TEXT: WHEN DRAGON AND GIANT MEET . . .
  Millennia ago, th e dragons fled th eir h omeland after a devastating
  war with  demonic creatu res of th eir own making. Th e nob le Hu -
  Ch arad giants arrived on th ese sh ores to defeat th e dragons’ old
  foes and, in th e centu ries since, h ave b ecome th e wise stewards 
  of th e land. Bu t th en th e wy rms retu rn to reclaim th eir territory ,
  th rowing th e Lands of th e Diamond Th rone into a state of tu rmoil. 
  Some memb ers of th is Sq u amou s Horde simp ly  h op e to settle down
  p eacefu lly  in th e h ome of th eir fath ers, b u t oth ers h ave retu rned
  to conq u er. And th e giants are not ab ou t to give u p  th e land th eir
  ancestors b led for. Th rou gh ou t th e realm, th e fu tu re is awash  in
  q u estions, and no one can b e certain any  longer ex actly  wh o is
  friend and wh o is foe.
  Delve deep er into th e evolving Diamond Th rone saga in a dozen
  new tales of fantasy  and magic b y  su ch  au th ors as Monte Cook, 
  Ed Greenwood, Kristine Kath ry n Ru sch , Jeff Gru b b , and oth ers.
  $6.99 U.S. • $8.99 CAN • WW16147
  Malh avoc is a registered trademark and
  Arcana Evolved is a trademark owned
  b y  Monte J. Cook. All righ ts reserved.
  ®
  Edited b y :
  Su e Weinlein Cook
  INCLUDING STORIES BY
  MONTE COOK • ED GREENWOOD • KRISTINE KATHRYN RUSCH
  AND OTHERS
  ®
  ®
  FANTASY
  WW16147
  PDF Version 1.0
  January 27, 2005
  
  Nithogar stared at the giant in silence, without the twitch of a
  draconic muscle. Eventually, he spoke. “The ancient pacts made be-
  tween your people and my own lord Erixalimar, the dragon king,
  forbade you from even coming to this land. Yet here you stand.”
  “We came here,” Re-Magul said, “because this land was in peril.
  A peril you had wrought, then fled from.”
  The muscles around Nithogar’s wide mouth twitched.
  “Oh yes,” the giant continued. “Perhaps you thought that such
  lore had been lost, but I know who you are, Nithogar the Wicked.
  Nithogar the Hated. Nithogar the Despoiler.”
  “These are epithets I must have earned after I left.”
  “Then how about this one, dragon: Nithogar, creator of the
  dramojh.” Out of habit, Re-Magul spat as he said “dramojh.”
  Nithogar flexed his wings. “You know nothing of it, Hu-Charad.”
  “Nothing?” Re-Magul’s eyes flared. “You are ancient, it is true, but
  I am no mere youth. I was there when the stone ships arrived on these
  shores. I remember the battles with the dramojh—the so-called ‘dragon
  scions.’ I saw friends and relatives die in their claws and teeth. They
  scuttled out of the shadows and raped this land like nothing before
  them or—thank all the singers in the Houses of the Eternal—since.”
  “So your kind dealt with the dramojh. I am aware of that,” the
  dragon said. “And you were some kind of leader in your campaign
  against them. What do you want from me? Gratitude? So be it.
  Thanks to you, giant, and to all your kind.”
  And with a sneer, he added quickly: “Now be on your way.”
  
  P R O U D L Y  P R E S E N T S
  M O N T E  C O O K ’ S
  ARCANA EVOLVED
  A variant player’s handbook written by one of the designers of 3rd Edition
  Dungeons & Dragons®. Features new roleplaying classes, races, skills, feats,
  monsters, items, prestige classes, and spells, plus an alternate magic system
  and a gazetteer of the Diamond Throne setting.
  Available now
  M O N T E  C O O K ’ S  A R C A N A  E V O L V E D :
  RUINS OF INTRIGUE
  This campaign sourcebook presents Serathis, a ruined city located between
  territories claimed by the giants and dragons. Both of these factions seek to
  control the city and its treasure. The adventure source material in this book
  takes characters to 10th level and beyond. 
  Available April 2005
  M O N T E  C O O K ’ S  A R C A N A  E V O L V E D :
  TRANSCENDENCE: A PLAYER’S COMPANION
  This player’s sourcebook offers an array of new character options, abilities,
  and paths of evolution. Customize your character more than ever before—or
  swear allegiance to the dragons and transcend the bounds of flesh and mind.
  Available July 2005
  CHILDREN OF THE RUNE
  They are seldom seen, but their deeds are often marveled at. They live in legend
  to serve the land. They are the mysterious runechildren, blazing a brilliant path
  in a world where good and evil are never clear, guiding it to a destiny not
  even they always understand. Don’t miss our first fiction anthology.
  Available now
  www.arcanaevolved.com
  TALES FROM THE LAND
  OF THE DIAMOND THRONE
  BY
  MONTE COOK 
  ED GREENWOOD 
  KRISTINE KATHRYN RUSCH
  JEFF GRUBB
  AND OTHERS
  EDITED BY SUE WEINLEIN COOK
  ®
  
  VI
  INTRODUCTION
  S U E  W E I N L E I N  C O O K
  1
  ESSENCE OF THE DRAGON
  W I L L  M C D E R M O T T
  26
  NOT ALL THAT TEMPTS
  B R U C E  R .  C O R D E L L
  45
  THE MAD MOJH OF ONTETH
  E D  G R E E N W O O D
  62
  ENVOY
  J E F F  G R U B B
  86
  OATHSWORN
  M A R Y  H E R B E R T
  112
  PRIDE
  W O L F G A N G  B A U R
  MONTE COOK’S ARCANA EVOLVED:
  THE DRAGONS’ RETURN
  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction
  or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express
  written permission of Malhavoc Press. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
  form or by any means, electronic or mechanical—including photocopy, recording, Internet posting,
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  Malhavoc Press is committed to reducing waste in publishing. For this reason, we do not permit
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  All persons, places, and organizations in this book—except those clearly in the public domain—are
  fictitious, and any resemblance that may seem to exist to actual persons, places, or organizations
  living, dead, or defunct is purely coincidental. The mention of or reference to any companies or
  products in these pages is not a challenge to the trademarks or copyrights concerned.
  The Dragons’ Return is published by Malhavoc Press LLC. This anthology is ©2005 Monte J. Cook.
  The contents of each individual story in this anthology is copyright as listed below, excepting those
  elements that are components of the Monte Cook’s Arcana Evolved and The Diamond Throne
  intellectual properties. Such elements are TM and © Monte J. Cook. All rights reserved. 
  Introduction ©2005 Sue Weinlein Cook • “Essence of the Dragon” ©2005 William B. McDermott 
  “Memories and Ghosts” ©2005 Monte J. Cook • “This Land Is in Our Blood” ©2005 Steven Brown
  “Vows” ©2005 Richard Lee Byers • “The Mad Mojh of Onteth” ©2005 Ed Greenwood
  “The Sand Veils” ©2005 Lucien Soulban • “Oathsworn” ©2005 Mary H. Herbert
  “Loresight Legation” ©2005 Catherine L. Grubb • “Pride” ©2005 Wolfgang Baur
  “Envoy” ©2005 John J. Grubb • “Manipulators” ©2005 Kristine Kathryn Rusch
  “Not All That Tempts” ©2005 Bruce R. Cordell 
  Cover art by J. P. Targete
  Interior art by Patrick Keith
  Cover design by Lisa Chido
  Interior design by Peter Whitley
  Cartography by Ed Bourelle
  ISBN: 1-58846-883-6
  Stock #WW16147
  First Printing: March 2005
  Printed in Canada
  Distributed for Malhavoc Press by
  White Wolf Publishing
  1554 Litton Drive
  Stone Mountain, GA 30083
  www.montecook.com
  MONTE COOK’S ARCANA EVOLVED:
  THE DRAGONS’ RETURN
  
  136
  VOWS
  R I C H A R D  L E E  B Y E R S
  159
  THE SAND VEILS
  L U C I E N  S O U L B A N
  181
  THIS LAND IS IN OUR BLOOD
  S T A N !
  207
  MANIPULATORS
  K R I S T I N E  K A T H R Y N  R U S C H
  234
  LORESIGHT LEGATION
  K A T E  N O V A K
  255
  MEMORIES AND GHOSTS
  M O N T E  C O O K
  
  S
  ix thousand years ago, the dragons dwelled in peace. But in
  the absence of their mighty liege, Erixalimar, they dabbled
  in dark experiments that led to the birth of the dramojh:
  foul demon-dragons whose unchecked battle-lust and powerful
  magic threatened to wipe out their creators. Returning from an
  exploration of the western lands, Erixalimar found his realm
  awash in blood, his people near death. He did the only thing he
  could do: sought the help of the gods to rid the world of the
  dramojh. And once the bloodthirsty creatures were gone, he took
  his people away to the west, leaving their homeland to heal in the
  hands of mortals. 
  But the power of the dramojh surpassed all expectations. After
  more than four thousand years, the demon-dragons returned 
  to plague the land once more. This time, the intercession of 
  the Hu-Charad—noble giants from across the eastern sea—
  exterminated them once and for all and saved the mortal races
  S U E  W E I N L E I N  C O O K
  I N T R O D U C T I O N
  from further centuries of enslavement. A long-forgotten treaty
  forbade the giants from entering the dragons’ home, but the
  wyrms were no longer there to uphold the ancient pact.
  And now, seventeen hundred years later, the dragons finally
  return to find that the Hu-Charad have made the realm their
  own, rebuilding the draconic homeland into a place they called
  Dor-Erthenos, the Lands of the Diamond Throne.
  Ferocious or friendly, grand or grisly, dragons always make
  intriguing and complex characters. And a short story anthology
  is the perfect venue to explore the complexity of the draconic
  character, as well as the complexity of the circumstances sur-
  rounding their return. 
  The twelve talented authors in this book all see the arrival of
  the wyrms in a slightly different light: Some of the dragons seek
  power, some thirst for blood, some want to reconnect with an-
  cestors, and some just want a place to call home. Whatever
  their inclinations, these dragons bring with them unique an-
  cient magic tied to the land, arcane skills to help creatures
  evolve into more powerful versions of themselves, and a new
  client race of dragon-men: the dracha.
  The response of the Diamond Throne residents to the drag-
  ons’ return is just as interesting and complex as the dragons
  themselves. The giants see the creatures as a new threat to the
  land. The reptilian mojh view the return as a much-prophesied
  answer to their prayers. And the descendents of the dramojh,
  such as the slassans and squamous lir, have reason to tremble,
  for the dragons want no reminders of the evil demon-dragons.
  Other mortal races see the dragons’ presence here as a cause for
  fear, an opportunity for profit, or a call for great courage.
  Much of this story is yet unwritten. Why did the dragons
  choose to return now after so long? Will they drive the Hu-
  Charad back across the sea or work with them to reshape the
  realm once more? These are questions that only your own imag-
  inations can answer. For now, enjoy the story as it evolves. 
  vii
  I N T R O D U C T I O N
  vi
  
  S
  carathar’s knees ached. Not from walking—though there had
  been plenty of that this past week. The apprentice’s thighs
  and calves had tingled as if pricked by a thousand needles the
  entire second day, and then throbbed for two more as the needles
  worked their way down to the bone. But that pain had become no
  more than a permeating twinge at the threshold of awareness.
  This new pain came from standing. Different joints and
  muscles were being tested by an interminable vigil at the edge of
  a boulder-strewn field. Scarathar shifted his weight from one foot
  to the other in an attempt to ease the load on his knees. 
  His weight. His knees. Scarathar still found it hard to think of
  himself as anything but male. But it wasn’t. Neither was it female.
  Scarathar was mojh. The apprentice gazed down at his . . . its . . .
  body, recently transformed during an agonizing, monthlong ritual.
  Scarathar’s gangly body had elongated by more than a foot—most
  of that in the legs—and was now covered in green scales.
  1
  W I L L  M C D E R M O T T
  E S S E N C E  O F  T H E
  D R A G O N
  
  W I L L  M C D E R M O T T
  To Scarathar’s left, Arganoth seemed to have no problem
  standing for hours. Claw tips touching, the master was obvi-
  ously deep in thought. Arganoth was shorter and stockier than
  Scarathar, especially around the protruding hip bones. Many of
  the master’s scales had yellowed over the years, giving the old
  mojh a mottled coloring like leaves in Tenthmonth.
  Scarathar wondered, not for the first time, why the venerable
  mojh had chosen him . . . it . . . for this journey. There were
  more experienced, more deserving, more solemn members of
  the sect. Many had even volunteered for this honor. But Argan-
  oth had asked for Scarathar. And all mojh knew the dragons
  spoke to the master in dreams, so none questioned the deci-
  sion—none but Scarathar.
  So they stood at the edge of the field. Scarathar shifted again
  and stared at the vast meadow dotted with boulders the size
  and general shape of small houses. Other than rocks, there was
  nothing of interest. The beige grass was cropped so close that
  Scarathar decided it must be grazing land. But the apprentice
  could see no animals—only large, cubical boulders.
  Scarathar could wait no longer. “Why do we stand here at
  the edge of this bare plain, master?” 
  The elder mojh didn’t look up, and the apprentice knew
  what was coming before the words were spoken. “All that needs
  to be known is already written.”
  Scarathar suppressed a sigh. Mojh stoicism had been nearly
  as hard to bear as the lack of proper pronouns. Scarathar stared
  at the master and thought about sitting down to open the
  leather-bound Annals he had carried all the way from Kish. The
  respite would have been welcome, but the correct passage came
  unbidden to Scarathar’s enhanced mojh mind:
  When the heavens align, pointing the way from West back
  to East, the time will have come to prepare for the return
  of our lord. Master and apprentice shall venture forth to
  find that which is necessary for the restoration ritual: the
  blood, breath, heart, essence, and legacy of the dragon.
  The thick tome held the prophecies, visions, and revelations
  of generations of masters in the Nithogar sect. It was said that
  Arganoth had been the conduit from their dragon lord for
  nearly a quarter of the text in the Annals.
  Another passage loomed in the apprentice’s mind’s eye.
  On the eve of the tenth morn following the heavens’ por-
  tents, the blood of the dragon shall be found amongst the
  ruins of the gods. The swift stones shall point the way.
  It was indeed the tenth day since the Dragon’s Claw constel-
  lation had appeared, pointing east from the setting sun. Long
  shadows loomed now as the sun set behind the two mojh. Still,
  the rocks looked anything but swift to Scarathar, who began to
  wonder if the master could possibly be wrong.
  Then, as Arganoth’s shadow touched a boulder, it moved. The
  boulders, once as stoic as the master, began to slide across the
  plain like sailboats in the Gulf of Firesight.
  Unlike boats, though, the rocks moved erratically: starting
  and stopping with no warning, changing directions or spinning
  to retrace paths in an instant. If there was a pattern to the
  movements, the apprentice could not see it. It was total chaos.
  Scarathar heard a loud crack and turned in time to see slivers
  of rock cascading over two colliding boulders. A deafening
  screech split the air as the grey slabs slid against one another.
  The apprentice took a step back—ready to run if necessary—
  just as Arganoth darted into the maelstrom. Scarathar hesitated
  a moment, prepared to wait for the master’s return, but a flash
  of movement out of the corner of its eye told the mojh it was
  time to go. Scarathar sprinted after the master just as a ten-
  foot-tall boulder careened past, nearly clipping the apprentice’s
  scaly foot.
  3
  E S S E N C E  O F  T H E  D R A G O N
  2
  
