at Cuuloda?”

  “They were overrun so quickly, there was no chance to get any of the qits out. The broodmaster’s son reported that when he saw his father last, he was putting the entire brood to death rather than let it fall into enemy hands. I know no more than that. The picture is still a sketch.”

  Father slumped in his chair. “Ardran didn’t make it out?”

  Rov only shook his head slowly, and Father hung his head.

  Again, silence enveloped the courtyard but for the rustle of a breeze in the bamboo canes. Pallid faces looked one to another. Jhem wept openly. I was in a fog of disbelief. I knew Ardran and his sons. They visited from time to time. We had sold them a qit to refresh their stables just two years ago. Shuja’s dam, Grus, had come from their aeries in a trade before I was born.

  Mabir cleared his throat and rapped on the table with his knuckles. “Honored guests. Friends. Something amazing has happened here in Riat that we must discuss before we do anything else. Our two young friends here have had an experience that I now believe is related profoundly to this news and must impact the decisions being made today.”

  All faces turned our way. Father and Tauman frowned intently. Rov and Bellua looked mildly curious. Sweat tickled my back.

  “I have already heard the story from young master Darian, and it is amazing. Circumstances kept me from hearing Maia’s version of things until now. We will hear from her shortly. But I don’t want to give this any more build-up. I think the best thing is to simply get started. So, Darian, if you would please, begin with the event here in the aeries and tell us what happened to you yesterday.”

  Bellua and Rov looked at each other again, and both leaned in closer as Darian gathered his words.

  “Go ahead, my boy,” Mabir prompted.

  He started slowly, as I did when I told Jhem the night before. But once he found his rhythm, it spilled out of him. The merihem stiffened as the tale progressed, frowning down at his clasped hands. When Darian admitted to forgetting the small deer in the ruins, Bellua hitched his chair closer to the table. “That is an ill omen—”

  Mabir held a finger to his lips. “Please, good merihem.”

  With a nod from Mabir, Darian finished. “And so, I remembered that the Summer Dragon was supposed to be a sign of change, or a bringer of change, and I thought—”

  “What makes you think it was a High Dragon, and not just a wilding beast?” Bellua leaned in for the answer.

  Darian didn’t miss a beat. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I know dragons. This was not a wild dragon. It was huge. The biggest thing I have ever seen! It was to our dragons as the sun is to a lantern!”

  Bellua’s frown deepened. “This seems impossible. Exactly how big—”

  “Good merihem, let us hold our questions.” Mabir smiled uneasily. “We mustn’t influence the tale to come. It’s long past time that Maia was allowed to give her version of events.”

  He nodded toward me, and my stomach clenched.

  Bellua looked surprised. “This girl has more to tell than that?”

  Mabir turned and faced him directly. “Why don’t we let her tell her story before we judge?”

  Rov put a hand on Bellua’s shoulder. “Let her speak.”

  Bellua sat back and crossed his arms. “Very well.” His face was troubled—the handsome young man who had called me the wildflower of the aerie seemed long gone now. Why did he find this news so troubling?

  Rov studied me with furrowed brow. Tauman and Father stared intently. Darian looked expectant. Jhem winked, and nodded ever so slightly. I cleared my throat and swal
lowed.

  The first few, hoarse words eased the way for the rest. I took us into the forest, eyes closed to picture everything exactly as it had been, and tried to describe it all—the way the woods became still, heralding the Summer Dragon with silence more compelling than an army of trumpets, and the tremble of the trees at his passing. Wings like beaten copper, muscular shoulders that rippled like a net full of fish. His eyes that pierced like sharp summer lightning. When he lifted off again I could only follow, to the top of the ruins and into the valley beyond, as though a tether had been pinned to my heart. The colors, the smells, the earth turning beneath me, the living forest that swayed in time to some age-old but ever-present rhythm, the euphoria that gripped me even in my sadness. How it led me deep into the green sanctuary of the trees, where I discovered a dead dragon with a noose around its leg.

