by Sever Bronny
But a fight began to rise up in the boy and he started to cagily throw a punch or two back at his bullies. He still lost those fights, but the bullying lessened, until only the worst of the bullies came at him, enjoying petty torments.
One day the village came under attack and that old knight—the only person other than his mother to show him kindness—was murdered by black-armored men zealously following a ruthless tyrant. That tyrant would haunt the boy for years to come, their destinies inextricably linked.
As the now fourteen-year-old ran away from his village in fear of his life, he turned around and saw it aflame. The acrid scent of burning thatch seared itself into his mind forever. Everything that he had been up to that point burned in those flames.
Without provisions, he toiled in the endless Tallows for days, utterly alone, when a vicious and providential thunderstorm plucked him from the yellow grass and threw him aloft. He tumbled through that cacophonous sky until a flash of light lit up his entire being. It was the moment the Fates intervened, marking him with lightning—or perhaps waking the lightning within.
Years swept by and the boy slowly grew up. He came to know many things, made many friends, had many adventures. Smiled, laughed, cried, loved, lost. He went on to defeat that tyrant, as well as some bullies from his past. He dropped some stones from his heart while picking up others. He went to his dream school and distinguished himself.
But war found him once more, and he was forced to dream bigger than ever before. He dared to believe in a children’s tale. And he earned a golden shield—Semperis vorto honos—resurrecting an ancient order from the ashes and becoming an Arcaner dragoon.
These things and more were seen. Some moments were clearer than others, yet each was inspected from afar. That examined life drew up to the point when the boy, now a young man, lay in a cave on a dragon’s back, desperately missing his friends, his mentor, and a girl. She was a picture of beauty—raven hair, freckles, a mischievous smile, dark eyes behind oval spectacles. How clever she looked, how stunning!
Like a wispy tendril leaf fluttering in the breeze of the arcane ether, the boy, now in his seventeenth year—a man and a hero in the eyes of many—awoke on the dragon’s back. He had slept and dreamt for what felt like eons, aware that nothing that had happened could be changed.
“This moment is the first moment of the rest of your life,” a deep voice echoed in the great chamber, a voice that stung with familiarity.
The young hero slowly sat up from the dragon’s back, for he felt there was no rush, that all was as it was meant to be in that moment, and that he had the luxurious abundance of time. Underneath him, the dragon purred contentedly, its flanks rising and falling as slowly as the Solian seasons.
The young Arcaner turned to see a man with a mustache. For a moment, he saw the old knight who had died trying to save his village from a ruthless tyrant, except he was sure that knight did not have a mustache. But then he realized that the mustache on this old knight was a tattoo, and that the man himself was hairless, his eyes black, skin metallic.
The knight with the tattooed mustache held his arms behind his back as he spoke. “Behind a golden-worded shield lay the scars of loneliness and heartache, a longing to belong.”
The echo of his voice bounced around the vast cavern for what felt like an eternity. Only when the echo died did the young man slide off the sleeping dragon to stand on an ancient stone floor vibrant with lightning.
The knight studied him. “The difference between the paths of darkness and light is a lifetime of choices. The sum of those choices leads to an inescapable outcome. Some call it The Fates, but it is nothing more than the nature of consequence.”
The confused young man approached to stand twenty feet before the knight, who spoke differently than what the young man expected.
“You have chosen this moment,” the knight continued. “You have earned the opportunity for that moment to bear fruit. Are you ready for your trial?”
“I am ready for my trial,” the young man replied, never more sure of anything in his life. He was startled by his own voice, how large it sounded in the chamber, how long it bounced around like the echo of an old song.
“Then guard thyself,” and the man slapped his wrists together, shooting out a bolt of mighty lightning. The young man reflected it with a summoned shield and an uttered incantation, only to discover that the knight reflected the spell yet again. This time the young man stepped aside and slapped his own wrists, shooting back a new bolt of lightning.
And so the dance began, with the young man dodging and ducking and countering and parrying and blocking and thrusting and shooting and rolling while the knight replied in kind. The duel went on for what felt like an eternity, with the knight often changing tactics, forcing the young man to adapt. After attempting every spell in his arsenal, often more than once, the young man stood gasping, hands on his knees.
“You are ready to learn,” said the knight. “I can see it in your lightning eyes, in the warp of your telekinetic field. I can hear it in the iron of your voice, in the slap of your wrists. I can feel it in your choice of spell combinations, in your artful parries. You are indeed ready to learn.”
“With all of my heart, sir,” replied the young man.
The knight closed his black eyes. “You have been taught to understand the rudiments of the Spirit of the Dragon simul with the knowledge available to your mentors.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you believe the spell will summon a dragon.”
“I do, sir.”
The knight studied him. “We must step beyond the lessons you have learned thus far. We must become the lesson.”
The young man did not understand, but also knew he did not need to yet.
“You are my mentor, sir. I am your willing apprentice.”
“We shall begin by discussing the base arcaneological principles—as you understand them—of the first spell of the 1st degree.”
“Telekinesis.”