  Without a word, Arganoth walked off into the darkness.
  Scarathar took a moment to wrap the oozing tail stump with a
  piece of leather from the pack, checked for other injuries, and
  got up to follow. They were in an immense subterranean cham-
  ber. Scarathar couldn’t even see the walls and hurried to catch
  up, rather than risk getting lost in the dark.
  As Scarathar came up behind Arganoth, one side of the
  cavern came into view. The curved walls towered fifty feet from
  floor to ceiling, forming a mammoth circular chamber. But
  more than that, the walls were honeycombed with thousands
  upon thousands of alcoves. The “ruins of the gods” mentioned
  in the Annals were a great dragon burial chamber!
  As Scarathar stared in awe, Arganoth began examining the
  wall. Realizing what the master was doing, the apprentice
  moved closer to help scan the alcoves for the aura of magic.
  Scarathar edged away from Arganoth around the chamber,
  searching each section of wall for anything magical.
  About halfway around, the young mojh was nearly blinded by
  a flash of aura from an alcove near the top of the chamber.
  Scarathar turned to call out, then decided to climb the wall and
  retrieve the item alone. This must be why Arganoth chose me,
  thought the apprentice, looking up at the alcove-filled wall. An
  excellent climber as a human, the mojh apprentice scaled the
  wall easily with long limbs and strong claws.
  Halfway up, Scarathar’s wounded tail slapped hard against
  the edge of an alcove, shooting pain up the length of the young
  mojh’s spine. Unwilling to show weakness in the pursuit of the
  master’s task, the apprentice grimaced and continued climbing,
  eventually pulling its sore body into the glowing alcove. 
  After checking the blood-soaked tail bandage, Scarathar
  scanned the chamber. It was strewn with bones and debris,
  making it difficult to pinpoint the source of the aura. Scarathar
  knelt to sift through the remains. The bones seemed to be
  mostly teeth, claws, and a few scales. But these were dragon
  5
  E S S E N C E  O F  T H E  D R A G O N
  Scarathar’s clawed feet pounded a staccato beat on the hard
  ground as the young mojh followed the mentor through the
  Field of Running Stones—which, until this moment, the 
  apprentice had thought to be a myth. A boulder whipped past
  as Arganoth side-stepped and turned left. Two more house-sized
  rocks slammed into one another behind Scarathar, showering
  sharp pebbles onto the apprentice’s scaly back.
  Scarathar had but one thought, one hope: that the venerable
  mojh could see the path to their goal, could discern a pattern in
  the chaos. But the master moved almost as erratically as the
  boulders, turning to avoid some swift-moving stones, then
  racing right at others. Pain sliced through Scarathar’s thighs and
  calves with every pounding step. But the young apprentice
  knew that to slow or stop would mean death.
  Scarathar began to wheeze as new pains shot through its
  lungs. The apprentice couldn’t last much longer at this pace.
  Ahead, Arganoth avoided an oncoming boulder, forcing
  Scarathar to dive out of the way. The boulder caught the ap-
  prentice on the tail, whipping the young mojh around.
  Scarathar landed hard. Out of breath, sore, and slightly
  dazed, the apprentice looked blearily at the bloody tail, which
  was a foot shorter than it had been a moment ago. Past the
  bloody tail stump, Scarathar saw a wall coming up fast.
  The apprentice’s clouded mind realized the danger too late.
  Scarathar tried to roll out of the path of the boulder, but there
  was no time and nowhere to go. The mojh raised scaly arms
  over its face and felt its body being sharply jerked back. . . . 
  Several moments passed. Scarathar’s double eyelids slid open
  slowly to see the master’s mottled body standing above. The ap-
  prentice stared blankly at the elder mojh. As if in response to
  the unasked question, Arganoth pointed up. Above them was a
  small hole through which the young mojh could hear the scrap-
  ing sounds of sliding boulders. The master had gotten them to
  safety.
  4
  W I L L  M C D E R M O T T
  
  As far as Scarathar could tell, it was gibberish. But the young
  mojh knew that to ask the question again would bring no new
  information. So, like a good mojh, the apprentice said nothing.
  Amazingly, the master broke the silence.
  “I must eat and rest,” said Arganoth between bites. “Study the
  Nithogar histories and prepare for our departure. Tomorrow we
  begin our journey to the Bitter Pit to capture the breath of the
  dragon. All must be ready by the first day of Twelfthmonth.”
  Scarathar stared. It was probably the longest speech the
  master had ever made. The importance of so much verbal com-
  munication was not lost on the apprentice. The young mojh
  tossed the remains of the wing into the fire, pulled the Annals
  from the pack, and began reading about the great Lord
  Nithogar and the Dragon War.
  The Conclave of the Dragons was in disarray. After sign-
  ing a treaty with the giants, a people called the Hu-
  Charad, Erixalimar had left the Land of the Dragons
  for the uncharted west. War between the dragons erupted
  in his absence, as metallic and chromatic vied for control
  of the Conclave. Unto this turmoil came the great Lord
  Nithogar.
  In his bid to lead the Conclave out of chaos, Lord
  Nithogar, who, it is written, “could swipe his claws into
  other realms as easily as men could dip their hands into
  pools of water,” brought to his brethren items of nearly
  limitless magical power found in a forgotten dimension—
  the tenebrian seeds.
  But those controlling the Conclave forbade Nithogar
  from experimenting with the seeds, which they deemed
  “the spawn of the netherworld.” Denied his attempt to
  openly explore the power of the seeds, Nithogar met in
  secret with a select group of allies. . . .
  7
  E S S E N C E  O F  T H E  D R A G O N
  scales—five to ten times larger than mojh scales. They would be
  worth a fortune to armorsmiths in one of the giants’ cities.
  The apprentice considered pocketing a few, but dismissed
  that thought as an artifact of its previous life. At the bottom of
  the pile, near the back of the alcove, Scarathar found the source
  of the magical aura: a ten-inch-long, bone-white claw, sharp-
  ened to a razor’s edge along its entire length.
  “The master will be pleased,” thought Scarathar, scrambling
  back down the wall and all but forgetting its wounded tail in the
  excitement. But if Arganoth was pleased with the apprentice, the
  master’s stoic face never showed it. The old mojh simply stuck
  the enchanted claw in a pack and left the chamber. 
  Later that evening, after leaving the Field of Running Stones,
  Arganoth mounted the enchanted claw onto a dull grey hilt, in-
  structed Scarathar to build a fire and prepare the evening meal,
  then sat down with the weapon held in both claws to meditate.
  After checking the bandage on its wounded tail again, the
  young mojh built the fire and roasted a hawk for dinner. Still
  the master sat grasping the blade. The apprentice pulled a wing
  off the hawk and ate while watching Arganoth. “How could a
  bone-claw dagger be the blood of the dragon?” wondered the
  apprentice out loud.
  “All that needs to be known is already written.”
  Scarathar looked up at the master’s face. Arganoth spun the
  bone dagger around and sheathed it in one fluid motion, then
  reached out and tore a chunk of meat from the roasting bird
  and began to eat.
  Scarathar had studied several sections of the prophecy before
  dinner and knew there was precious little about the blood of
  the dragon. The only relevant passage stated:
  The blood will open the heart. The blood courses through
  the heart and unveils the legacy.
  6
  W I L L  M C D E R M O T T
  
  Windigar, a ferocious white dragon with twin scars running the
  length of her body, and Gunthilor, whose blue scales and quick
  mind shone brighter than all but Nithogar himself.
  Nithogar dropped the cooling seed onto an amber pile in the
  middle of the chamber. “Our group may be small, but
  Gunthilor believes that by infusing these seeds with our own
  essence, we shall gain immense power—enough to wrest control
  from those fearful fools and rule this land as it should be ruled.”
  “But the Conclave ruled the experiments too dangerous,”
  said Cridonag. “They forbade you to proceed.” 
  Sedonaral slapped the young red with her tail. “The Conclave
  has problems of its own,” she said. “While our brethren battle for
  control of these lands, the Conclave has no time to enforce fool-
  ish edicts.”
  “We should not dismiss the fears of the Conclave so quickly,”
  said Jelissican, pushing the two rivals apart.
  Always the diplomat, thought Nithogar.
  “We must proceed with caution,” she continued. “There is
  great power in these seeds. But that power must be tempered
  with intellect and understanding if we are to win this war with-
  out destroying the land we seek to rule.”
  Nithogar stroked the scales along the length of his beloved’s
  neck. “We shall take all due precautions, my love. But if
  Gunthilor is correct, our efforts can tip the balance of the war
  and put an end to all this needless strife.”
  Nithogar stared at the pile of seeds at his feet. “As Cridonag
  said, the power is ours.”
  * * * * *
  A week of walking across the Southern Wastes had hardened
  the muscles in Scarathar’s legs and created a pit in the young
  apprentice’s stomach. Mojh could go days or even weeks without
  water, but the heat forced the duo to move from shadow to
  shadow to regulate their body temperature under the hot sun.
  9
  E S S E N C E  O F  T H E  D R A G O N
  * * * * *
  “Idiots,” sighed Nithogar as he twirled a seed aimlessly on
  the floor. The spinning, amber-colored rock sparkled in the
  firelight. Nithogar slapped the seed away, sending it flying
  across the chamber.
  “Patience, my darling,” purred Jelissican. “We do not need
  the Conclave to reveal the secrets of the seeds.”
  Nithogar looked at his lair-mate, who had placed a reassuring
  claw on his shoulder, and sighed again. “Of course you are
  right, Jelissican.” He smiled a large, toothy smile and then
  strode across the chamber to an enormous hearth. Several tree
  trunks crackled in the roaring fire. Nithogar plucked the seed
  from the white-hot embers.
  Nithogar’s red-tipped black scales gleamed in the firelight.
  From a distance, the two colors merged together, giving him a
  coppery hue. He stared into the depths of the glittering rock.
  “Can they not see the power we can gain from these seeds?”
  “They are fearful old fools,” said Cridonag, a young red
  dragon whose wings were still too small for proper flight. His
  main duty at the moment was to keep the hearth stocked with
  fresh trees. “Or perhaps they covet our new power.”
  Nithogar let the inclusive pronoun pass, but Sedonaral, an
  ancient green with gem-encrusted scales, clapped Cridonag
  across the horns as he carried an oak toward the hearth. “‘Our
  power’?” she asked. “Your only power, pup, is our power, and
  don’t you forget it!”
  “Leave the boy alone,” said Bandogras, a mature black loung-
  ing at the far end of the chamber. “We were all reckless and
  hungry for power in our youth.”
  “Yes,” agreed Nithogar, “But in our youth, Erixalimar and
  the wretched Conclave held all the power.” The great dragon
  looked around the cavern at his tiny cabal, which, in addition
  to Jelissican, Cridonag, Sedonaral, and Bandogras, included
  8
  W I L L  M C D E R M O T T
  
  The substance almost glistened in its utter blackness. Each
  bubble that popped released a small puff of acrid smoke. While
  they watched, hundreds of bubbles swelled, burst, released their
  poison, and sank into the black soup.
  Kneeling at the edge of the dark pool, the master plucked a
  vial from a belt pouch and leaned out over the bubbling liquid.
  Arganoth’s thin hand hovered over the pool, clutching the vial
  between three claw tips. Scarathar began to worry that the
  master had succumbed to the fumes, for Arganoth swayed back
  and forth, the vial moving in a slow, elliptical path over the
  pool.
  The master’s arm plunged toward the glistening liquid just as
  a large bubble burst. A puff of black smoke erupted into the
  mouth of the descending vial. After corking and securing the
  smoky tube back in the pouch, Arganoth rose and left the
  chamber without a word.
  Scarathar followed a moment later, not bothering to hurry.
  With the breath of the dragon in claw, it was time to trudge to
  the next location in their unending pilgrimage. The apprentice
  wasn’t eager to get started.
  After pushing through the curtain of smoke at the mouth of
  the tunnel, Scarathar sensed that something was wrong. The
  master was nowhere to be seen. Relying on old instincts, the
  young mojh stopped to listen. Amid the whistle of the wind
  could be heard the scrape of claw against stone—which could
  be Arganoth—and a low growl.
  The sounds came from beyond the fallen slab. Scarathar scam-
  pered up the side of the boulder and crawled to the far edge. The
  master stood perfectly still, arms splayed wide, in front of a ten-
  foot-long, golden-scaled beast.
  The creature had a feral head ringed by a shock of fur, but its
  body was covered in scales that reflected the light of the sun.
  Ribbed wings, like those Scarathar had seen on sketches of
  dragons in the Annals, sprouted from the beast’s back.
  11
  E S S E N C E  O F  T H E  D R A G O N
  The southern foothills of the Bitter Peaks reached higher into
  the sky before them each day until they arrived at what
  Scarathar knew was their destination. The young mojh had
  read the appropriate passage several nights earlier.
  “The breath of the dragon erupts from the dragon’s mouth.
  Capture the breath and venture forth to the heart.”
  Their path wound up a dry river bed to the mouth of a cave
  cut into a rocky outcropping. A slab of rock swept over the top
  of the black maw before them. Part of that natural arch had
  fallen during some ancient cataclysm and now partially blocked
  the opening, jutting out like the jaw of an enormous beast.
  The river bed led past the stone jaw and down into the
  blackness. An acrid cloud of black mist billowed out of the cave
  mouth. The dragon’s breath, indeed! 
  Scarathar’s nose and throat burned as the two mojh de-
  scended into the cave. Their eyes adjusted to the darkness, re-
  vealing a rather featureless cavern that meandered back and
  forth where the ancient river had etched its way through the
  softest pores in the rock.
  The foul mist thinned once they passed the entrance, giving
  Scarathar’s throat some welcome relief. The apprentice glanced
  up and saw a black cloud hugging the ceiling. It ebbed and
  flowed above them like an inverted river coming up from the
  depths of the cave. They walked in silence for a time beneath
  the vaporous river. The cloud seemed alive. It moved like a
  snake, surging forward in fits and starts and slithering across the
  ceiling. Mesmerized by the undulating dance, Scarathar almost
  bumped into the master as they came to a small chamber.
  Smooth walls betrayed the unnatural origin of the circular
  room. Above, the black cloud still roiled, enveloping the ceiling
  and spilling into the rough tunnel behind them. In front of
  Scarathar was the source of the miasma: a bubbling pool of vis-
  cous liquid that dominated the small room.
  10
  W I L L  M C D E R M O T T
  