  “And I knew that Father would want to hear about the poachers,” I finished. “So I started home. When I climbed to the top of the ridge, and looked back, and I saw him one more time on the far cliffs. Then I came home as fast as I could because . . .” I opened my eyes. There were no more furrowed brows or angry grimaces around the table. Each face was blank, dumbstruck, completely rapt. I swallowed and took a deep breath. “I thought that perhaps there might yet be a baby. For me.”

  Complete silence.

  At some point during my tale, Kaisi had set the table with two big bowls of rice-and-corn pilaf, hard-boiled eggs, fruit, cheese, and wine. She stood in the archway where my words had halted her, a strand of black hair hanging across her astonished face. No one had yet touched the food or wine.

  Mabir spoke first, wide-eyed. “Remarkable.” He looked around the table. “You see, good Bellua and Rov, we have many things to consider.”

  Bellua laid a finger against his cheek. “First and foremost is to ascertain whether this was, in fact, the Summer Dragon, or if it was a High Dragon at all.”

  “Oh, I think there can be no doubt that it was a visitation by one of the Avar,” smiled Mabir. “You heard the descriptions, which came from two young adults with intimate knowledge of dragons. I doubt very much that they could be fooled into such depth of emotion by a wilding dragon.”

  Bellua folded his hands together on the tabletop.

  Mabir continued. “So, the foremost task is to determine the relevance of this visitation. For whom was the message intended, and what was the message?”

  “The answer to the first question is obvious.” Father held his hands out to indicate Darian and me. “Whatever the meaning, it was intended for my children.”

  Mabir smiled benignly. “But because they are your children, and you are the broodmaster of the Riat aeries, it is also relevant to the aeries, and to Riat, which complicates the divination.”

  “Yes, I suppose. Of course. But you cannot disconnect that relevance from my children.”

  “No,” Bellua corrected. “Assuming for the moment that it was an Avar, you cannot disconnect the relevance from our Lord Korruzon, as all the High Dragons are reflections of Him.”

  Mabir shook his head. “That is disputed by men more learned than you, good Bellua—”

  “Korruzon is Rasaa—head of your Temple, Vizier to the Emperor, Overseer of the Empire. All things are relevant to Korruzon.”

  “Undoubtedly. But the Avar abound in lore and history, throughout Gurvaan. They predate Korruzon.”

  Bellua took a deep breath. “Korruzon is the living manifestation of the power that existed before all things, the Original Flame of a universe born from fire, whose writhings pushed up the mountains and hollowed out the seas, and who will continue on unto the end of time.” His tone was that of a teacher lecturing a stubborn child. “All High Dragons past and future are manifestations of Him. So says the Dragon Temple, the Rasaal. So say the merihem. The truth of this is manifest in the breadth of the empire that Korruzon founded four hundred years ago and still oversees. That includes your province of Gadia. You should purge your quaint, provincial need to cling to the icons of your distant past. All Avar—all High Dragons—are reflections of Korruzon.”

  “The statue in our own ruins is evidence enough of the schism,” said Mabir. “It predates Gurvaan and Korruzon alike. Why does it depict two Avar in combat if both are reflections of Korruzon?”

  Bellua waved the comment off. “Clearly it is an ancient metaphor of struggle, not to be taken literally.”

  All fell silent, while Mabir and Bellua studied each other. I was surprised at this sudden confrontation. I’d been unaware that Gurvaan and its provinces disputed the finer points of Temple scripture, but I recognized a power play when I saw one. The stained glass in our own modest temple showed Korruzon as the Most High of all the Avar, but depicted other Avar, too, including Getig. It had never been made clear to me what Mabir meant when he called them the “guises” or “aspects” of Korruzon. Now Bellua spoke of “reflections.” It confused me. I imagined a being that could send images of itself out into the world, to see and hear and maybe even communicate on His behalf—as if Getig was really Korruzon in disguise, but with a change of clothing. That seemed bizarre.

  Before I could make sense of it, Mabir replied in measured tones. “Based on the descriptions given and the timing—the day before midsummer—we must accept that it was, in fact, the Summer Dragon, regardless of whether it was a unique individual or a reflection of Korruzon.”

  Bellua did not argue, but sat stone-faced.

