“Forgive me, general,” Ycharaz bowed his head dramatically, “but we are about to walk through a place haunted by tormented souls for hundreds or thousands of years. Might it not be wise to ask some questions about it, like what burnt that ground and made it all red?”
All heads snapped back in surprise as Ganodin’s deep voice bellowed, “Dragons.”
The rest of the group remained quiet waiting for the rest of Ganodin’s thought. Once it was obvious the big man had nothing else to say, Ycharaz broke the silence, “See, that is a viable suggestion. Dragons are like living fire encased in flesh and bones. If that fire had been trapped in the trees that used to stand here, maybe it soaked all through the roots and into the dirt.”
Glord shrugged. He, like the rest of the group save Ycharaz, could not have cared less why the dirt was red. “The only thing worrying me right now is what might be on the other side. I expected it would be a longer trek. I ain’t ashamed to say I am a bit nervous.”
“Aye, the way my husband told the story, I’d have thought that Lost Forest to be miles upon miles. You can see them odd trees on the other side from where we sit,” Perrin finally commented.
“Maybe there is an enchantment on the place,” Glord remarked quietly. “A short distance can take a long time if something pushes back against you as hard as you push forward.”
“Permission to learn the answer for myself,” Ycharaz winked at Glord as he gave his horse a kick and took off down the narrow trail running between the red dirt. Nothing happened. He did not burn or float or fall from his mount. The rest of the group watched him charge on down the trail as if it were any trail anywhere.
Perrin was the first to follow Ycharaz down the path. It was not the first time he proved braver or at least more inquisitive than the rest of the men in the group. The way he analyzed everything had her regularly reflecting on the fact she had spent her life taking everything at face value. Things had always been how they had always been. The more time she spent with Ycharaz and his never-ending quest to know more, she found herself no longer accepting that is just the way things are as an acceptable answer to any question.
The air of the trail seemed cooler on the path interrupting the great red scar left by the Lost Forest. It was not the result of a stiff northerly wind picking up and dragging cool air down from the barren lands where snow flows free during most of the year. In fact, there was nary a breeze. The air remained as still as it had been. However, it was cool enough to cause Perrin to pull her cloak up closer around her neck. There seemed a presence accompanying the coolness—or at least the memory of one—like the last bits of a horrible dream that remain in front of your eyes even after they have opened. In that brief moment of terror when the hideous thing which frightened you enough to wake you from a deep sleep remains superimposed against the backdrop of your waking life as if the terror had hunted you from that dream dimension into your own is a horror so dark nothing in the waking world could ever compare. Something vile like that lived there once, and the faint memory of it was enough to get Perrin’s heart pumping a bit faster.
The rest of the group followed once it became clear neither Perrin nor Ycharaz had any intention of turning around. None of them were the least bit eager to meet a Dragon much less thousands of them. Their slow trot—barely faster than a walk—was evidence of that. It was nothing close to Ycharaz’s wild charge down the path. Had Perrin’s pace not steadily increased as she moved down the trail, it may have taken them days to make the journey. Duty prevailed—as it has a tendency to do—over the trepidation those grizzled warriors felt at the thought of facing Dragons.
Perrin remained unafraid. The faint memory of whatever terror lingered among the coolness of the trail was insufficient to cause her more than the slightest pause. Recent history had shown her too many horrors to fear the ground regardless of cool air or strange colored dirt, and the wisdom of Dragons was precisely what she sought. Had Maelich not told of the terrifying visions that took control of him when he travelled through that place, she may have been first down the trail. She gave her horse a light kick with her heels and made some time.
Glord and the rest of the men had pressed hard to gain back the ground they had lost on their queen—whether she called herself that or not, they still saw her as such—and had caught up to her by the time they made the other side of burnt, red ground. They found Ycharaz lounging under an odd tree eating something strange and unfamiliar. The bark of the tree seemed too smooth, and it had no branches just big, balmy leaves up at its top. The roundish thing Ycharaz slurped at could have been an apple, but it was more oblong, and the colors were all wrong. The red was lighter than an apple should be, and there was also a bit of green. That would not have been so strange except apples were usually red or green, maybe even yellow, but typically not all three.