  “What was that?” asked Scarathar once feeling had returned
  to its muscles.
  “A dragonne,” said Arganoth. “Luckily just a pup, but we
  should not have killed it.”
  “Why?”
  “All that needs to be known is already written.”
  The war between the dragons raged on, and the chro-
  matics were losing ground against their enemies. Our
  lord knew the time had come to rally his brothers and sis-
  ters under a new banner. The experiments had succeeded
  beyond the cabal’s highest expectations. Infused with
  dragon essence, the tenebrian seeds had germinated and
  produced beings with the strength of dragons, but with
  the blood lust of demons.
  With an army of these dragon scions—these dramojh—
  at his disposal, Lord Nithogar’s cabal came to the aid of
  their chromatic brethren and turned the tide of the war.
  And yet all might have been lost if not for the interven-
  tion of a most unlikely ally. . . .
  * * * * *
  Nithogar landed on the hilltop and surveyed the battle raging
  above the desert. Cridonag landed at his side, but the great
  dragon ignored the whelp. The small red was useful in his own
  way, but Nithogar knew that battle was not the best use of the
  young dragon’s particular talents.
  Nithogar, Jelissican, Sedonaral, and a company of dramojh
  had ambushed a small band of gold dragons. The scions had
  erupted from beneath the sand as the golds flew past and tore
  into them with sharp claws and teeth.
  To Nithogar’s eye, the dramojh were beautiful creatures, an
  elegant meld of dragon and demonic spider. Their serpentine
  13
  E S S E N C E  O F  T H E  D R A G O N
  The tableau in front of Scarathar held for a moment, giving
  the apprentice time to slip a dagger out of its sheath. The 
  vicious-looking beast must have heard the scrape of the blade.
  It tensed and jerked its head to the side to scan the rock. 
  Scarathar flung the dagger at the beast.
  Arganoth screamed, “No!”
  The creature leaped straight up toward Scarathar.
  The dagger skipped across the beast’s scaled chest as it flapped
  its wings once and rose into the air. The creature landed on all
  fours, nearly on top of Scarathar, and raised its head.
  “Cover your ears!” yelled Arganoth.
  It was too late. A deafening roar washed over Scarathar like a
  sheet of ice-cold water, leaving the apprentice disoriented and
  gasping for breath. Scarathar could do nothing but watch as the
  creature reared up for a lethal strike.
  As it raised its claws, a jet of flame blasted over the rock, en-
  veloping the beast’s head and shoulders. The force of the flame
  knocked the creature onto its side.
  Scarathar tried to move, but aching muscles wouldn’t cooper-
  ate. All the mojh could do was lie there staring into the beast’s
  gold, glaring eyes. Wisps of smoke rose from its burnt mane. It
  bared its teeth and growled as it rolled over to stand again.
  Before the beast regained its footing, Arganoth appeared
  above them both, bone-claw dagger raised overhead. The beast
  swiped at the master from a half-supine position, but the weak
  blow couldn’t penetrate mojh scales. Arganoth hesitated a
  second, then slashed down in a blindingly fast arc.
  The beast dropped again, and this time it would not rise. Its
  eyes dulled, and a crimson streak blossomed across its chest as a
  stream of blood spilled onto the rock.
  Arganoth pulled Scarathar away from the dying beast and sat
  next to the apprentice. Scarathar tried to sit up but found it
  impossible. Looking up at the master, the young mojh swore
  there was a tear trickling down one cheek.
  12
  W I L L  M C D E R M O T T
  
  enemy and simply dropped it back into his pack. After control-
  ling his anger over the green’s continuing insolence, the great
  dragon turned to the young red beside him and asked, “What
  news do you bring of the cabal?”
  “You have nothing to fear from Gunthilor or Windigar, my
  lord,” said Cridonag. “Gunthilor is completely loyal to you and
  the cabal, while Windigar’s only appetite is for battle, not power.”
  “Yes?” said Nithogar as bolt of lightning arced across the desert
  and cut a retreating gold dragon in half. “What of the others?”
  Cridonag quivered under his master’s icy stare. “Bandogras is
  difficult to read and extremely careful, my lord,” he said. “But
  my spies continue to gather information.”
  “Obviously I can trust Jelissican,” said Nithogar, “but what
  of Sedonaral?” He scanned the raging battle, looking for the
  gem-encrusted green.
  “She may be a problem—”
  At the sudden silence, Nithogar glanced to his side to see
  Cridonag half-falling, half-running down the hill. The next
  moment a cloud of noxious gas enveloped the hilltop. Through
  the vapors, Nithogar saw a gold dragon diving toward him, claws
  bared. How had the gold gotten through the lines? Nithogar
  thought he saw Sedonaral flying high above, watching him.
  Nithogar tried to turn toward the attack, but his muscles
  wouldn’t respond. The gas had weakened him, and he nearly
  fell over. The gold was almost upon him. He could see death in
  its eyes. Nithogar opened his mouth to breathe. . .
  Something flashed past Nithogar and slammed into the gold,
  driving it to the ground. The great dragon could see what
  looked like two gold dragons locked in combat—one not much
  bigger than a wyrmling.
  When the smaller figure raised its head and roared, Lord
  Nithogar knew it for what it was. Unfortunately, its attack had
  little effect on the gold, which ripped the dragonne apart a
  moment later. Nithogar belched acid at the wounded dragon as
  15
  E S S E N C E  O F  T H E  D R A G O N
  bodies slithered through the air as easily as snakes through the
  grass, held aloft by great, ribbed wings. But on the ground, the
  dragon scions could scuttle far faster on their eight, multi-
  jointed legs than even the quickest dragons.
  Nithogar had watched as three dramojh ripped scales from
  the neck of one gold dragon and sank their teeth into exposed
  muscles like wildcats feasting on a herd animal. Two other
  dramojh plunged their spearlike legs deep into the gold’s back
  for purchase and began ripping out the spines from its wings,
  shredding the leathery membranes as if they were leaves.
  Unable to fly on the tattered remains of its wings, the gold fell
  to the sand, broken and bleeding.
  Another platoon of dramojh scuttled back and forth like
  crabs on some nearby rocks, ready to assail escaping enemies
  with foul magic. Nithogar had followed one such gold dragon
  into the sky. Before he could even breathe his flame, a cloud of
  black particles enveloped the retreating gold. The dragon
  screamed and plummeted from the black cloud, a horned skull
  where the dragon’s head had once been.
  After that, Nithogar had retreated to the hill to direct the
  attack and watch his beloved. Green and golden, Jelissican circled
  above the battle, using her breath and claws to force stragglers
  back into the fray. 
  He had lost track of Sedonaral, however. Nithogar scanned
  the battle for the troublesome green to no avail. Fearing more
  that she had abandoned them than that she lay dying, he pulled
  a dragonstone from a pack. After passing a claw over the red-
  dish stone to activate its magic, Nithogar spoke. “Sedonaral,
  where in the West are you?”
  The stone lay silent for nearly a minute. Nithogar was about
  to repeat the call when the rock vibrated and Sedonaral’s sharp,
  clipped voice emanated from it. “Busy now. Chasing stragglers.
  Leave me to my work.”
  Nithogar quelled the urge to fling the stone at the nearest
  14
  W I L L  M C D E R M O T T
  
  through the Annals for hours, the young mojh was unsure what
  they would find in this featureless and claustrophobic chasm.
  Scarathar glanced at the sheer walls, which seemed to come to-
  gether high above. Only a sliver of sky was visible, and the ap-
  prentice couldn’t tell whether it was day or night. Nothing
  existed for them now but rock walls streaked grey and brown.
  Arganoth slid ahead but held up a claw, indicating that
  Scarathar should remain. The apprentice saw an alcove in the
  wall where the master had stood. It was small, not much more
  than a shelf cut into the cliff. Scarathar’s eyes—trained long ago
  to notice minute details—also saw a small crack running across
  and down the wall.
  Arganoth motioned for the apprentice to take a closer look.
  Scarathar moved forward and peered into the alcove. The base
  of the shelf was etched with an intricate design that looked fa-
  miliar, but it was difficult to tell exactly what it was. Something
  seemed odd about the etching. It had obviously been carved
  with great care. The whirls and lines were perfectly formed but
  cut quite deep into the stone—deeper along the edges of the
  design than at the center.
  Scarathar heard Arganoth shuffle closer and glanced up to see
  the claw dagger raised and ready to strike. Scarathar’s arm shot
  up to defend against the strike, but the master grabbed it and
  forced the apprentice’s clawed hand into the alcove, over the
  center of the design.
  “Master, I . . .” began Scarathar.
  The claw dagger plunged into the back of Scarathar’s hand,
  emerging through the palm. As the apprentice screamed, blood
  ran down the bone blade and trickled onto the shelf. The dark
  liquid flowed into the crevices, pooled, then spread out into the
  interconnected whirls of the design.
  With the etched pattern filling with blood, the crimson lines
  stood out against the grey stone. Scarathar finally recognized
  the design. It was two interlocked dragons held in a three-
  17
  E S S E N C E  O F  T H E  D R A G O N
  it advanced up the hill, then opened his mouth again and
  seared his attacker’s acid burns with a torrent of fire. 
  All that was left of the gold was a smoldering, blackened
  corpse. Later, after the battle, Nithogar and Jelissican gave the
  dragonne a proper burial. Then the great dragon flew off to
  find that craven toady, Cridonag.
  * * * * *
  During the days after the dragonne attack, the master seemed
  even quieter and more subdued than usual. In silence, they had
  clambered up and around the dragon breath cave, found where
  the dry river bed emerged, and followed it for two days into the
  mountains. Scarathar could feel a rift opening between them.
  In the evenings, Scarathar read the account of how the great
  lord Nithogar was saved by a lowly dragonne and began to un-
  derstand why Arganoth revered them. But it was just an animal,
  wasn’t it? The young mojh knew better than to ask this ques-
  tion aloud and continued to study the Annals, eventually find-
  ing an appropriate passage.
  The world is an interconnected web of existence of which
  we are all a part. All creatures revere the great lord
  Nithogar, caretaker of the land. In our lord’s absence, 
  it falls to the mojh to tend the web.
  After reading the passage, the young mojh considered apolo-
  gizing for the rash behavior that had ended in the dragonne’s
  death. But Scarathar still couldn’t grieve for the death of an
  animal and knew the master would detect the insincerity.
  So the rift between them grew as they climbed into the
  mountains in silence. Near dusk on the second day they struck
  out along a gorge that descended into a chasm. Eventually, the
  chasm narrowed enough to force them to walk single file.
  Finally, Arganoth stopped. Not a single word had passed be-
  tween them since the attack. Even though Scarathar had pored
  16
  W I L L  M C D E R M O T T
  
  silhouetted in the candlelight, moved to the next pole, placed a
  candle on top, and lit it with the flick of two claws.
  Ah yes. Tradition dictated that a ritual of this magnitude be
  conducted with a certain amount of ceremony and solemnity.
  Scarathar strode across the chamber to the master, bowed, and
  said, “May I help with the preparations?”
  Arganoth nodded and handed the apprentice half the candles.
  While turning toward the next pole, Scarathar bumped the
  master, relieving the mojh of a single item, which the former
  thief secreted amid the candlesticks. 
  Apparently not noticing the theft, Arganoth moved toward
  the next pole. Scarathar watched the master while placing
  candles into the pole holders. Once Arganoth was opposite
  the apprentice, Scarathar tucked the stolen item into a belt
  pouch as flame flared in the master’s clawtips. 
  Scarathar placed the last candle, then dutifully fell in step
  behind Arganoth as the master continued the lighting ceremony.
  As the final candle flickered into life, Scarathar stole up behind
  Arganoth and drove the stolen dagger into the master’s back.
  The claw dagger slipped through the master’s thick hide like it
  was parchment. The angle of the attack ensured that the ten-
  inch blade, now embedded to the hilt, destroyed several soft
  organs beneath Arganoth’s ribcage. It was a perfect strike. The
  old mojh gasped as Scarathar pulled the blade out, and nearly
  toppled to the floor while turning to face the apprentice.
  Blood dribbled from the corner of the master’s mouth. But
  instead of the wide-eyed, open-mouthed look of pain and sur-
  prise Scarathar had expected to see, Arganoth wore a slight,
  lopsided grin.
  Arganoth extended a claw to the apprentice. Scarathar tensed,
  ready to strike again if necessary, but the master simply clasped
  the apprentice’s claw and pressed something into the palm.
  Scarathar looked down to see the vial of dragon’s breath.
  “Why?” the young mojh asked. “I don’t understand.”
  19
  E S S E N C E  O F  T H E  D R A G O N
  clawed hand: the double dragon, the secret mark of Nithogar.
  Scarathar remembered a passage from the Annals.
  The legacy of the dragon is guarded by the double dragon.
  The blood will open the way. But only once thou display
  the essence of the dragon will the legacy of the lord
  Nithogar be revealed.
  As the final claw points of the design filled with blood,
  Scarathar heard and felt the rumble of stone scraping against
  stone. A large block detached from the wall and slid into the
  cliff, sending a shower of dust and pebbles to the chasm floor.
  Arganoth pulled the dagger from Scarathar’s wounded hand,
  sheathed it, and entered the doorway. Scarathar stared at the
  blood-filled etching while binding this latest wound. The mojh
  remembered another passage that it had read in the Annals
  nearly two weeks earlier and shuddered.
  Instincts and emotions ingrained during a reckless and mis-
  spent youth resurfaced within Scarathar. The young mojh en-
  tered the secret chamber of Nithogar, knowing what waited
  within . . . and what must be done to fulfill the prophecies.
  Once inside, Scarathar scanned the dark chamber. All was ex-
  actly as expected. It looked like another circular room—at least
  as far as Scarathar could see. The curving walls to either side
  bore writings as well as images depicting dragons and dramojh
  locked in combat. Black poles stood in a ring around the center
  of the chamber. Etched into the stone inside that circle was an
  intricate and familiar design.
  Fear gripped Scarathar when this cursory scan showed no
  sign of the master. Was it too late? No. Scarathar knew the
  master had underestimated the young apprentice. It was time
  Arganoth learned how capable Scarathar truly was.
  A pool of light flared from a candle set into a pole near the
  back of the chamber. The master’s shadow on the far wall
  seemed to dance and taunt the apprentice. The master, now 
  18
  W I L L  M C D E R M O T T
  
