Dragon Nemesis

by B.J. Whittington



  Dragon Nemesis

  DRAGONS IN THE MIST

  Prequel

  By B.J. Whittington

  Copyright 2013

  Books written by B.J. Whittington can be obtained either through the author’s official website:

  www.BJWhittington.com

  or through select, online book retailers.

  Storymill Publishing

  All characters and situations in this novel are entirely fictional and any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © B.J. Whittington 2013

  ISBN: 978-1-939895-13-4

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, including the right to copy, distribute and adapt the work.

  Chapter 1

  Taloxville appears below as Maru pops into existence with sixty-one other dragons transporting in around him. A sharp wind, fraught with the putrid stench of rotted mushrooms, fills his wings as his gaze rakes the scene below him. A covey of four-winged, tan creatures assaults the town. Screeches from over eight score of Volastoque mingle with screams of townspeople as the creatures ravage the populace and lay waste to the town.

  Maru plunges groundward, then slows to hover a few feet above a nearby hillside to release the Shaman he clutches in his talons. The Shaman lurches into a run the instant his feet meet the ground. Strong thrusts of Maru’s wings take him further aloft. His long neck swivels and he watches as other dragons deposit their Shaman passengers.

  Bright, blue rays surge from the Shamans’ hands, cutting through the air to bombard Volastoque with a deadly deluge. Maru bugles a challenge and enters the fray.

  He plummets toward a creature spraying Killer Frost across fleeing humans. Damas carry infants and drag toddlers behind them in a frantic bid to escape the frigid blast. The wails of the babes chop off as the glacial wave freezes them solid in an instant. Damas who survive the blast clutch their children against their bodies, curling around the survivors in an attempt to warm them with their own reduced body heat. Rage seethes through Maru as he extends his back talons, snatching two of the creature’s wings and jerking to tear the membranes.

  With strong downward thrusts, he streaks skyward with the Volastoque clutched beneath him. The muscles in his shoulders protest at the added weight. The creature wails as it opens its mouth and attempts to shred Maru’s lower body with its serrated teeth. He expands his lungs, swings his neck around, and flames spew from his mouth to engulf the beast. He releases for a heartbeat, then snatches again to grab the rear wings. Thrusting sideways, he shatters the wing bones. Maru looks for a clear spot amidst the turmoil below. He flings the creature, elated when it splatters against a stone wall.

  Blue rays sear across the sky painted red with the setting of the sun. Maru circles high, spots a target in the flitting horde below, and he readies his battle flames. Folding his wings, he dives.

  Flames sear the beast below him. Its wings wither to stumps beneath the raging battle flames and it tumbles. Maru braces his wings open, slowing his descent but following the Volastoque, continuing to burn it until he has to stop to draw breath. Powering out of the descent, he watches it smash to the ground.

  Pain lances across his back as a Volastoque slams into him from above. The beast rakes its claws across his sides as it seeks to sink jagged teeth into his neck. Writhing, Maru tries to shake the creature free. Red-hot pain envelops his shoulder as the fiend latches on, jerking its mouth to sheer through his scales into the flesh beneath.

  Maru flips. Lashing his tail, he manages to entangle the beast’s wings. Together, they plummet toward the ground. The impact wrenches the beast’s jaws from his shoulder as Maru lands atop the Volastoque, then bounces.

  Shuddering, he manages to roll to his feet. Drawing a ragged breath, he forces battle flames out to scorch the creature. Shrieks fill the air as it surrenders to the blaze.

  Pain knifes across his shoulder as he tries to launch. Maru collapses, barely managing to lift his neck, and sees the remaining Volastoque fleeing across the horizon as dusk claims the land.