“What’s that you’re shoving in your gob there?” Halogren asked.
“Delicious,” Ycharaz grinned with juice dripping down his chin. He tossed one to Halogren and added, “Have a go at that. The skin is thick and kind of bitter, but beneath that is ripe and sweet and juicy. It’s like nothing I ever tasted. Careful how deep you bite into the flesh. The pit runs from top to bottom.”
“Fool,” Glord shook his head. “You know nothing about this place. What if that’s poison you’re slurping right into your belly?”
Ycharaz shrugged and tossed another toward his general, “How do I know what’s good and what ain’t without having a taste? Give it a bite. That ain’t no poison.”
Before long, the entire group had dismounted and began exploring the foreign world they had discovered. The foliage resembled familiar things. Trees like the one Ycharaz lounged beneath sprouted in random patches nothing like a proper forest. Flowers—deep purples, bright yellows, mellow oranges—grew just as haphazardly as the trees. Some of their petals were pointy and straight, while others were long and droopy. Vines bearing some kind of fruit snaked around all of it.
Perrin happened upon a group of smaller trees. These looked like proper trees, similar to the apple trees that grew around old man Kelsho’s hut back in the village where she was born. However, the pointy yellow orbs growing on these trees were not apples. She plucked one and bit into its skin. It was firm and sour. It certainly did not taste like something one should eat. She dug her thumbnail in until she reached the juicy meat within and peeled a hunk of that skin off. It tasted nothing like the sweet fruit Ycharaz had discovered. It was sour. Her eyes squinted and it felt like her entire face was tightening up toward her mouth. It was horrible and wonderful at the same time.
When the feeling finally passed and she could speak again, she hollered, “Glord, try this one. Tell me if it tastes horrible or wonderful. I can’t tell.”
Glord bit into the thing when Perrin tossed it to him. “Yes,” he agreed while making a similar face. “It is both horrible and wonderful.”
The group explored the area for a bit, finding more things to bite into. There were orange balls with a skin like the yellow things, but the meat inside was sweet. There were bigger yellow balls. They had skins too, but the meat inside was pink. Those were not as sour as the yellow ones, but nowhere near as sweet as the orange ones. Then Darg found something different. It was small, brown, and fuzzy. He did not bother trying to bite into that one without peeling it first. It was green on the inside with little black seeds all about its middle. He shrugged and gave it a taste. It was a bit tart, but pleasantly sweet.
Jorgon flopped down next to Ycharaz and sighed, “I could stay here in this very spot for the rest of my days.”
“It is perfect,” Perrin agreed as she walked up to the two. “Sadly, the mission calls. It is time we found them Dragons.”
“You heard the boss, lads,” Glord called out around a mouth of some sweet, white mush he found hidden in a long, dense, yellow wrapper. “Let’s move out.”
There was a bit of grumbling, but the men gathered themselves up and wrangled their horses. No proper
trails cut through the foreign, magical place, so riding was out of the question. None of them cared much. The air was warm, but a wonderful breeze kept it comfortable. Not to mention the fragrant odors it carried. It was perfect for a stroll.
After a good bit of silence Ganodin smiled broadly and exclaimed, “I feel good.”
Ycharaz waited a few moments for the rest of the big man’s statement before replying, “If you ever find any who might accuse you of being any less than painfully concise, send them my way. I’ll set them straight.”
Everyone in the group laughed except Halogren and Ganodin. Ganodin frowned at the jest, and Halogren stuck up for him, “I feel good too.”
“Aye,” Jorgon added once he finished chuckling, “this place is amazing. Why does nobody ever visit?”
“Dragons,” Glord replied. “It might be Maelich opened our eyes to all them lies we’ve been taught about them massive beasts, but that doesn’t make them any less frightening if you ask me. Dragon’s fire will melt the meat right off your bones before crumbling them to dust.”