  right. The dramojh were too hard to control. Now she was
  gone, too. But he would make it right. For her, he would make
  the land thrive again—if only he had enough time.
  His tenebrian seeds were gone, but the great dragon still had
  a small horde of dragonstones. In addition to communication,
  the magical stones were known for their ability to heal life’s
  energy. Nithogar believed they could also store this same
  energy. However, the ritual would be tricky . . . and costly.
  A quick breath of fire into the hearth turned the charcoal
  remnants of several logs into hot embers. Nithogar reached into
  the hearth and spread the glowing ash across the pile of dragon-
  stones while muttering mystical phrases.
  The dragonstones glowed and pulsed from red to orange to
  black and back to red as the hot embers turned to grey ash
  around them. Still chanting, Nithogar mentally summoned his
  lone dramojh guard. The demon-dragon flapped its wings once
  as it turned and scuttled across the floor.
  Nithogar snatched the dramojh around the neck as it neared,
  then quickly slashed open its belly. The dragon raised his
  former guard’s limp body over the dragonstones. Dark blood
  flowed like a curtain from the creature, drenching the red-hot
  stones and completing the incantation.
  It was done. Nithogar tossed the dead dramojh aside and sat
  back on his haunches to admire his work. The stones had been
  imbued with the essence of the dramojh. With these he could
  someday remake his army. And next time, he would find a way
  to control them. This battle was over, but he might still win the
  war . . . when the time was right.
  For now, though, his work must remain hidden. Nithogar
  passed a claw over the pile of sizzling dragonstones. As he mur-
  mured one final spell, he watched the pile dwindle. The stones
  disappeared one by one from the dark chamber, magically
  transported to hidden locations all around the land to wait for
  him to come and begin again.
  21
  E S S E N C E  O F  T H E  D R A G O N
  “All that needs to be known is already written,” the master
  wheezed, then slumped. Scarathar lowered the body gently into
  the center of the ring of light, then watched as the master’s life’s
  blood filled the crevices of the double-dragon design etched
  into the floor.
  Our Lord Nithogar nearly prevailed. If it were not for
  the untimely return of Erixalimar, the cabal and its
  dramojh warriors would have driven the foul metallics
  off this mortal coil.
  But even the powerful Erixalimar could not stand
  against the might of the great dragon’s horde alone. Once
  again, the dragon king forged an alliance with beings
  not of draconic blood—the Lords of Denotholan.
  These so-called gods helped Erixalimar destroy our Lord’s
  dramojh offspring and sunder his chromatic cabal. And
  for this service, the treasonous Dragonliege promised to
  relinquish the Land of the Dragons to the mortals. Those
  loyal to Erixalimar—and those who wished to live—
  followed him west.
  Those who did not bow to the rule of Erixalimar were
  hunted down . . . with the help of certain traitors to the
  cabal. . . .
  * * * * *
  The great dragon knew they were coming. He had precious
  little time to finish the ritual. The cavern was pitch black
  around the dragon. There were no more trees to burn in the
  hearth. His dramojh had, unfortunately, seen to that.
  Nithogar winced as he remembered the conflagration and
  carnage. Entire forests set aflame. The land made black and
  barren by fire and foul magic. His dear Jelissican had been
  20
  W I L L  M C D E R M O T T
  
  Nithogar. “Oh, right. You cannot, can you?” Nithogar started
  to laugh at his little joke, but a voice inside—a mere memory
  of a better dragon than he—scolded him for making light of
  death, any death. 
  Dearest Jelissican, he replied to the voice, What I do now, I do
  for you. I have spread my legacy across the land. Now I must rest. 
  With that, he disappeared from the dark chamber, leaving
  the red-and-black Cridonag to face the wrath of the king of the
  dragons.
  * * * * *
  Blood filled the double-dragon design, swirl after swirl.
  Scarathar stared at the dead mojh master. That damnable con-
  tented smile frozen on the elder’s face mocked the apprentice.
  The young mojh turned from the sight. Scarathar couldn’t
  look at that face any longer. Was this the right thing to do? It
  had been instinct, right? A life-or-death reaction bred into his
  human self on the streets of Gahanis a lifetime ago. 
  No, There was more to this barbaric act than mere survival.
  Something had stirred inside the apprentice when the heart
  chamber opened. The answer had arrived with crystal clarity. At
  the end, Scarathar had felt the weight of destiny guiding the
  blade.
  Scarathar looked at the vial containing the breath of the
  dragon. Had Arganoth known what would happen? What did
  it all mean?
  A low rumble invaded the apprentice’s reverie. The floor be-
  neath Scarathar shook, and the young mojh fell to the ground.
  The apprentice turned to find the master and the double-
  dragon design gone. The entire center of the chamber had
  risen up.
  As the dust settled, Scarathar saw a circular portico. Five
  stone columns carved with dragonscale motifs held a stone slab
  aloft above a central dais. Hundreds of gems were inlaid into
  E S S E N C E  O F  T H E  D R A G O N
  Some time later, the floor empty except for ash, Nithogar
  raised his red and black head. “I’ve been expecting you,
  Cridonag,” he said without turning around.
  The red dragon, moving less silently now, came up beside the
  former lord of the cabal. “I came as soon as I found out where
  you were, my lord.”
  Nithogar pretended not to notice the unstated lie. He turned
  to look into the toadying dragon’s eyes. “How much time do
  we have?” he asked.
  Cridonag wilted slightly under the icy gaze. “Our enemies
  are close, my lord.”
  “You mean ‘my enemies,’ don’t you, traitor?” Before
  Cridonag could move, Nithogar slashed a single claw across the
  young red’s neck, severing his vocal cords.
  “I never had to worry about Sedonaral, did I?” continued
  Nithogar. “It was you all along. When the winds changed, you
  turned to protect your back.” Weak from his ritual, Nithogar
  almost stumbled as he paced around the stunned dragon.
  Cridonag lunged at Nithogar.
  “Hold!” commanded the great dragon with the full force of
  his magical power. Weak he may be, but he still had enough
  strength to deal with one traitor. Cridonag stopped, unable to
  break the spell. “I have a task to complete, my foolish young
  friend, but first I need to find some dark dimension where I
  can rest and recuperate. . . .” For several millennia, he added to
  himself.
  Nithogar sighed. “But Erixalimar will never stop hunting me
  until I am dead, no matter where I may disappear to,” he said
  as he summoned energy into his claws. “So, I shall leave him a
  small present.” 
  The great dragon waved his claws in front of the young red
  and muttered an incantation. The room seemed to fold over on
  itself, leaving Nithogar standing face to face with . . . Nithogar.
  “Say hello to Erixalimar when he arrives, won’t you?” asked
  22
  W I L L  M C D E R M O T T
  23
  
  Next to this cryptic passage—in the margin of the page—was
  scrawled a single sentence:
  The apprentice shall become the master and complete the
  task, for it is written that the essence of the dragon is 
  betrayal.
  Scarathar dropped the Annals and stood before the sarcopha-
  gus. The mojh smashed the vial atop the stone lid. Black vapors
  poured forth from the shards, and tendrils of smoke enveloped
  Scarathar’s claws.
  The mojh took a step back and watched as the vaporous
  strands expanded into a billowing cloud that flowed across the
  sarcophagus. When the cloud cleared, the lid was gone.
  Scarathar stepped forward and gazed inside.
  Inside the sarcophagus lay an enormous red rock—one of
  Lord Nithogar’s dragonstones, secreted away until his return.
  Scarathar could feel its power, was drawn to it. But the mojh
  wasn’t sure what to do next. What had it said in the Annals?
  “Attune to the legacy. The heart knows how.”
  Scarathar peered at the words and images scrawled on the
  chamber walls. There was much to read, but the new master
  had plenty of time. The first day of Twelfthmonth was weeks
  away. That left plenty of time to read the inscriptions; to follow
  the path laid out millennia before the young mojh’s birth.
  Scarathar would attune to the dragonstone and await the return
  of Lord Nithogar. It was written.
  25
  E S S E N C E  O F  T H E  D R A G O N
  the columns, a different stone on each: onyx, sapphire, ruby,
  emerald, and pearl. Above, the double-dragon design was
  etched into the underside of the slab—as if it had been carved
  straight through the rock floor.
  A stone sarcophagus sat upon the dais. Scarathar climbed the
  steps to it. The sarcophagus was easily fifteen feet long and ten
  feet wide. The rounded stone lid was a foot thick; Scarathar
  could never remove it alone.
  But it wouldn’t take muscle to open the sarcophagus. Etched
  into the lid, a passage in Draconic read:
  Herein lies the legacy of the dragon. Upon his return, our
  Lord Nithogar shall embrace this legacy, and from it shall
  spring a glorious future for the Land of the Dragons.
  Only one who displays the true essence of the dragon may
  unveil the legacy. If the essence of the dragon is within
  thee, the breath of the dragon shall open the way.
  “What does it mean, ‘if the essence of the dragon is within
  thee’?” wondered Scarathar. The answer came unbidden to the
  apprentice. “All that needs to be known is already written.”
  Scarathar sat on the dais steps, leaning back against the sar-
  cophagus, and pulled the Annals out of the pack. “Arganoth
  knew I would need the vial,” the apprentice muttered, leafing
  through the pages. “But what is the ‘essence’? We never even
  looked for that.”
  Hours later, the apprentice found the answer buried deep
  within obscure passages relating to Nithogar’s prophesied return.
  The essence of the dragon cannot be found where it has
  not always been, nor can it be hidden away. If the
  essence is within you, unveil the legacy and prepare for
  our lord Nithogar’s return. Attune to the legacy. The
  heart knows how. The Lord will return to the chosen one
  when the time is right.
  24
  W I L L  M C D E R M O T T
  
  highlights glinted off flapping wings in the setting sun. Red, black,
  green . . . But at the center, there was no color—it was black, a
  pure darkness whose paucity of light was a presence unto itself. A
  name brushed Na-Devaon’s consciousness: tenebrian seed. But the
  name was charged with fury as palpable as flesh. That anger
  slammed into him, flicking Na-Devaon from the akashic sea like a
  rowboat caught on the crest of a breaking wave.
  As quickly as he’d succumbed, he was thrust out of his inadver-
  tent reverie. . . .
  “Easy, big guy. You all right?” The human shopkeeper
  squinted down at Na-Devaon, a vantage rare for the giant.
  Blinking, Na-Devaon sat up, rubbing his neck and attempting
  to gain his bearings. A litter of pottery, semi-precious stones,
  and tiny carved figurines lay around and under him. When he’d
  gone down, he must have clipped the display. Feeling around
  with his left hand, he found the figurine he sought.
  This time, he was able to grab it without triggering another
  akashic episode. Looking up into the solicitous face, Na-
  Devaon said, “How much for this one?”
  * * * * *
  “So, what do you think?”
  Dagath studied the brassy metallic figurine, turning it over in
  its scaled hands. Dagath, a magister and friend of the giant, rented
  a small apartment with attached study in De-Shamod, not too far
  from the shop where Na-Devaon purchased the tiny sculpture.
  Finally, the mojh said, “I can’t detect any overt enchantment. If
  it is an item of potency, it must be purely psychic in nature.”
  Dagath returned the object to Na-Devaon’s waiting palm.
  The giant closed his fist over the figurine, squeezing. “You
  didn’t detect any sort of . . . affinity for it?”
  Dagath cocked its hairless head at its giant colleague. “No.
  Why? It resembles a stylized dragon. Is that the familiarity to
  which you refer? Dragon, mojh—a little obvious.”
  27
  A
  spark of brutal memory bridged the gap between the
  figurine and the giant’s finger, anticipating his ap-
  proaching grasp. Na-Devaon flinched with something
  like pain. His oversized hand inadvertently knocked the figure
  off the display shelf, then his eight-foot frame crumpled, and he
  followed the fallen figure down to the hard floor. . . .
  Grief blasted past his barriers, sending Na-Devaon’s mind tum-
  bling past the Four Principles—fire, air, earth, and water—and
  on into the ultimate ether: the akashic sea, in which all thoughts,
  words, and actions are recorded for all time. He tumbled past ha-
  bitual moorings, accelerating into regions foreign to any that now
  lived. Never had he willingly ventured so far back into the akashic
  memory, so far beyond the sight of times and places with which he
  was at least passing familiar.
  He glimpsed a horizon darkened by the wings of a dragon host,
  whose numbers the giant could not begin to calculate. Chromatic
  26
  B R U C E  R .  C O R D E L L  
  N O T  A L L  T H A T
  T E M P T S
  N O T  A L L  T H A T  T E M P T S
  
  Na-Devaon grinned. The mojh’s sharp wit never failed. But de-
  spite the mojh’s lack of affability, their bond of friendship shielded
  him from Dagath’s most pointed comments. After all, had it not
  been for the mojh’s change of heart a little over a year ago, Na-
  Devaon would have died from daily “questioning” by a chapter
  of the Fleshrune cult. Dagath had quit that cult, and the mojh’s
  betrayal of the evil Master of Claw was a story all its own, though
  telling it overmuch only served to put the mojh in jeopardy—
  the surviving Fleshrunes had sworn vengeance on the magister.
  But Dagath had saved the giant despite the risk to itself, and
  from that act an enduring friendship was born.
  The giant said, “When I first touched the figurine, it trig-
  gered an akashic vision of the time of dragons, dragons before
  even the coming of the dramojh, when the ancient drakes ruled
  all this land. And you being . . . what you are . . .”
  Dagath waited, a quizzical look on its features. Then it
  shrugged, “Other than its shape, it means nothing to me. What
  distinguishes these visions from others you’ve had?”
  The giant sighed and continued. “The power of them, for
  one. Also, the vision came upon me; I did not seek it. The fig-
  urine was a catalyst. That’s never happened before.”
  The magister didn’t seem particularly moved by that admission.
  Na-Devaon persisted. “After I revived, I tried to use my abili-
  ties on the figurine to trace its lineage of ownership—it was
  surprisingly hard, despite my loresight. I did find the previous
  owner and asked her about it. The object had come into her
  possession accidentally, and she sold it to the curio shop.
  Anyhow, it turns out the figure comes from out west, from the
  mining town of Medaba. It is carved from a particularly rare
  mineral called orundum. In fact, from what Dolora tells me,
  orundum is mined at Medaba and no place else.”
  “Dolora?”
  “A witch. She was the previous owner. She was very helpful—
  at first—but after I told her about my incredible vision, she
  wanted the figure back. Offered ten times the price I paid for
  it. But I figured I’d talk to you first.” A pregnant pause ensued.
  “All right, tell me more about the vision,” Dagath said finally,
  when it had become all too obvious that Na-Devaon wanted to
  be asked. The mojh must be busy with another magical project,
  thought the giant. Dagath often failed to appreciate Na-Devaon’s
  theatrics. Or perhaps the mojh was just being rude.
  But Na-Devaon enjoyed telling his stories nonetheless. The
  giant described his akashic experience, determined not to rush
  through the retelling despite the mojh’s slightly bored demeanor.
  When the akashic mentioned the “tenebrian seed” portion of
  the vision, Dagath’s eyes became saucers.
  “What? What is it?” asked the giant, interrupting himself.
  Dagath wasn’t usually given to emotional displays.
  “You must journey to Medaba. The root of your vision lies
  there. I’m coming along.”
  * * * * *
  The sweaty month of Pal-Henach was a warm time for over-
  land travel. The sun’s unwavering gaze scoured the road. Heat
  mirages danced on the plain, forcing the ribbon of roadway
  stretching ahead to waver and tremble. Dagath advanced easily,
  using an ivory-white staff of magistry as a walking stick in one
  hand, clutching the figurine in the other. The mojh seemed
  untroubled by the heat, perhaps even happy in its stifling
  embrace. Na-Devaon wondered if heat tolerance was a trait
  shared by all mojh or was just a peculiarity of his companion. 
  For his own part, Na-Devaon was thoroughly miserable. The
  giant shuffled along, sweat running into his eyes and under his
  collar. The prodigious waterskin slung at his side was already
  half empty, but they had most of a day’s trek yet before them.
  Behind, the pack horse followed along at the end of its lead, its
  head low. The foliage on either side of the road was not tall
  enough to shade their path.
  29
  N O T  A L L  T H A T  T E M P T S
  B R U C E  R .  C O R D E L L
  28
  