  Tauman sat a little taller. “So is it a good omen or a bad omen?” You could count on Tauman to stick to business.

  Mabir considered before he answered. “The manifestation of the Summer Dragon is neither positive nor negative in itself, only a sign that a moment has arrived. It might be a long moment like an era, or a short one, like a season. Getig sometimes appears at the height of material well-being, which is why he is called Summer—after the Solstice, when all things are at their fullness. But the material world is transitory, and his coming might presage either the abundance of a good harvest-to-be . . . or the long decline of a drought-filled summer. Many things are possible. Darian is not wrong to describe him as a harbinger of change. More correct, perhaps, to call him an avatar of possibility. He is but one aspect of the Cycles.

  “Context is everything. Location is part of the context, and in this case it is the village of Riat, specifically the children of Magha. Unfortunately, the context also includes the mauling of Fren and the discovery of a dead dragon, not to mention the accidental offering of a deer, discarded carelessly on an ancient altar. These are not coincidences, and, considering the timing of this dire news from Cuuloda, may be evil omens.”

  Bellua glanced at me, his eyes questioning. I bit my lip as he nodded at Mabir. “And so you lead yourself back to my point. There is no such thing as ‘local context’ where a High Dragon is concerned, as all are reflections of Korruzon. The sighting of a High Dragon necessarily reflects on the fate of our nation, not just this village. And certainly not merely on the fortunes of a pair of children.” He emphasized that last word just enough to make me cringe. “If an omen can be stretched beyond the children to the aeries, and then again to the village of Riat, then you must extend it to all of Gurvaan and to Korruzon Himself. All Avar are reflections or guises or alternate representations of Korruzon—Korruzon who is the true one and the only. Your argument for the separateness of Getig from the Most High is pointless. Worse, it’s selfish.”

  Mabir’s gaze sharpened. “You cannot make an omen serve your desires. An omen obeys only itself.”

  Tauman intervened again. “But how do these other omens affect the context? Fren, and the dead dragon, and the deer—”

  Father’s fist struck the table. “Enough of ‘context!’ Apart from Getig, none of these are signs; they’re just things that happened. I can appease any ill portent seen in the mauling of Fren by caring for him and giving him work in the aeries. That will be an expe
nse, but it is the right thing to do and I would have done it regardless. There—I cancel one of your bad omens. As to the dead dragon, we will investigate, of course, but I suspect that dragon’s home was on the far side of the mountains. We can appease that injustice by doing what we would do anyway: find and kill the poachers.”

  “I commend your pragmatism, Broodmaster.” Bellua frowned deeply. “But though you may think you are canceling omens, you may find that you are merely ignoring their true meaning. How does this sighting serve Korruzon and the empire? I fear the worst.”

  Father shook his head. “You complicate things when you cast every little happening as a dangerous sign. I heard Shuja fart this morning; should I kill a chicken? Make an offering?”

  “Burn some incense?” said Tauman. Darian stifled a laugh.

  Bellua’s lips became a hard, straight line. “Jest if you will. It’s all interconnected.” He turned to Mabir once again. “You said yourself, dhalla, that these were not coincidences. It is a tight knot of circumstances that cannot be disconnected. The mauling, the discarded deer, and the dead dragon sully your children’s part in this. To disregard such evil signs might well invite a curse into your valley.”

  My skin prickled at that word, “curse,” and at the second uncertain glance from Bellua.

  “I’d planned to keep two qits this year,” said Father. “It was a good brood, and the timing is right. But your requisition demands all the qits. If the Dragonry needs dragons, it should allow me the resources I need to expand. Why is that not the best plan? This makes no sense. Throw that at your ‘context.’”

  Bellua shook his head. “You can find breeding stock in older dragons—”

  “It doesn’t work that way, and you know it. Dragons bond young, and the bonds last a lifetime. Only in rare cases and with special handling can older dragons be taught to bond with a lifemate. I only managed it with Shuja because he was still young when we returned from the war, because Grus has a very gentle, patient nature, and because I am damned good with dragons!” Father crossed his arms. “Why don’t you just tell us how your wings are aligned? What is it that you want?”