  ~!~

  Shaman Jadrun drops onto his chair as the members of the Shaman Council dribble into the meeting chamber. His mind worries at the lack of progress in the search for his mate. As he waits, his frustration builds. He should have been with them, should have taken the time off to transport his family to the caverns. If he only had taken the time, but Blanche had convinced him that she and the boys needed to travel with the convoy. No special privileges or some such rot, for as a transport Shaman it would have only been a matter of moments for him to get them to the sanctuary caverns. He fidgets in his chair while the room slowly fills with Shaman, Healers, and Mystics. By the Lady, he wishes they would hurry. He needs to return to the search. He slips off his light cloak and drapes it on the chair’s back; the room is too warm. Shaman Hern and most of the Head Shaman are no longer in the winters of their youth and crave warmer surroundings.

  An acolyte enters the room and the quiet murmur of voices stills as she raises a talisman of the Lady. Her voice is clear and pulsates with passion as she invokes a blessing. “Almighty and eternal Lady of the Mist, whose protection is the strong defense of all who trust in Thee, enlighten and direct those gathered here. Yours is the brightness of love that shines even in the deepest gloom; we beseech Thee, keep alive in the Palmir People steadfastness and courage through these trying times.”

  Jadrun habitually joins with the others in the response. “May Thy gentle hand guide us.”

  The acolyte lowers the talisman and exits the room.

  “Greetings.” Shaman Hern shuffles a few parchments in front of him, then raises cobalt-blue eyes filled with worry to peruse those gathered. “I am passing over the customary procedures of a Council meeting to expedite things.” He gestures a gnarled finger at the documents on the table. “These reports, I shall summarize.”

  His pauses and wipes a finger across one eye, then continues, “Our dragons take heavy damages. Their losses are high, and between the three caverns there are over sixty currently under the care of Healers for their injuries. In the six winters we have fought these Volastoque, this plague from the north, our dragons have never sustained such high numbers in losses. We hope, as we bring our people and the young dragons in, to establish a strong defense at each cavern that will bring the losses and injuries down and enable us to withstand these attacks.”

  He shakes his head. “However, this, too, creates its own set of issues. The refugees brought to the three locations total a few over thirteen thousand. With those already residing at the caverns, it brings the numbers up to a bit over seventeen thousand. There may,” he clears his throat and taps on the top parchment, “be approximately that number of people still on their way or at their villages yet.”

  Yes, and his mate may be out there, Jadrun seethes, injured and trying to make her way to a cavern. He reins in his irritation at sitting in another mandatory meeting with difficulty. For six winters the Volastoque have attacked. Ever since the beasts’ first, unprovoked, incursion into the Palmir People’s lands they have met to deal with the situation. These meetings do nothing but rehash the same issues while his search is delayed.

  Beside Jadrun a woman exhales in a puff of breath. “So few.” The Healer’s eyes are full of sorrow and shock as she stares at Shaman Hern.

  Hern acknowledges the woman’s comment with a slight inclination of his head. “Yes, less than one sixth the population of the Palmir People prior to the attacks survive.” He glances around the table of silent men and women. “Yet, we are faced with issues from even this number. We cannot hope to feed this many for an overly long period. We are facing a long, cold winter. Nevertheles
s, the geothermal system will suffice for the heating and cooking needs. The caverns are provisioned for emergency shelter. Yet, even with the vast storage of grains at each cavern, food supplies will soon run short.”

  Jadrun thrums his fingers across the table’s surface, his thoughts on the hunger his mate must be experiencing… If she survives.

  Hern lifts a steaming mug from the table and sips, then replaces it on the smooth top. “Our dragon allies suffer great losses. There are approximately thirty five hundred adult dragons remaining with maybe a couple hundred hatchlings and dragonets, that we are aware of. And again, although the dragons out fighting can and do hunt to provide for themselves, we are faced with rapidly depleting wildlife surrounding the caverns for the needs of those at each location.”

  The Head Shaman shakes his head. “I fear if the Volastoque do not destroy us, we may still find our people and the dragons starving. And it gets worse. Shaman with battle powers, transportation, and the defense and offense capabilities also diminish in numbers. We are winning most of the battles with the combined efforts of the Shaman and dragons, but I am afraid we will lose the war.”

  A tall, thin-lipped Mystic woman across the table from Jadrun clears her throat, then speaks, “The prophecies—.”