  Bad news met the travelers in Alrenburg. According to the
  tavernmaster and owner of the Pale Pig Inn, where Na-Devaon
  and Dagath put up for the night, no trade had come out of
  Medaba for weeks.
  “Worse than that,” said the tavernmaster, his voice lowering,
  “we haven’t seen anyone from Medaba. We used to get daily
  runners, and we’d send runners the other way, too. But when
  the last three we sent didn’t return, we stopped sending them.”
  “Do you know the cause of the disruption?” demanded Dagath.
  The tavernmaster shrugged. “Bandits, maybe? It happens out
  here on the fringe. That’s why we’ve got extra men in the street. A
  strong militia’ll keep bandits at bay. The cutthroats only go after
  the soft. Alrenburg’s not soft, no sir.” With that pronouncement,
  the tavernmaster moved off to fill the order of another customer.
  Na-Devaon produced the orundum figurine from his pack.
  “That Medaba would fall silent just as we approach is too
  much for coincidence.”
  “Coincidence is merely the random concurrent incidence of
  two events that seem related only because of the short period of
  time in which they each occur,” responded the magister.
  “Right,” the giant agreed, but the greater portion of his at-
  tention remained focused on the figurine. He’d gained no fur-
  ther akashic insights in all the time since his vision. He looked
  up then and caught the mojh’s eyes with his own. “It’s time you
  came clean with me, Dagath.”
  The magister cocked its head, curious.
  “What is a tenebrian seed?” asked the giant.
  The mojh sighed, fingered the shaft of its pale staff. Dagath
  said, “There is a story that the mojh know. . . .”
  Na-Devaon nodded for the magister to proceed. Of course,
  as an akashic and something of a loremaster, he could delve
  into the matter himself. But he wanted to draw out the mojh.
  Perhaps if Dagath revealed what it knew, the magister would
  also divulge something of its intentions. . . .
  31
  N O T  A L L  T H A T  T E M P T S
  They’d already been on the road for more than two weeks,
  which followed the three weeks that Dagath and Na-Devaon
  had required to set their affairs in order and prepare for the
  trip. During that time, Dagath had remained strangely reserved,
  even more quiet than was normal for the magister. Something
  was obviously spinning through the mojh’s head, but on both
  occasions that Na-Devaon had questioned his friend, he’d been
  rebuffed with silence. It was beginning to get on the giant’s
  nerves, and the day’s unrelenting heat further embittered him. 
  “Dagath,” called Na-Devaon. “Give me back the figurine for
  a moment.”
  The mojh stopped, turned, said, “Why? Have you remem-
  bered something of your vision? Something more about the . . .
  darkness?” A strange note of eagerness resonated in Dagath’s
  normally calm voice.
  “Maybe.” Na-Devaon did not have any new insight, but the
  heat and his friend’s manner had finally accomplished the 
  impossible—the giant was irritable. He tried to clamp down on
  those feelings before he continued. “If you would explain to me
  what you obviously know, as I told you, I could attempt to
  enter a more directed akashic trance that would provide answers
  enough for the both of us. Why won’t you tell me?”
  Dagath tossed the figurine underhand to Na-Devaon, who
  snatched it out of the air. The mojh said simply, “I will disclose my
  conjecture when the time is appropriate—I need more time to get
  my thoughts in order. Perhaps tonight, when we reach Alrenburg.”
  The village of Alrenburg was a settlement of several hundred
  people, or so their expensive almanac claimed. Alrenburg was also
  the community closest to Medaba and, despite the village’s small
  size, it hosted a market for items made from the ores unearthed
  in the nearby foothills—including carved orundum figurines.
  “I’ll hold you to that,” promised the giant.
  * * * * *
  30
  B R U C E  R .  C O R D E L L
  
  “There is a difference between temptation and action, Na-
  Devaon. You taught me that.” With that, Dagath stood, flipped
  a few coins onto the scarred tavern table, and retired.
  Na-Devaon remained, sitting quietly, trying to quell the sus-
  picion in his heart.
  * * * * *
  Magister and akashic reached the edge of Medaba a few days
  later. What was left of it.
  The settlement was gutted. Hardly a roof remained un-
  burned, and few were the walls that didn’t lean or show dread-
  ful gaps. Trash and debris blew in the street, and a terrible smell
  of putrescence clung to the ground despite a slight wind. Mer-
  cifully, the source of the odor was not apparent. Along the
  nearby ridge, great piles of tailings pointed at the sky, and many
  dark mouths plunged into the rock—the mines of Medaba. 
  “What happened here?” wondered Dagath aloud. The mojh
  turned to look at its friend. But Na-Devaon was already prepar-
  ing himself.
  The giant pinched the bridge of nose, as if pained, and plunged
  into the akashic sea. While others could see the light of the pres-
  ent, Na-Devaon could gaze into the past with akashic certitude.
  His loresight would reveal the atrocity that had occurred in
  Medaba. After only a moment, the trance was upon him.
  A shadow bloomed. It blotted out the light. Its sinuous, feline
  shape flapped across the disc of the daystar, a silhouette of fear. A
  dragon descended upon Medaba.
  Glints of red, gold, green, and black danced upon the beast’s
  scales as it settled upon the ridge overlooking the settlement. It gave
  forth a great, booming roar of wrath—a hunting scream, it
  seemed, or a bawl of quintessential fury. Windows shattered, and
  people in the street cried out their fear as they scattered in panicked
  mobs. But the dragon came on, fire streaming from either side of its
  mouth, its eyes twin portals into Hell.
  33
  N O T  A L L  T H A T  T E M P T S
  “In ancient days, this realm was called the Land of the Drag-
  ons, for they ruled here. Dragons wield magic more aptly than
  any other creature, and it is recorded that one dragon was par-
  ticularly blessed with aptitude for the art. This dragon, called
  Nithogar, discovered something called tenebrian seeds.”
  “So you did recognize the term,” said Na-Devaon.
  Dagath raised a scaled hand, asking for patience. The magis-
  ter continued. “The tenebrian seeds were, according to rumor
  and tradition, used to engender the dramojh race.”
  “The demon-dragons!” spat Na-Devaon. “Why are you . . .”
  Then understanding came to him.
  “Dagath, what is it that every mojh wishes?” asked the giant,
  accusation edging his voice.
  “Na-Devaon, have you forgotten that I’ve renounced the
  Fleshrunes and their cruelty?” asked Dagath in turn, but the mag-
  ister wouldn’t meet the giant’s questioning gaze. The Fleshrunes,
  obsessed with finding power at all costs, were too recent an affil-
  iation in the mojh’s past, or so it seemed to Na-Devaon. 
  Despite his question, the giant knew very well that every mojh
  desired, more than anything else, to grow in spirit and body as if
  a dragon itself. Any mojh would jump at the chance to find the
  fabled fount of dragon half-breeds. Never mind that those same
  dragon half-breeds, the dramojh, were tainted with demonic an-
  cestry. Only the efforts of a group of deities, the Lords of De-
  notholan, ended the first dramojh threat, when the dragons
  themselves proved insufficient to halt the peril they had engen-
  dered. Later, after a second dramojh scourge claimed the Lands of
  the Diamond Throne, it was the power of the giants that proved
  the stronger, ending the dramojh threat once and for all. But, de-
  spite their vaunted evil, dramojh were also scions of the dragons.
  “Whether a Fleshrune brother, cutpurse, or kind-hearted
  saint, any mojh would be tempted to find and use a dramojh-
  producing artifact, regardless of possible consequences. Or am I
  wrong?” challenged the giant, his voice rising.
  32
  B R U C E  R .  C O R D E L L
  
  breaking such a pledge. But it is now apparent to me that drag-
  ons have returned to our shores.” The magister’s tone was one
  more of reverence than dread. But of course, Dagath was a
  mojh. How else would a mojh feel?
  “We must determine what brought it here,” said Na-Devaon,
  squeezing the figurine as if to crush it. “We must establish what
  it is about this ore, orundum, that lured a dragon’s fury.”
  After some time spent searching through shattered walls and
  broken windows, they found the structure they’d sought: the
  Mining Authority.
  Unlike many of the other structures, the Mining Authority
  was built mostly of quarried stone and had withstood the burn-
  ing far better than other buildings. Despite that, portions of the
  roof were missing, and doorways gaped enough to allow the
  giant and mojh to stroll right into the heart of the structure,
  though the giant paused first to tie up the pack horse.
  “They must have kept records of all their activities, including
  their orundum mining,” said Na-Devaon.
  “If they are not burned,” replied Dagath.
  Na-Devaon quickly located the chamber where records were
  kept, aided by helpful signs. Despite the door that hung loosely
  on its hinges, the interior of the record chamber was unharmed.
  But a flurry of loose papers and overturned cabinets was the sight
  that greeted the giant and the mojh as they stood in the hall.
  “Not very tidy for a records chamber,” commented Dagath.
  “Someone came through here looking for something.”
  The magister nodded. “Someone in a hurry.”
  The giant stooped and entered, his eyes roving across the
  mess. Dagath followed. Spread open on a central desk was a
  mine sketch clearly labeled “Orundum Vein A.” It was a map
  indicating which cave mouth on the ridge outside the settle-
  ment held the orundum mine. 
  “And someone apparently looking for the exact same thing
  we are,” concluded the magister.
  35
  N O T  A L L  T H A T  T E M P T S
  Na-Devaon gave his great head a quick shake, shattering the
  fearsome vision into disjointed and short-lived fragments. “A
  dragon! A dragon came to Medaba!”
  The magister gasped, half-turning as if struck, at a loss for
  words. “A dragon…” Dagath looked around at the destruction,
  its eyes drinking in the damning evidence in light of Na-Devaon’s
  revelation.
  “Buy why? And where is it now?” finally managed Dagath.
  “That is something we must discover. We must attempt to
  locate the mine records. The dragon’s appearance has something
  to do with this figurine, or at least the mineral from which it
  was carved; I can feel it.”
  They entered the periphery of Medaba, eyeing the damage
  from a closer vantage. Too close for Na-Devaon’s taste. A sworn
  pacifist, he didn’t like to be reminded of those acts which he’d
  forever put aside. That was why he had aborted his akashic
  vision of the fiery dragon before its brutal conclusion. There
  were some things he simply did not want to see.
  To distract himself as they made their way toward the center
  of the ruined community, Na-Devaon said, “The Lords of the
  Denotholan made a pact with the dragons—the wyrms ceded
  these lands and vowed never to return. Yet one has. Why?”
  “Na-Devaon, I’ve heard other recent stories of dragon sightings,
  more than can be accounted as mere frippery. If what you saw is
  accurate, a dragon’s advent here is not an isolated incident.”
  “How can that be?” The giant stepped over a burned-out
  cart, then backtracked when he realized that the pack horse
  couldn’t clear the obstacle as easily. When he brushed the cart’s
  side, fresh charcoal broke away and disintegrated as it fell. The
  destruction of Medaba couldn’t have happened too long ago,
  the giant realized. Probably about the same time as the trade
  stopped coming into Alrenburg . . . 
  “I don’t know,” admitted Dagath. “The dragons made a
  divine pact with gods—I don’t know how one goes about
  34
  B R U C E  R .  C O R D E L L
  
  Na-Devaon reached down and touched the map, his eyes
  closed to let his loresight reveal who had last handled the paper.
  “I’m blocked!” said the giant, surprised. A potent magic
  shielded the map from his penetrating sight.
  “Then we must enter the mine to find our answer,” said
  Dagath, anticipation apparent in its voice.
  * * * * *
  The orundum mine entry extended nearly fifty feet into the
  ridge before its access was restricted by a metal valve on tremen-
  dous hinges. The valve was several feet across. “I suppose they
  were worried about opportunist mining,” guessed Na-Devaon.
  “They certainly wanted to guard something,” agreed Dagath,
  whose staff-head blazed with light enough to illuminate the
  tunnel where they stood.
  The giant shot the magister an exasperated look. “What if we
  find a tenebrian seed in here—what do you intend, Dagath?”
  “It would be foolish not to study such an important relic of
  history,” proclaimed the magister, swinging around to fully face
  its much larger companion, its grip white on its staff.
  “Preparatory to destroying it, correct?”
  “If warranted.”
  Na-Devaon poked a giant finger at the mojh. “Listen, Dagath,
  if you—”
  Several silhouettes suddenly appeared in the open mine
  mouth from which they’d just entered. One of the silhouettes
  was as big as Na-Devaon—another giant. Magister and akashic
  faltered and ceased their heated discussion.
  The smallest figure at the rear of the group of newcomers
  broke the stretching silence. “You know,” spoke the figure, its
  timbre and intonation almost feminine, yet not quite, “if I had
  realized that I needed the figurine, or even recognized its signif-
  icance when it originally passed through my possession, we
  could have avoided a lot of . . . unpleasantness.”
  36
  B R U C E  R .  C O R D E L L
  The akashic squinted, then recognition broke across his face.
  “Dolora!”
  The figures moved fully into the tunnel, close enough for
  Dagath’s stafflight to render texture from silhouette. As Na-
  Devaon guessed, the smallest figure was Dolora, the witch who’d
  been the figurine’s original owner, but who’d sold it as a mere
  oddity before its significance had been discovered in the
  akashic’s vision. With “her” was a human male in dusty leathers
  who had a longbow drawn and aimed, and a giant wielding a
  dishearteningly large battle-maul carved from stone.
  “When you spoke of your interaction with the previous owner,
  you failed to mention that Dolora was a mojh,” noted Dagath.
  “True,” admitted Na-Devaon. “Perhaps that was an oversight.”
  Dolora laughed. “It seems I am not alone in my designs
  upon the alleged tenebrian seed.” The witch waited for Dagath
  to respond, but the magister merely shrugged.
  The witch continued. “It was an oversight on my part when I
  failed to take the figurine from you when I had the chance! I
  was too impatient—as soon as I left you, I gathered my friends
  and came to Medaba. We arrived three weeks ago. I had to
  waste a lot of time forcing the miners to tell me what I needed
  to know to get past this damned valve. Well . . . no, actually I
  rather enjoyed their extermination.”
  “Extermination?” repeated Na-Devaon. His stomach lurched.
  “The dragon Na-Devaon saw with his akashic loresight didn’t
  destroy the village; you did,” stated Dagath, fixing Dolora with
  its gaze, challenging the witch to deny it.
  Dolora spread scaled hands wide. “I can’t deny it—if they’d
  told me what I wanted right away, I wouldn’t have been forced
  to call down the fire.”
  “But I saw the dragon arrive . . . ,” began Na-Devaon.
  “And you apparently failed to follow the thread through to
  the end,” finished Dolora.
  The witch shook its head, mocking sadness. “The miners told
  37
  N O T  A L L  T H A T  T E M P T S
  