The knight with the tattooed mustache nodded. “Indeed,” and went on to ask the young man a series of probing questions intended to give him a better understanding of how the young man understood the principles behind Telekinesis. He did this with each of the spells the young man knew, including runes, extensions, simuls, and off-the-books spells like Centarro. Each spell was parsed and discussed at length, sifting for nuance, with not a care to how much time it took.
After examining all the young man’s spell knowledge, the knight began lecturing, underlining key arcaneological principles while gently but firmly pushing the limits of the young man’s understanding. Thus, the lesson gradually became more and more complicated.
“… and you must understand that those lessons are also fragmentary by nature. The arcaneological foundations that you stand upon are limited by the character of those who came before you, for they have tainted the lessons by presenting their own biases. The eyeblink lifespans, the weather-dependent philosophies, the tempestuous and short-sighted politics, and the primal circumstance of the everyday—all of these things inhibit and bind the horizon of potential that must be breached in order to learn the whole, for the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Further, we cannot forget that the base forms are wild in nature, their individuality expressed through the singular identifying art known as the element.”
The young man nodded along, absorbing but still not quite understanding. The knight continued lecturing and pushing in this manner until a web had been woven in the young man’s mind, a web of individual simplicities that made a complex whole … only then did the young man begin to make connections. Only then did he begin to understand.
Time.
Time passed as the chamber thickened with the echoes of concepts and ideas. In that time, as imperceptibly as three suns moving across the sky, the dragon’s rhythmic snoring slowed to near stillness. And yet the lessons continued.
Eventually, the young man was asked to dwell upon those concepts and
ideas and parse them in his own way. This he did sitting on the ground, back against the dragon, meditating in absolute stillness, a stillness he had already experienced for one day in the plane of Ley.
Silence.
So passed silence as deep and infinite as the ocean. Within that silence, the young man thought and absorbed, disported and persevered, studied and comprehended until, at long last, he felt that he had transcended the teachings.
“I understand,” he said, his words a hammer shattering the glass of silence. When the echo of those two words died, he unspooled his legs and stood for the first time in an eternity. “And I am ready for the next lesson.”
“Then it is time for you to learn an ancient secret. Meditate on what the Spirit of the Dragon means. The key to the spell lies within its name.”
“Yes, sir.” The young man, confused once more, crossed his legs and sat before the knight. He pondered what the Spirit of the Dragon meant, cooked it over in his mind for a long time, until his body became numb, until he became nothing more than his thoughts, thoughts that eventually matured to a roiling boil. A light pierced his consciousness and made him gasp at the realization of what the Spirit of the Dragon meant. He looked up at the knight and smiled, for a truth hidden within the name had revealed itself to him.
“I do not summon a dragon, do I, sir?”
The knight looked on.
“I become one.”
The knight joined in the smile. “Rise.”
The young man rose, the joy of revelation cascading through his being like a waterfall that had carved a long path through the land. The Spirit of the Dragon simul did not summon a dragon … the simul made the young man into a dragon. It was a staggeringly simple observation, yet it changed everything. And now he knew the joy of someone whose childhood dreams were about to come true.
He was going to learn how to fly.
The knight stepped beside the young man and said, “Spread your wings with me, for we now step into the mind of a bird.” He looked straight ahead and raised his arms. The young man did the same.
“We slowly flap our arms while imagining the base arcaneological principles that would be required for us to take to the skies. Let us imagine trees become smaller as we gain height. Let us imagine the feel of soaring through clouds. This is how we begin.”
And so the lesson moved on to a new and far more complex stage. The young man listened and absorbed and followed every nuance and principle, every word and gesture, until a picture began to form of a spell so strong, so powerful that it frightened the young man. And yet, just as he thought himself ready to cast the spell for the first time, the knight would touch upon yet another layer of nuance and understanding. The young man absorbed it all, asked clarifying questions, and began to shake his head in wonder at the knowledge that blossomed before his spring mind.
Time.
Time disappeared, replaced by learning. Perhaps hours passed, perhaps days, months or years. It did not matter. There was no hunger, no thirst, no pain, no loss. There was only learning. The learning of an eager young mind absorbing the lessons of an old one. The learning of knowledge thought lost to time, knowledge that encapsulated the arcane arts … and everything the young man stood for.
The eternal moment within which the young man and the knight dwelled swept the pair of them along to a point where the young man at last was able to not only comprehend every nuance of the spell, but speak with the confidence of someone able to cast it. He had learned the spell from its root to its crown, including its single imposing gesture and its sacred trigger phrase. And he had learned the simul’s three major limitations. The first was that overdraw was impossible, meaning he could not step beyond the bounds of his stamina. The second was the simul continuously siphoned stamina, and when that stamina hit zero, “reversion” took place, meaning a return to normal form. Though as one got better with the casting, that stamina drain would be lessened. And third, his stamina would be drained to nothing the moment the spell lapsed, regardless of how much was left whilst in dragon form, leaving him totally vulnerable. Now all that remained was the final proof of the matter—the casting itself.