  Jadrun jerks to his feet, fists clenched at his side. “I have had enough of these damn prophecies.” He glares at the woman. “Where were the Mystic’s warnings when they may have done some good? Before these creatures attacked us at every turn?”

  The Mystic throws her hands upon the table, palm forward. “We can only relate that which the Lady sends; we have no control over what we see.”

  “Although I will grant you the truth of the Mystic’s sight, a fine lot of good it does us.” Jadrun leans forward and slams his hand upon the table. “I have lost one son, and my mate is missing. No warning came from Mystics of an attack.” His arm waves to encompass the others in the room. “Most here can say the same. Where were your prophecies when they could have saved the lives of those we love?”

  The woman’s brown eyes well with compassion, her face ashen, as she replies, “We can only relate what the Lady reveals. Seldom do we see specific events. When we do, it is often a difficult path that the Lady knows is the only one with hope.” She drops her gaze to the table and her voice is barely above a whisper as she continues, “The prophecies show our people and the dragons, dying out. There is only one future foreseen where that was not the case.”

  Jadrun’s heart constricts as all hope for a future with his family flees and he takes a shuddering breath. He sinks to his chair, and he, with everyone else in the room, focuses on the woman. Perhaps she will reveal a means for survival.

  Her moss-green eyes take on the unfocused look that Jadrun knows means she contemplates a previous seeing. She shakes her head, then her eyes harden as she runs her gaze across those in the room. “Many have seen various depictions of the same event. A battle between thousands of Volastoque and all of our dragons and battle-power Shaman, waged over mountains. The toll is high, all dragons and Shaman perish in battle or later from injuries sustained. However, they manage to drive off the Volastoque and the creatures come no more.”

  The lump in his throat makes it hard to swallow, or breath. His voice emerges a harsh stutter. “Th-this is the only possible future where the Palmir People survives?”

  Her eyes close. The briefest of nods is the answer.

  “We cannot hope for a better resolution?” The question comes from a Shaman at the end of the table who clutches a green crystal in his hand.

  The woman opens her eyes and sorrow is evident in their depths. “Our Mystics do not control that which the Lady sends to them. The future is a path; perhaps we can find another branch of this path to follow. However, at this time this path is the only one that shows the survival of the Palmir People. All other paths shown to our Mystics have resulted in the victory of the Volastoque, by battle or our starvation.”

  Silence follows for a long moment, then Hern clears his throat. The old Shaman’s blue eyes blur with grief as he stares at Jadrun. “We must continue our efforts. If and when this battle occurs, we still will have the remaining people to provide for. I pray the Lady will send our Mystics another solution. However, meanwhile, what can we do now to improve our situation?”

  Silence fills the chamber, then a man at the end of the table begins to speak, but Jadrun cannot focus on what he says. All Jadrun can see in his mind’s eye is the imminent loss of all dragons and Shaman. If he does not find Blanche, then his boy, Montello, will truly be alone.

  Chapter 2

  Each downward stroke of Maru’s wings sends a sharp pang through his right shoulder. Locking his teeth against the ache, he takes a firmer grip on two deer dangling in his talons. His serpentine neck swivels as he searches the star-studded horizon. To the west, an emerald dragon spirals downward. Kilita. Her lair lies within the foothills behind his own. Even at this distance, the low angle of her neck and faltering wing strokes reveals fatigue and grief racks the female’s body.

  Her mate, Timac, fell in the defense of Taloxville. Maru’s heart aches for the brave bronze. Timac’s shattered body burned in the enormous funeral pyre of fifteen dragons that lit the skies for two sunrises after they drove off the Volastoque. The forlorn death song of the forty-seven surviving dragons still rings in his ears.

  He searches the mist-shrouded peaks of the Renault Mountains for any sign of Volastoque. The smaller of the two moons, Esab, peeks above the horizon. Its orange-tinted light bathes the exposed mountain peaks and shadows ripple across their contours as the clinging mist takes on an orange glow.

  He needs to land. Soon.