“Ain’t a Dragon who would,” Perrin contended. “They are love. And that ain’t just the word of my husband. Cialia said the same. Ain’t no malice or fury sufficient in no Dragon to free their flame.” Then she looked back at Jorgon and added, “This place is hidden to the eyes of men. You have to look at things a certain way to see it. Cialia taught me how to see things that way.”
“Then how are we seeing it now? How did we find the trail?” Ycharaz asked. “Cialia ain’t taught me nothing.”
“Because you accompany me?” Perrin shrugged.
“I suppose we’ll never…” Darg stopped dead in his tracks and dropped to his knees. Tears filled his eyes before pouring over his lids. “Dragons,” he whispered before sobbing like a starving babe.
There they were, Dragons, thousands of them, majestic, beautiful, and terrifying. Some flew so high they could barely be seen only to swoop back toward the ground faster than any bird of prey. Others lounged about the random clumps of trees. They were so massive it seemed impossible none in the group had noticed them until just then. The sky was full of them, all swimming the air above a lake that seemed a mystery all on its own—a perfect circle of water surrounded by another perfect circle of sand. Nature’s beauty typically comes complete with imperfections. The Lake had none. A stony hill jutted up at the far end. The circle of sand ended there, and a Dragon perched atop it overlooking everything like a queen upon her throne.
The group of adventurers surrounded Darg and stopped. There were no more words. Perrin fell to her knees beside Darg and wept along with him. Jorgon did the same. Glord and Halogren drew their swords and stood ready to face the terrifying beasts. Ycharaz stood with them, but his sword remained safely in its scabbard as he drank in the amazing sights. Ganodin’s eyes grew wide with terror, and he ran the other way as fast as he could.
The big man got to huffing and puffing rather quickly. He ran as hard as he could for one hundred yards until a voice in his head stopped him in his tracks. “Ganodin,” the sweet voice sang to him, “what is it you fear?”
Ganodin fell to the ground and curled up into a tight ball. “Please don’t burn me alive,” he cried out.
“I love you, Ganodin,” the voice reassured. “I could never hurt you.”
“You could burn the meat right off my bones and crumble me to dust for the wind to sweep me away,” his voice cracked as he cried.
“No, I could not. I told you, great Ganodin of Havenstahl, I love you as I love all things. That love is unconditional. It prevents me from releasing my Flame. I am Lameah. Come to me. Let go of your fear, look in my eyes, and see the love they hold for you,” the delicate voice pleaded.
It could have been a trick. Ganodin knew nothing about Dragons except what he had been told. For most of his life, all he knew of Dragons were horrible, terrifying tales of vicious beasts burning men alive and feasting on their roasted carcasses. Still, the voice was sweet, much too sweet for a ferocious beast. Maelich’s tales were quite different than the nightmare stories he had been taught. The great savior was another about whom he knew very little. Could the lad of the Lake be trusted any more than Dragons?
Ganodin lay there curled against the soft ground trembling a bit longer before he mustered the courage to open his eyes. The moment he did, he wished he had not. The giant, scaly face before him was nearly three times his size, all scales, horns, and teeth. He would easily fit inside the thing’s mouth. He wondered if the beast would even need to bother chewing on him, or if she could swallow him down whole. He could not decide which would be worse.
Lameah turned her head so Ganodin could look in her eye, “Look deep, Ganodin. See the love I described lingering within me.”
The frightened soldier had no choice but oblige. The eye was so close he could have stabbed it with his dagger, but he suddenly lacked the desire. There was love deep in that smoldering red eye. It was something unseen, as if it were a portal to feelings rather than sights an eye could see and interpret. The love Ganodin felt just then was precisely as Lameah had proclaimed. It seemed eternal and complete, like no force existed which could diminish its strength in the slightest. Unconditional love.
Fear fled, chased away by an emotion much stronger. The love he felt—unconditional and true—was accompanied by trust, a faith so complete no other feeling could shake it. He loved the Dragon as much as she loved him. Like a child loves and trusts a parent, these feelings were all wrapped up in a deep sense of security. In that moment, he feared nothing. He rested his head against the massive face before him, wrapped his arms as far around it as he could, and quietly said, “Thank you.”