  length—power evident only to the magister. Dagath intoned,
  “Leave us, or be destroyed.” The magister’s voice rang with a
  strength born of magic.
  The bowman looked uncertain as he drew back the cord for
  his next shot.
  “Don’t fall victim to the magister’s ruse,” sneered Dolora, ex-
  ecuting in the air a delicate symbol, whose arcane configuration
  birthed a curtain of fire. With a delicate push, the witch sent
  the curtain rushing down the tunnel toward its victims.
  Na-Devaon stepped in front of Dagath as the curtain swept
  forward. He screamed in pain as the fire burned but failed to
  consume him, though his clothes charred and smoked. Behind
  him, Dagath was only singed.
  The giant warrior was upon Na-Devaon then, without the
  battle-maul; apparently, the brute had decided to merely squeeze
  the life from the akashic. The giant grasped Na-Devaon’s shoul-
  ders and delivered a crushing head-butt. Na-Devaon was dazed,
  but he forced a smile. He, too was a giant, and could withstand
  many hurts. In fact, since the Fleshrune episode a few years
  ago, he had delved daily into the akashic memory, learning
  skills of avoidance, tolerance, and physical solidity. He willed
  himself to become a rock on which his attackers’ blows could
  hammer, but not break.
  The next arrow that struck Na-Devaon failed to penetrate his
  skin, and his smile grew broader.
  “Hold him!” commanded Dolora to the other giant, who still
  grasped Na-Devaon’s shoulders. The witch summoned to hand
  a slender, obscenely long lance of burning iron. Dolora grinned.
  “Now comes my favorite part.”
  Dagath stepped from out of Na-Devaon’s shadow and said,
  “You were warned.” The magister visibly drew power from its
  staff, attaining a dim body-glow that rapidly swelled to brilliance. 
  The giant wrestling with Na-Devaon loosed his grip, turning
  his attention to the magister. Another arrow whistled forward,
  39
  N O T  A L L  T H A T  T E M P T S
  us about the dragon—it didn’t attack Medaba. True, it made a
  frightening entrance, but it turned and made its way here, past
  this valve, into the orundum mine. For some reason, the dragon
  didn’t need a key to get past this damned gate. But we need one.
  The figurine—or any object carved of orundum—will open
  these valves; we finally extracted that tidbit. Those cursed miners
  managed to hide their keys from me. After I finished off the last
  one, I couldn’t find any orundum substitutes.” Dolora smiled.
  “But now that you’ve come, I’ll take my figurine back.”
  Dolora held out a murderer’s hand.
  Na-Devaon’s eyes stung. Through his actions, death had come
  to Medaba. Images from the akashic sea suddenly burned
  through the ether and into his waking mind. Images of atrocities
  committed by Dolora. As had happened before to Na-Devaon,
  the giant’s battle rage, a state called Chi-Julud, tempted him. 
  The Wardance welled in the giant’s soul, sweet and hot and
  potent. He tensed. Rage ran as blood. If ever he was to break
  his pacifist oath, surely this was the time! 
  But the akashic was no oathbreaker. He’d proved that to himself
  when the agonies of Fleshrune torture had pushed him past limits
  he’d not known he could withstand. Instead, Na-Devaon man-
  aged to quell the rising wartide. “You cannot have it,” he sighed.
  “Wrong answer,” declared Dolora.
  The maul-wielder flung his hundred-pound weapon through
  the air as if it were a mere dart. Na-Devaon lightly sidestepped,
  and the maul smashed into the metal gate behind him, a rush
  of wind following in its wake. Despite being a pacifist, tapping
  into the collective memory allowed Na-Devaon to borrow
  many skills from the past, including those of defense. . . .
  Except the arrow that slammed into his forearm still brought
  a cry of pain to his lips, interrupting his attempt to draw
  strength of mind from the eternal record. 
  Dagath, from a position beside Na-Devaon, raised its staff
  and pulled on lines of power threaded through the staff’s pale
  38
  B R U C E  R .  C O R D E L L
  
  * * * * *
  The path led down an artificially straight grade, supported
  with occasional wooden struts. Five minutes of navigation was
  sufficient to see Dagath and Na-Devaon through to the edge of
  a natural cavern. The light of the magister’s staff revealed the
  debris and scars mining had wrought throughout the cave.
  Most of the cavern floor’s top layer was gone,  strip-mined to a
  depth of three or four feet. 
  At the far edge of the strip-mined area, a bit of virgin cavern
  remained. Mojh and giant moved forward, tense with anticipa-
  tion. Where was the dragon? What of the tenebrian seed?
  The yet-to-be mined section of the cavern was studded with
  oblong, boulderlike nodules. They looked something like
  geodes, yet smoother. All the ones that showed up in Dagath’s
  light were shattered, revealing a flashing core reminiscent of the
  figurine Na-Devaon carried.
  “This is the orundum deposit,” said the giant.
  “I’ve never heard of metallic ore concentrated in such a
  unique fashion,” mused Dagath. “These odd geodes remind me
  of something.” The mojh scratched its temple.
  It was then they heard the immense inhalation and saw the
  great shadow.
  * * * * *
  A dragon was there with them in the cavern, had been there
  all along. It was a creature like those ancient beings Na-Devaon
  had seen in his visions, yet unlike. It was of no definite color,
  but the giant somehow knew that its scales could reflect nearly
  any hue of the spectrum, depending on the dragon’s mood.
  Currently, its scales were black as the bleak heart of a dead star.
  Na-Devaon’s breath caught. Did the dragon know it had visi-
  tors? He felt a hand on his arm: Dagath. The mojh leaned for-
  ward and drew Na-Devaon’s head down to its own level. It
  41
  N O T  A L L  T H A T  T E M P T S
  this time aimed at Dagath, but was deflected by a quick swat
  from Na-Devaon. The magister’s glow illuminated the worried
  look that suffused Dolora’s previously eager expression.
  It was already too late.
  The light streaming away from Dagath quickly narrowed into
  a beam that touched first Dolora, then the archer, and lastly the
  suddenly backpedaling giant warrior. When the light winked
  out, Dagath slumped against the metal valve, breathing hard. 
  The intruders each stood unmoving, held in place by the
  magic Dagath had wrought.
  “How long until the magic fades?” asked Na-Devaon.
  “Until I release them.”
  “Good. Thanks.” The giant paused, then bulled on. “Then we
  have enough time to discuss the specifics of this tenebrian seed. I
  want to know what, exactly, you intend to do should we find one.” 
  The magister wearily nodded. “I’ve been wrestling with that
  very question—you know me well enough to see that, I hope.
  Do I destroy it or use it myself to transcend my current incar-
  nation and become truly akin to a dragon?”
  The giant studied Dagath, new worries crinkling his burned
  brow. “So, what have you determined, my friend?”
  Dagath sighed. “It was Dolora who decided me.”
  “In what way?”
  “Dolora showed me that one would do well to be wary of
  temptation. I have discovered that temptation can lure one
  down proscribed corridors of the mind during the lonely hours
  of the night. The temptation of gaining the seed has engen-
  dered atrocities every bit as deplorable as those I’ve turned my
  back on in the cult. The seed should be destroyed. Not all that
  tempts should be accepted.”
  The giant clapped Dagath on the shoulder, saying nothing.
  The two turned, facing the valve. Na-Devaon brought forth
  the figurine. When he touched it to the gate, the way into the
  mine opened.
  40
  B R U C E  R .  C O R D E L L
  
  giant, and with it, guilt for his earlier assumption that the
  dragon had razed Medaba. The dragon’s sorrow seemed un-
  breakable, eternal. The akashic had a sudden intuition of the
  dragon dying here among the shards of its failed charge. He
  forced himself to move closer.
  “I can’t give you back your Clutch,” said Na-Devaon, speak-
  ing loudly and addressing the darkness, “but I can give you
  this.”
  The giant akashic held up the sculpture and called upon his
  connection to the akashic realm of the eternal. The figurine al-
  ready contained some essence of the dragon’s lost brood; the ore
  from which it was smelted originated in this very nest. That con-
  nection served as anchor enough to attempt a greater working.
  The giant mentally pulled at the threads of akashic probability,
  weaving into existence something more than simple illusion—
  indeed, he attempted to imbue in the figurine the completed
  essence of the dragonlings that were lost to time—what they
  could have been, and what they could have accomplished.
  It was an audacious task. Na-Devaon struggled with each of
  the Four Principles, seeking to weave his desire into existence.
  Halfway through, he faltered. The construct shivered, still im-
  perfectly wed to the figurine, and threatened to unwind, but
  then the giant felt the touch of Dagath’s staff. The magister
  aided him, fed him raw arcane might, which Na-Devaon des-
  perately grasped and used to sustain his intent.
  In the end, he fashioned a potent akashic working, a memo-
  rial capable of looking into a reality different from the present—
  it was a true shrine to the vanished Clutch, memorializing the
  legacy of the ancient dragons. Any creature that grasped the fig-
  urine and looked into its eyes would recall a special draconic
  heritage, seeing the dragonlings of the Clutch hatch and live as
  they would have done, had their nest not been disturbed.
  Na-Devaon finished the working and slumped, exhausted. If
  Dagath hadn’t helped . . .
  43
  N O T  A L L  T H A T  T E M P T S
  whispered, “Eggs. These ‘orundum geodes’ are dragon eggs.”
  The truth in Dagath’s revelation hit Na-Devaon like a physi-
  cal blow. Eggs! But yet unlike eggs—even those found buried
  after millennia—they were not so much fossilized as crystallized,
  as if caught in timeless stasis. A stasis that hadn’t saved them
  from the Medaban miners’ attention.
  “Desecrated.” The words issued from the looming shadow.
  “The Clutch is desecrated. I am the Seventh, the seventh in a
  sacred line of Clutch Mothers chosen to reinvigorate the an-
  cient brood upon our return to these lands. But that reunion
  shall never happen now. The Clutch is lost.”
  The dragon loosed a roar that knocked Dagath to the floor
  and staggered Na-Devaon. This is the end, thought the giant, as
  he fought to regain his footing.
  No killing blow followed. Instead came a forlorn cry of pain.
  The akashic sensed an ocean of grief, not rage. The dragon
  cried alone in the darkness for her slain ancestors.
  While the echoes of the grief-stricken bellow still chased around
  the cavern, Na-Devaon remembered the figurine, which he still
  grasped. With the dragon’s words, like keys, perhaps he could
  prize loose further understanding from the akashic memory. . . . 
  . . . The pact was not unmerciful in its dictates; it allowed the
  dragons some leeway, some grace in their exit from the lands they
  had ruled so long. They would leave, but not before assuring that
  some legacy of their presence remained behind in their ancient
  homeland. The Clutch was laid and placed outside time as a
  promise of rebirth to the dragons forced to abandon their lands.
  The best and brightest dragons of the age contributed to the Clutch.
  One dragon was selected to guard the knowledge of the Clutch and
  to pass that knowledge to one of her descendents every thousand
  years. Thus the brood was the legacy of the dragon-heroes of ancient
  days, a legacy that no giant or human tale even touches upon. . . . 
  Na-Devaon let his loresight fall away. The dragon was curled
  in upon itself, a mass of agony. Compassion bloomed in the
  42
  B R U C E  R .  C O R D E L L
  
  E
  very sunset brought on that moment when the stars were
  born. Thousands of tiny flashes all across the Crystal
  Fields, sparkling into sudden, brief life, as uncounted
  rock shards caught and mirrored the last light of the setting sun.
  The two oldest men in the village of Onteth stood side by
  side in the familiar reek of the privy and watched the stars
  wink, flash and fade. They’d seen this beauty every day of their
  lives, but somehow, these last few seasons, it never seemed to
  last long enough.
  The groundstars were fading already. Baerek shook his head
  at them through the window as he laced up his cods and spat
  thoughtfully into the trench beyond the belly-rail.
  “I said that boy would be trouble,” he growled, jerking his
  head toward the unseen tavern at their backs. At this distance,
  the mad mirth they’d left raging in it was only a faint keening.
  45
  E D  G R E E N W O O D  
  T H E  M A D  M O J H
  O F  O N T E T H
  The dragon stirred. Extending a prodigious claw, it took the
  insignificant figurine from Na-Devaon’s grasp with a feat of del-
  icacy astonishing in a creature so large.
  “I accept your gift,” the dragon whispered. 
  The Clutch Mother sprang from its curled position, vaulting
  over giant and mojh. Na-Devaon thought for an instant that the
  roof of the cavern was collapsing, but quickly regained his equilib-
  rium when he saw the dragon exiting the chamber. “Come on,”
  he urged, sprinting after the retreating tail. Dagath was already
  dashing forward, the mojh’s face open and incredulous in the pres-
  ence of a creature it had sought to emulate for much of its life.
  They fled back up to the entrance. Outside, they found the
  dragon waiting, perched in the open air on the ridge above. It
  was gazing into the eyes of the figurine. When Na-Devaon and
  Dagath emerged, it blinked, and turned its gaze upon them.
  Dagath gasped, “Great One, I beg—what has become of the
  tenebrian seed? Was there such a relic buried with the Clutch?”
  The dragon cocked its head. It said, “The tenebrian seed’s
  power was bled into each of the eggs, to keep them outside
  time’s reach. All that remains of that seed was gathered by you
  and the giant, during your peculiar working, and is concen-
  trated in this memorial. It was a mighty gift to return to me,
  and I shall not soon forget it.”
  Dagath blinked, at a loss for words.
  Color gradually leached into the dragon’s scales, as if sunlight
  slowly spilled across it from a new day’s dawning. It roared once
  more. This time the sound was not laden with loss and pain,
  but instead, challenge and—perhaps—promise. The dragon
  took to the air, its wings spanning the heavens. It spiraled
  quickly up, and up, becoming ever smaller in the distance.
  Dagath and Na-Devaon followed its progress, staring across
  the wide, cloud-speckled sky. 
  The dragon receded farther, becoming the smallest of blots
  upon the blue-hazed horizon . . . then it was gone.
  44
  B R U C E  R .  C O R D E L L
  