The dragon’s purring slowly returned. The young man, sitting on the floor beside his mentor, their backs resting against the dragon’s flanks, stirred, conscious of the deep undulations. He had been meditating on the final concept, parsing it, mastering it, when the dragon moved for the first time in what felt like millennia.
The young man opened his eyes to stare at the far end of the vast chamber. Something was wrong. Something was coming.
The knight stood and took a single step toward the entrance. “My unborn child is in danger.” The knight turned, face grave. “I have never born a child, for every single one has been stolen from me and absorbed and thus murdered. Will you help me a second time, knowing I can never repay you?”
The young man stood, face just as grave. He looked past the old knight’s shoulder to stare at the distant entrance, an entrance that heralded lethal danger, for death was clawing its way to them in its murky shadows.
“I will help you.”
“Then heed this final warning. A necromantic dragon can use its tail like a scorpion, sucking on another’s life force—and use that life force to heal itself. Now let us together face what comes.”
Dragon
Augum bolted awake on the dragon’s back, conscious for the first time in what felt like an eon. And yet he remembered every detail, every word, every nuance.
It hadn’t been a dream at all … it had been a lesson.
He slid off the dragon, which stirred awake as well. “It was you all along,” he said, lovingly pressing a hand to its scaled flank. “You were Dragoon Myrymydion. You examined my memories and used them to communicate with me, to teach me what I needed to know.”
The dragon did not acknowledge him, a beast once more. Instead, it rose to stand on all four clawed limbs to stare beyond him to the imposing entrance. Augum turned and heard a deep rumbling and crashing.
“A necromantic dragon is coming, isn’t it?” he said. “I’m ready. I’m ready to fight it alongside you.” The knowledge coursed through him, an immense muscle eager to be flexed.
The sounds of booming thunder from the distant hall increased. The necromantic dragon was triggering traps … and yet persevering.
Behind Augum, the lightning dragon extended its wings and growled. He hurried to stand at a distance beside it, readying to cast the new and now by far the most powerful spell in his arsenal, perhaps the most powerful spell in existence. But because he was new at it, the spell would have a short casting duration he had to be mindful of.
There was a rumbling growl as the necromantic dragon at last emerged from the passageway. It was the six-barn one, its chest wound congealed with blood. Its myriad scars, crisscrossing its scaled black matte flesh like Augum’s back scars, bore witness to its ferocity. And around it an army of undead jungle monsters fought against the lightning traps, triggering them and clearing a path for their master.
“Arinthian!” the dragon roared.
The hair on Augum’s arms rose, for that voice bled with familiarity. He shoved the panic of what this meant down into his stomach and held it there, then touched his throat. “Amplifico,” he said, raising his chin. “Gavinius.” The name boomed around the cavern. He ironed his voice, afraid of the answer to his next question. “Who did you murder to gain this power?” And what kind of power allowed him to take control of the largest dragon rather than become one, not to mention summon all those undead?
Gavinius the dragon chortled before speaking. “I tried eating the fat one, but he made a jest at a most inopportune time, spoiling the ritual. A loyal Archon had to take his place, for the fat one’s resistance would have lengthened the ritual beyond what I required. Thus, the total acceptance of a devout Archon willing to sacrifice himself for the greater good allowed me to assume the form almost immediately. Alas, it is a borrowed form.”
Augu
m couldn’t help but feel elation—Olaf’s humor had saved him. He also morbidly recalled seeing a Canterran lay himself down upon a nest back in the necromantic dragon’s lair, and wondered if he had been the one who had volunteered to sacrifice himself for Gavinius.
Gavinius examined his gargantuan forepaws. “Never did I think what this means, but now that I have had a taste and absorbed the first lesson, I await with eagerness the many others sure to come. It is only the beginning of this knowledge, and it will change everything.”
He looked to Augum with his pair of mismatched eyes, one milky, one crimson. “Once Tyranecron’s Path Archon trials are complete, my brethren and I shall gather to feed you all to the lords of the jungle, and will learn the final lessons. Your soul and that dragon egg behind you will allow me a power never seen before. My name shall be sung around fires for all eternity. This is my trial. The others will have their turn soon.”
Augum didn’t understand everything that Gavinius was talking about but held fast to his resolve. He flexed his arm, summoning his eight lightning rings and flaring his lightning eyes. “Gavinius Mercel Frankephelius Sepherin … I, Augum Arinthian Stone, challenge you to a duel to the death in the old way. Show thy stripes and bow.”
Gavinius roared with laughter, a deep booming that echoed off the walls. “Fool, what can you do against my mighty form?”
He does not know I can cast the simul, Augum thought as he ceremoniously bowed.
Gavinius the six-barn dragon reared up on his hind legs, flared fourteen enormous black rings around his forepaw, and spread his wings, which began rattling like a rattlesnake’s tail. He loosed the mightiest roar Augum had ever heard, a roar magnified by the chamber, a roar so loud Augum winced, yet refrained from covering his ears. He felt the first ripples of the Fear aura lap at his soul like ocean waves.