  He tilts his wings to circle back around. Esab casts a soft ginger glow across his wing’s silver scales, highlighting dull patches of dried blood that mar the surface of his ragged right wing. He searches the horizon for a hint of the pearly glow that heralds Ecam’s rising. Only the soft hiss of his wings interrupts the stillness of the night. He shakes his head, fighting exhaustion that leaches through his body. He must ensure none of the creatures observe his descent.

  His red eyes try to penetrate the mist. The covering of fog may hide any number of Volastoque. He must not lead them to the lair.

  The hoary radiance of Ecam breaking free from the horizon pulls Maru’s attention back to the sky. The silver tide of Ecam’s light washes across the heavens and stars dim as if bowing to his brilliance. Ecam rises slower than his little brother, Esab. The sphere inches above the horizon, painting the mountains in sharp contrast as it carves deep shadows across their surfaces. Maru scrutinizes the mountainside. Nothing. He is the only thing stirring in the quiet night. When Ecam clears the horizon, he turns his tired wings toward home.

  The distinct edge above his lair looms closer as he angles downward. He enters the fogbank, his vision reduced below the point where he can see only his own black body. Panting, he draws air thick as soup into his lungs. His wings back-peddle to slow his descent and droplets form on his body, his silver mane, ridges, and wings appearing to flow like quicksilver. He emits a soft cry; the echo rebounds from the surrounding ridges and narrows down the lair’s location for him.

  Maru swoops near the ledge, partially closing his wings on each backstroke. He flinches when his shoulders rotate to move his wings in a figure-eight pattern that allows him to hover.

  “Aura, I have returned,” he sends in Mindspeak as he lands softly on the ledge in front of their cavern. His hind legs take the bulk of his weight; he lets his forelegs touch, dropping the deer and folding his wings at his side.

  The scrape of claws on hard stone heralds his mate’s arrival as she bursts from the mouth of the entrance tunnel. His eyes feast on her long, serpentine physique as he notes the lackluster appearance of her mahogany scales.

  “Maru. I thought… never mind what I thought. Welcome home, mine mate.” Her words come out a liquid sibilant hiss from worry. She rushes to him, and their necks entwine.
He lifts his left wing to lie across her and pulls her tight to his side.

  “Thou has ever been in mine heart and thoughts.” He whispers as his cheek plates rasp across the scales of her face. Her body melts against his, and some of the tightness across his chest loosens as he embraces his mate.

  Her body shudders in a sigh of contentment and a single tear, delicate as a dewdrop, traces a path along the edges of the scales on her cheek. “By the Lady, it is good to be in thine embrace. We have missed thee.”

  “And I, thee.” He regretfully disentangles, easing her away. “How are our hatchlings?”

  Aura slumps, her eyes desolate when they meet his gaze. “We lost Garyl. Falcop is not fairing well, the other seven are fine.”

  His heart constricts in pain. His scarlet-colored son. Images of Garyl, the smallest and most inquisitive of their hatchlings, fill his mind. Guilt crashes through him. He should have been here. It is his responsibility to provide for his family. He looks closer at his mate. She is thin; her hide hangs on her frame without substance to fill out the sharp contours. Her usually sparkling scales are dry, and there are patches where the scales have fallen off, exposing skin resembling tough, old leather.

  She gestures at the deer carcasses with a fore claw. “Those deer will be much appreciated. I have not had a successful hunt in five sunrises.”

  “When was the last time thou ate?”

  “A drama.” Her words, quiet as a breath, break his heart.

  Nine sunrises, his mate has not fed in nine sunrises because he was not here to provide. “Come, let us take these inside. Thou and my offspring shall feed. I will rest a short time, and then hunt again.”

  Aura lifts one carcass, turning to stride in front of him into the tunnel entrance. He snags the second deer and follows his mate. The sides of the tunnel are worn smooth from the scrape of their scales over the last one hundred-plus years. Aura has thinned so much her sides are well-clear of the walls, but Maru’s right wing brushes the surface, sending a jolt of pain to his shoulder.