  Onteth looked down on the Crystal Fields from a ridge that
  bounded the village on the west. What passed for a main street
  in Onteth wandered along that ridge. The Plough, the slaugh-
  terhouse, the mill, and the cursed ruins of Nalander’s tall stone
  house stood in an untidy row along the west side of the street,
  facing the workshops of the weavers and the cottages of those
  too old to farm. Lanes wandered between those cottages down
  into the farms that sprawled away east and north of Onteth.
  When sundown made work in the fields difficult or dangerous,
  folk were wont to either huddle close around their hearthfires
  or come trudging up to The Plough.
  From the tavern one could see a long way west across the
  Crystal Fields. One could gaze southwest at the faint glow of
  distant Navael by night, or by day look northwest at the vast
  darkness of the Harrowdeep.
  Not that most folk of Onteth had time to spare for standing
  and looking, with work beasts all too few and boreworms and
  the baking sun gnawing at the peppers and melons in the
  fields.
  And too few traders brought work beasts for sale, their paltry
  visits brought too few jests and tales from afar to so remote a
  farming village—to say nothing of finecloth and good boots
  and baubles. Maps and books were things gossiped about more
  than seen, and few in Onteth had tongues supple enough to tell
  of their dreams, even if they’d wanted to risk being thought of
  as wanderwits.
  Oh, men went mad, all right, and were found shuffling
  along slobbering and singing, knowing no one. There were
  feuds, too, and all that went with them. The tongues of the
  old women were honed sharp with spite and gossip. Daily they
  repeated old opinions but craved something more—and
  clucked disapprovingly when they got it.
  Not half so much, mind, as they clucked at the curse of the
  gods upon the village: the Mad Mojh of Onteth.
  47
  T H E  M A D  M O J H  O F  O N T E T H
  Gnarled hands busy with his own laces, Oskul grinned at
  Baerek. Then, as always, he tugged at his grey remnants of a
  beard as if needing to loosen his jaw to start speaking.
  “You say a lot of things, Old Sword—an’ you must admit,
  Nalander provides sport for us all, talkin’ of his mad plots an’
  spells and latest idiocies!”
  Baerek gave his friend a dark look. “Aye, talk! And will we
  still be tongue-wagging and chuckling and whispering wild
  rumors, I wonder, when his madness brings him to blast our
  own roofs down on top of our heads with his spells—or turn us
  into what he made himself into?”
  Oskul shrugged. “You worry too much, Baer—you always
  have. The gods want their entertainment, even if you don’t.
  They’ll see to it that Onteth’ll still be standing around us next
  dawn . . . an’ the next.”
  “Yes, but are the gods tired of us yet? Are these old limbs and
  unlovely faces ‘entertaining’ enough for them still?”
  Oskul shrugged. “They haven’t choked on Nalander yet, have
  they?”
  “No,” Baerek growled, “but I’m near to doing so.”
  Oskul chuckled as they started the long trudge across the
  muddy tavern yard to the back door of The Plough. Through
  it, as they strode closer, rose ever-stronger the gleeful cackling
  of Nalander—the Mad Mojh of Onteth.
  * * * * *
  Long and dusty were the cart-tracks to Onteth, and not
  much more than a handcount of merchants each season came
  all the bone-rattling way along them.
  Wherefore Onteth-folk heard and laid eyes on fewer wonders
  of the wider world than they saw of weary crystal-delvers. Most
  of those were dazed, staggering men wounded and left to die by
  treacherous fellows or the desperate outlaws—and strange
  beasts—that lurked in the heart of the Crystal Fields.
  46
  E D  G R E E N W O O D
  
  It had surprised no one when Lord Ambrin Nalander had
  turned grim and thin-lipped at his wife’s death and gone on
  long walks alone. In the end he’d been found one morning
  sprawled dead on the rocks at the end of the ridge.
  However, it was still a matter of some debate in Onteth as to
  whether his heir, the boy Zors Nalander, had been born crazed
  or had gone that way after both his parents had been turned
  under by the plough.
  Zors had a tongue more glib and wits swifter than his
  father’s, with an everchanging mood to match and frenzied
  strength to boot. None knew what he ate or lived on, huddled
  alone in the house that had been his father’s, but he did no
  farming—and paid no need to the decrees of the new Lord of
  Onteth.
  The miller Dorlur had been chosen lord after Ambrin’s
  death, and from that day to this had remained the same slow,
  stolid, careful man he’d always been. A stone set against the 
  capering flame that was Zors Nalander.
  Ambrin’s son hurried everywhere, by day and night, striding
  purposefully through the fields or the village as if gods-driven,
  always talking to himself.
  The only way to snatch his attention away from his self-
  debates was to smite him or speak to him of magic.
  And that latter sort of talk always set his eyes aflame. In the
  words of old Ammada, ploughed under these ten summers
  gone, “Young Zors is obsessed with mastering magic, where his
  father was wise enough to merely collect it as an investment, to
  bargain for power.”
  Obsessed or not, Zors had walked to Navael six summers
  back, and farther than that . . . and back.
  The dust kicked up by his boots had scarcely settled when
  strangers rode up to the tall stone house of Nalander with laden
  pack beasts—and departed back the way they’d come the same
  day, their beasts now barebacked.
  49
  T H E  M A D  M O J H  O F  O N T E T H
  * * * * *
  Ambrin Nalander had been the richest trader in Onteth, a
  man wealthy enough to own entire herds, and whole streets in
  distant Navael, besides—and even have idle coins enough left
  over to buy things of magic. He’d been lord in Onteth, of course.
  He was a wise man, respected rather than hated through the
  envy of his poorer neighbors, because Lord Ambrin thought
  before he spoke. He tried to do his best and showed no
  moonglimmer of pride.
  He brought home a beauty from afar to be his bride, and if
  the women of Onteth warmed not to her, well, that was only to
  be expected. In due time Niashra smiled on the Lord and Lady
  Nalander, and she grew large with child.
  Then came the night of her birthing, and the dark laughter
  of Mowren, the god who casts the dice of fate, was heard in the
  streets of Onteth.
  * * * * *
  “If only Lord Ambrin’s lady hadn’t died birthing Zors,”
  Baerek sighed. “Things would’ve been—”
  “So different, yes,” Oskul grunted, kicking aside something
  bony but unseen in the dirt of the tavern yard, and reaching for
  the back door. “Ambrin still alive, his son still sane . . .”
  “Still human,” Baerek growled.
  The opening door spilled warm smoke and lamplight and
  that insane, high cackling out into the night.
  Clenching their remaining teeth in revulsion, the two old men
  shouldered through the door to rejoin their neighbors. They all
  sat in sullen, wary silence, tankards in hand, watching the tall,
  scaled, reptile-headed thing capering atop the largest table: the
  dragon-monster that had once been Zors Nalander.
  * * * * *
  48
  E D  G R E E N W O O D
  
  When that mirth was done, the thing that had once been
  Zors Nalander ducked its head down like a snake sidling up to
  prey, grinning toothily, and hissed, “At lassst! I’d almossst begun
  to think you’d never asssk!”
  * * * * *
  The magic that had given Ambrin’s son mojh-shape had
  seemingly touched his mind, too. The very day he’d revealed
  himself as the dragon-thing Zorlathar, he—no, it—had begun
  to give orders as if it were lord of the village. The folk of
  Onteth, of course, dismissed its attempts to order them around,
  declaring the creature mad.
  Enraged, the mojh had raised its hands and cast a spell. Purple
  lightning whirled about its taloned hands to spit forth and send
  Lorglar the smith reeling and Lord Dorlur sprawling senseless.
  Amid much shouting, the folk of Onteth took up mattocks
  and hoes and hounded the mojh out of the village amid a hail
  of hurled stones.
  It fled before them until darkness came, loping east through the
  farms with stones bouncing from its scales, and turning betimes
  to lash its closest pursuers with magical flame and lightning.
  The next day, the boldest young men of Onteth went forth
  in a great band, well armed with pitchforks and scythes.
  Two nights later they returned to The Plough to tell excited
  tales of the mojh taking up a hermit’s existence in a crumbling,
  long-abandoned keep in the beast-roamed Garlfangs, the near-
  est broken summits of the Bitter Peaks.
  There was much fear in Onteth that this Zorlathar would
  creep back and work murder in this cottage and that, but the
  transformed heir of Ambrin Nalander was seen no more in the
  village that season.
  More seasons passed, and sudden spell-glows kindled warn-
  ingly, time and again, to keep folk from venturing into the
  ruins of House Nalander or carrying off its stones. Yet still the
  51
  T H E  M A D  M O J H  O F  O N T E T H
  Strange lights kindled and danced in the house that night
  and for several weeks thereafter, until the folk of Onteth took
  to muttering that something must be done—at least, someone
  should watch the house by night to see what was afoot.
  Those mutterings ended the night House Nalander burned
  like a bonfire, roof roaring up into the sky. Its blazing beams
  tumbled, within, amid strange blue rushing radiances that kept
  the stone walls unscorched and whole. Through the crackle and
  growl of the hungry flames, Zors Nalander could be heard
  laughing: triumphant, gleeful mirth, that held no note of pain,
  loss, or madness.
  Yet when bright morning had broken over Onteth, a tall,
  thin, reptile-headed thing had hurried forth from the ruins.
  Naked it was, with a tail, and lacking manhood. It hailed vari-
  ous Onteth folk by name, proclaiming itself “Zors Nalander no
  more! Behold me now: Zorlathar!”
  The son of Ambrin had transformed himself into a dragon-
  creature—a mojh.
  * * * * *
  Eerie spell-sparks were winking into existence now, here and
  there among the mojh’s widespread talons. Some folk in The
  Plough cowered at the sight, expecting magic to lash out and—
  “Bah!” Baerek Hallowhand barked, bringing his fist down on
  the table before him with a crash. “This has gone far enough!
  You—Nalander! Zorlathar!”
  The reptilian head snapped around to fix him with gleefully
  glowing eyes and hiss, “Yesss?”
  “Back here you’ve come, all of a sudden, despite the stones
  we flung your way years back, to buy us quaffs these six nights,
  now—and all you do is prance and laugh like a madwit! Why?”
  The mojh burst into a wild, high peal of laughter that set
  teeth on edge and made folk wince or even duck under tables,
  for fear of what might come.
  50
  E D  G R E E N W O O D
  
  Lord Dorlur decreed that there would be no more forays to
  the abode of the mojh, not even to try to bring back the fallen
  for ploughing-under. His words met with no defiance this time.
  Yet scarcely a month after that judgment, the former Zors
  Nalander appeared in the village, striding along almost jauntily
  with an old cart floating along in the air behind its tail—drift-
  ing with wheels clear of the ground and no beast in harness to
  pull it. Where the mojh went, the cart followed, though Zor-
  lathar spared it barely a glance.
  At first the mojh was shunned, but locked doors parted before
  it, and the dragon-thing took what it wanted from deserted coun-
  ters, leaving behind fair coin. A few old women too slow or too
  quaking to run found themselves selling it crockery they’d other-
  wise not have parted with, and lived to tell the tale that night.
  So it was that the mojh’s next appearance in Onteth—but for
  the wary silences—was not much different from the shopping-
  forays of outlying farmers. As before, it bought sundries, paying
  fair prices, and went on its way.
  Zorlathar came no more to Onteth that year, but it returned
  thrice the following season, and twice the year after. No one
  disturbed the mojh or refused to trade with it—not after it
  blasted Lardan One-Eye and his cottage to flaming dust for sell-
  ing it poisoned wine, and after it transformed the drover Tarm-
  tath into a toad for drawing steel on it.
  And thus, Zors Nalander faded away, and the mojh Zorlathar
  took his place as an occasional—and dangerous to cross—visitor
  to Onteth.
  So things continued, one harvest to the next, until now.
  Now the Mad Mojh seemed to have gone even more crazy, if
  such a thing were possible. Its usual dour, menacing manner was
  gone, replaced by sudden stares, frequent cackles of glee, and
  even occasional caperings. In short, it seemed to be . . . gloating.
  Every evening it came to Onteth, now, appearing in The
  Plough at dusk to buy drinks for all.
  53
  T H E  M A D  M O J H  O F  O N T E T H
  dragon-thing came not back, and some folk of Onteth took the
  view that Zors Nalander—or Zorlathar—was gone from the
  village for good, thanks be to the gods.
  Yet there came a season when night after night was rent by
  strange flashes and rumblings from that distant keep, and the
  awakened folk of Onteth stood in the darkness gazing grimly
  east. Their dread of what the former Zors Nalander might do if
  allowed to continue working magic untrammeled warred with
  their fear of the spells the mojh commanded already.
  Lord Dorlur would fain have let well enough alone, and said
  so, but the younger men of the village, swifter to anger and
  bright in their shoutings of it, were seized with the resolve to
  slay or drive out the mojh. They gathered in some strength with
  their bows and the best weapons they could muster, plus rope
  and torches and wineskins full of courage. They set forth in high
  spirits, and the older villagers watched them go rather sadly.
  Long were the days ere their return—and at that homecoming,
  more than a handcount were missing. Those few who trudged
  back to The Plough shouted no more, but muttered of changes
  in the mojh’s fortress.
  Though they’d seen no one but Zorlathar therein—kneeling
  alone at a stone altar worked into the likeness of three rearing
  dragons—the keep stood taller, its many chambers bristling
  with deadly traps of falling blocks and hammers of stone, pits
  unseen that opened without warning beneath boots, and walls
  of sharp spears that slammed down with deadly speed.
  So, in bloody surprise after bloody surprise, the younglings of
  Onteth perished—five falling in that innermost altar chamber,
  ignored by the kneeling mojh as they shouted, screamed, and
  died—and their fellows fled.
  The folk of Onteth eyed each other and gossiped in fierce
  whispers. So Zorlathar had, it seemed, become even less human
  than before, and wild-witted enough now to worship dragons.
  In a word: mad, beyond doubt.
  52
  E D  G R E E N W O O D
  