Ganodin turned from the Dragon and walked toward the Lake. The sun warmed his face as he turned his chin toward the sky. As he approached his group, he touched each on the shoulder. Glord and Halogren were the first he encountered. “Stow your steel,” he said softly, “You have no need for it.” Then to Perrin, “Raise your head and behold the glory of this place.” Finally, to Darg, Jorgon, and Ycharaz, “Love is all around us, and we are worthy. Lameah told me so.” Then he continued toward the Lake with Dragons lumbering all about the ground around him and swimming the skies above.
Chapter 24
Gods, Prisoners, and Witches
The cell was cramped with walls so near they seemed to close in on each other. Those walls were made of odd-shaped stone held together with mortar. The stone itself was so wet it seemed to ooze moisture, glistening like tile after a good polishing but without the shine. There were no bars on the thing just an opening to a hall that was equally dingy and damp. Kallum woke in that dark and damp place. His head drooped down to his chest. Dirty hair clung to his cheeks. He saw it in the periphery of his vision and could almost feel the grime against his skin.
Memories flooded in, the hawk, the Dragon, and the lad of the Lake. He had groomed that traitor from birth to be his champion not completely aware of the depths of his failure until the wicked thing plunged his sword all ablaze in Dragon’s flame deep into his heart. But that was it, the last thing he remembered before waking in a common thief’s cell.
He tried rising to his feet, another failure. His wrists were bound tight with iron cuffs and chained against the wall. That explained the lack of bars. He willed himself free of his bonds, but nothing happened. Glancing down at his clothing only furthered his frustration. His glowing white robe had been replaced with a rough, gray frock. When he found the vermin who dared treat him so callously there would be a reckoning to be certain.
“You look horrible, brother,” Ijilv suddenly stood before him bearing the grandeur he had expected for himself. His robe glowed with perfect, white light brighter than a thousand suns. His hair and beard, both perfect and straight, glowed with that same light. And the eyes of a god posed their various contradictions, the absence of light but swirling with all colors at once, both terrible and beautiful to behold.
“I will hunt you to the corners
of Ouloos and scatter you to the wind, vile betrayer,” Kallum’s voice in his own ears served only to deepen his despair. The melodic booming quality it held before he faced Maelich over the Forgotten Forest had fled in favor of a gravelly and rough thing which sounded more fit for a ragged beggar than the king of gods.
Ijilv laughed deep and hearty far longer than the joke deserved if there were a joke at all. Once he had finished the jest he replied, “You will do nothing without my command.”
Kallum scowled as he glanced up at his bindings, “The possibility of this crude confinement hindering me is precisely zero. I will free myself from this prison and destroy you with my glory.”
“You have no power here, brother,” Ijilv approached the bound god and crouched before him. Cradling his brother’s face in his hands he added, “You are within me. We are one. You were mighty before the Dragon bested you. Now you are merely a dream haunting my conscious mind, and I have your strength.”
Kallum wrenched his head away from Ijilv’s embrace, “Impossible. I have always been the strongest of us. This condition is temporary. My will is greater than yours.”
“You were powerful, and your will was great,” Ijilv stood and crossed back to the hallway, “And now it all belongs to me. Struggle against your bonds, curse me, threaten me with every vile horror you can imagine. None of it will matter. You belong to me now. We are one. You will…” Ijilv was suddenly distracted.
Kallum managed a dry smile, “What troubles you, brother? Do you not believe your own boasts?”
Ijilv gave his brother a wink, “I must attend to other pressing matters. Much has happened since Maelich scattered you to the wind. Cialia has found her flame and vowed to kill all us gods, the castle at Havenstahl has fallen, I used the visage of your priests to destroy Maelich’s supposed father and break his fragile mind, and I used those same priests to steal his son. The infant Dragon’s power, like yours, belongs to me.”
Kill the Gods Page 15