  And then, without any fuss at all, the dragon-thing atop the
  table simply . . . faded away.
  “Dragons,” Oskul muttered in a daze. “Coming soon . . .”
  “Worse than that,” Baerek growled at him. “That madwit is
  going to ‘greet them fittingly’! Gods know what that means!”
  * * * * *
  For once, it seemed, the gods were eager to share their
  knowledge with the folk of Onteth. The next morn Taraeye
  Longhair, the most beautiful maid in the village, disappeared
  on her way down to her spring-hut to bathe. By midday Malree
  Dorlur, Taraeye’s rival in alluring looks and the Lord Miller’s
  only daughter, vanished from the Dorlur outhouse, its door
  swinging wide to reveal—nothing but flies.
  By nightfall, in like wise, the tall and tart-tongued tavernmaid,
  Lorndra, was gone—she flickered into oblivion in mid-step, right
  before the disbelieving eyes of the young brawnbrains and the
  old grizzled ex-tinker who served The Plough as its cellarers.
  Magic, and doubtless the work of the mojh!
  All Onteth was in an uproar, folk scouring the deserted ashes
  of House Nalander and then gathering in The Plough to hammer
  tables and shout until near dawn . . . when a white-faced drover
  stumbled into their midst to stammer that three great oval stone
  plinths had appeared—aye, as if by magic—in the market square.
  Snarls of rage and fear rose, and the men of Onteth boiled
  forth to snatch spades and forks and hammers, intending to
  shatter the trio of massive, smooth-topped rocks. The three
  ovals stood inside a low stone wall that, like them, had sprung
  seemingly out of nowhere.
  A wall emblazoned with the grainsheaf badge of Nalander.
  “Runes and dragons,” someone cursed, “The Mad One’s
  building a new house for itself right here!”
  And with a roar of rage and disgust, the men of Onteth swung
  their steel. The first ringing stroke had barely fallen on unyielding
  55
  T H E  M A D  M O J H  O F  O N T E T H
  And the folk of Onteth ducked their heads low over their
  tankards to trade sidelong glances, not daring to ask it what
  they were all wondering: gloating about what?
  * * * * *
  Never taking its gleefully-glowing eyes from Baerek Hallow-
  hand, the mojh sprang from one table to another to point at
  him . . . and then slowly turn to include everyone in The
  Plough in its triumphant answer.
  “The dragonsss are coming! The dragonsss ssshall return to
  rule all, and the giantsss will be ssswept away! Then I ssswear
  you’ll rue your mockery of me—your defiance of my rightful
  rule!”
  There was a moment of utter silence, and then the amazed
  and disbelieving mutterings began.
  “Hah!” Zorlathar cried. “Of courssse you don’t believe me! But
  I have ssseen them, I tell you, flying hither. Not ssso far away are
  they, right now, on the far ssside of the Bitter Peaks!”
  The mojh waved a scaled arm at the eastern wall of the
  crowded chamber, then ducked its head to hiss conspiratorially,
  “I can ssshow you them thisss inssstant, with my ssspellsss!”
  It raised both of its taloned hands dramatically, as if to begin
  working magic—but Baerek snapped, “Save your unwelcome
  magic, son of Nalander. You can craft any image you like with a
  spell and claim to be showing us the truth!”
  Rising growls of agreement sounded from the far corners of
  the crowded room.
  The mojh’s eyes glittered with rage, and its talons curled into
  rending claws. Some men shouted in fear, and others ducked
  under tables or started for the doors—but Zorlathar’s softly
  menacing hiss sounded in their ears like a great war horn, spell-
  sent into the heads of everyone in Onteth.
  “You ssshall be very sssorry, very sssoon. Yet ressst asssured:
  I’ll do what’sss necesssary to greet the Great Onesss fittingly.”
  54
  E D  G R E E N W O O D
  
  Its next words roared out across the roofs and walls of On-
  teth, echoing back like thunder. “No time remainsss to you for
  anger and accusssationsss! The dragonsss come! The dragonsss
  come!”
  Baerek felt the familiar heft of his dagger-hilt slap his palm and
  closed his hand around it furiously. If he threw just right . . .
  The mojh seemed moth-eaten, or molting. Its skin was mottled
  with darksome blemishes, like the skin of a snake after a farm-
  dog’s jaws had been at it. More than half of Zorlathar’s scales
  were missing.
  That should leave the dragon-thing’s flesh unprotected
  against the bite of his steel, if he could manage to . . .
  Baerek’s eyes narrowed. Those missing scales hadn’t cracked
  off or been eaten away—they’d been cut away, and the cuts
  seared shut with flame. Had the mojh injured itself? If so, why?
  Zorlathar was pointing dramatically now, up into the dawn-
  brightening sky over the Bitter Peaks. “Sssee, you?” it crowed.
  “The dragonsss come!”
  The rose-tinted clouds to the east were brightening by the 
  instant as dawn melted away their night-purple. The folk of
  Onteth peered along the mojh’s pointing talon and cried aloud
  in awe and fear.
  High against the brightening clouds, two distant serpentine
  forms were beating great wings. Birds they might have been, if
  birds were shaped like snakes—and as large as barns.
  The villagers shrank back, moaning in awe. Baerek forgot all
  about throwing his puny knife.
  Atop the nearest plinth, the mojh threw back its head and
  cackled, its talons moving again in the passes and gestures of
  spellcasting. A glowing rune appeared momentarily in the air in
  the wake of one moving talon, and twisted into a second pat-
  tern ere it faded.
  The purple stealing away from the sky seemed to bubble up
  like smoke in the air above the plinths, then vanish in a sudden
  57
  T H E  M A D  M O J H  O F  O N T E T H
  stone when the grey of coming dawn erupted in flame.
  Blue-white, blinding flames, snarling and leaping from plinth
  to plinth—wrapped around something tall and scaled and en-
  raged. The Mad Mojh had returned to Onteth.
  * * * * *
  Zorlathar’s talons writhed like snakes as its jaws hissed incan-
  tations.
  “Down, Old Sword!” Oskul hissed, sprinting just fast
  enough to catch up to a bellowing Baerek—and shove his
  friend sprawling onto his face in the dirt. A trusted dagger
  bounced out of gnarled Hallowhand fingers as Oskul landed
  atop his friend. Baerek cursed feelingly as blue-white fire raged
  overhead with a deafening roar.
  It faded fast but left flickering blue-white glows behind.
  Every one of the glows enshrouded a villager, frozen silent in
  mid-shout around the plinths, hammers and forks raised.
  Behind those glowing, motionless figures cowered other vil-
  lagers, some of them groveling on the ground not far from
  Oskul and Baerek.
  “Son of Nalander,” Baerek cried, as if fear were something he
  felt not, “what have you done?”
  The mojh leaned forward to fix him with triumphant eyes,
  and hissed, “Sssaved them from themssselvesss, Old Sssword.
  Limb-locked are they, and no more than that. The ssstonesss
  mussst not be harmed!”
  “Oh? Why?” Baerek got to his feet, waving his hand imperi-
  ously behind him for Oskul to slap his dagger into it. “And
  what’ve you done with Lorndra and the others?”
  “Aye,” the cobbler Reldivar shouted. “You vanished the
  maids, didn’t you?”
  The mojh drew itself up and cast a swift spell, talons weaving
  in front of its face as deftly as the passes of the best village
  weavers.
  56
  E D  G R E E N W O O D
  
  The maidens trembled, their mouths opening and their breasts
  rising and falling in sudden, frantic breathing. Little lights
  seemed to rise up out of their bodies to race all over their hides
  among the moving mojh-scales, and become . . . tiny new scales!
  Baerek swallowed in horror as he saw Taraeye’s shapely fin-
  gers lengthen into long, spidery talons. They were all changing
  thus as Zorlathar danced among them . . .
  As the trio of maidens arched and writhed, shadowy waves of
  scales seemed to wash over them, making them seem like three
  new mojh for an instant ere falling away again. The waves left
  behind the same patches of dark stickiness, and their own tangled
  hair, and . . . Zorlathar’s scales stuck to them, now dwindling
  and smoking like tinder consumed by flames.
  Trembling in pain, the three women sat up in shuddering
  unison, snapping their bonds like so much dried grass. Staring
  at the dawn with awakened, terrified eyes, they started to
  scream.
  The mojh spread triumphant arms and drowned them out
  with a scream of its own—a scream of laughter.
  Its crow rocked Onteth, high and long and shrill.
  That shriek of triumph was laced by the horrified screams of
  the three maids—who sank down again under another surging
  shadow of scales, their human forms seeming to warp into
  snouted, scaled grotesqueries.
  “Mojh,” Oskul gasped. “More mojh!”
  Zorlathar bent over one of the transformed maids to gloat at
  its work, and the arching, spasming dragon-thing that had been
  Lorndra Tlaggar spat at her tormentor and tried to claw him,
  snarling.
  Whereupon the shadow of scales faded from her, leaving her
  as human as before.
  “Look!” Reldivar shouted. “The mad mojh’s spell failed!”
  The mojh recoiled from Lorndra with something that was
  half a roar and half a shriek, leaping to the next plinth—but
  59
  T H E  M A D  M O J H  O F  O N T E T H
  puff to drift and fade in the wake of what it had brought: the
  maidens Taraeye, Malree, and Lorndra. Asleep they seemed,
  each one stretched out on her back atop a plinth, bound with
  wrists overhead to a spar that passed along her spine down to
  her trussed ankles. The maids wore nothing but strange splashes
  of something dark and crusted that seemed to be a kind of
  glue. At the heart of those splashes were the mojh’s missing
  scales, stuck to their loins, flanks, foreheads, and breasts in
  untidy profusion.
  “Behold these fitting offeringsss, lordsss!” Zorlathar roared in
  its spell-augmented voice, a great cry that smote the villagers’
  ears like hard blows and drove them, wincing, to their knees.
  Blue-white radiance sprang from the frozen villagers. They
  collapsed like so many dolls, crashing limply to the ground
  with forks and hammers clattering. The lightning arced to the
  plinths, then flared up into the sky like beacons.
  The mojh began leaping from plinth to plinth like a mad
  thing, touching each bound lass as it giggled and capered.
  When it had thrice visited each plinth, it stopped and started to
  cast a long and elaborate spell of half-sung incantations, shuf-
  fling dances, and glowing mid-air runes.
  “We must stop this,” Baerek growled, shaking off his fascina-
  tion and raising his dagger. “We must—”
  Oskul caught his friend’s wrist in a stone-hard grip. “Not
  now!” he snarled. “If those—those things in the sky come down,
  what defender have we but the son of Nalander? Who can
  speak for us but him?”
  Baerek turned his head to spit out curses of denial—and then
  stopped to stare. The mojh’s spell was done.
  The scales glued to the maidens were rippling and quivering,
  like the roilings made by a beast rolling in a mud-wallow. As
  most of Onteth stared, dumbstruck, those scales writhed and
  shifted over the smooth skin beneath them, darting hither and
  thither like pond-spiders!
  58
  E D  G R E E N W O O D
  
  was greeted by Malree’s raking nails, her scream just as fierce
  and hate-filled.
  The mojh hissed right back at her, eyes flaring with rage and
  hatred.
  “Hah!” cried old, toothless Narya, ragged sleeves fluttering as
  she pointed excitedly. “Zorlathar’s magic is broken!”
  The mojh jerked its head to glare at her—and then drew
  itself erect and stepped back, to teeter on the inside edge of
  Malree’s plinth and work hasty magic. 
  The dawn darkened overhead as Zorlathar finished its spell—
  and the three maidens fell silent, their thrashings stilled, their
  jaws now soundless . . .
  Baerek and Oskul frowned at them, and then at each other.
  Dawn darkening overhead?
  They looked up together, saw what the mojh was already
  gazing at—and froze.
  The dragons were as large as barns . . . and two of them were
  descending over the roofs of Onteth like a vast and solid second
  ridge, coming down to greet the familiar one the village clung to.
  Before they could do anything more than mew and tremble,
  great talons opened to perch on The Plough, and one dragon
  settled onto the tavern roof as gently as a glimmering lands on
  a weed-head. The second descended onto the mill.
  Both buildings promptly collapsed flat to the ground amid a
  groaning din of rending wood and billowing dust.
  “Welcome!” the mojh cackled. “Behold my offerings, Great
  Onesss!”
  Eyes as old and as wise as the moon itself gazed at Zorlathar
  and the three maidens, and then—without those great heads
  moving at all—examined Baerek and Oskul and the trembling
  and fainting villagers of Onteth.
  One great taloned claw stretched forth almost lazily to the
  plinths. The mojh watched its approach and preened visibly,
  drawing itself up to strike a self-satisfied pose.
  E D  G R E E N W O O D
  And those talons, each longer than the mojh stood tall,
  slashed down in disgust, dicing the former son of Nalander into
  red ruin in an instant.
  Sparks of magic swirled briefly around the toppling carnage
  that had been Zorlathar. As they faded and winked out, the
  mojh-scales melted away from the three maidens.
  “Is this what humans have become?” one dragon rumbled
  wearily, its voice so deep and rich that the very notes it reached
  shook Baerek and Oskul like leaves in a rising wind. “They had
  quick wits, swifter hands . . . so much promise. Yet I see no
  boldness, not even the will strong enough to stand and face us
  in a single one of them.” Its voice trailed away into a growl of
  dismissal.
  “We should have returned long ago,” the other replied gravely,
  as the two old men flung themselves face-down in the dirt, in
  reverence.
  Other villagers fled wildly into walls, or swooned, or cowered
  to the ground, weeping hysterically. The market square of
  Onteth stank with their fear.
  “Get up,” the second dragon added, disgust unmistakable in
  its rumble. “If you are to serve us, all of you have much to do
  in the time ahead.”
  61
  T H E  M A D  M O J H  O F  O N T E T H
  60
  
  T
  he sibeccai Janostis realized now that he should have
  abandoned his plan long ago. He should have aban-
  doned the plan when he first met the squamous lir. He
  should have abandoned the plan when he found the enslaved
  humans. He should have abandoned the plan when the chanting
  started and the air turned cold.
  But now the ground beneath his feet was turning to glass,
  and he could see the squirming masses of lamprey-jawed,
  spider-limbed slassans burrowing upward, and he realized that
  it was far too late to abandon the plan.
  At least he had the time to recognize that it had been a
  stupid plan from the very beginning. . . .
  * * * * *
  It was a brilliant plan, Janostis the Facilitator thought when
  he first hatched the concept, there at his small desk in his tiny
  62
  J E F F  G R U B B
  E N V O Y
  office in his nondescript building in the great granite-block capi-
  tal city of De-Shamod. Great things were in the wind, if only
  one was sufficiently sensitive to pay attention. And Janostis, of
  the sibeccai race or jackal-men, was nothing if not sensitive—
  keen ears, sharp eyes, and a nose for opportunity.
  The clues had been mounting over the past few weeks, as the
  reports and rumors came into the capital from all over Dor-
  Erthenos, the Lands of the Diamond Throne. Stories of great
  shadows passing over paddocks and fields at high speeds. Re-
  ports of missing farm animals. Strange appearances of burnt,
  frozen, or acid-scorched vegetation. Reptilian silhouettes in dis-
  tant, dying sunsets.  
  At his small desk in his tiny office in his nondescript build-
  ing, Janostis collected the messages, preparing reports for other
  minor bureaucrats to read and collate and pass on, until some-
  one brought it to the notice of the giants. But Janostis realized
  what it all meant. 
  Dragons were back. Not in incidental sightings and lies told
  around the tavern hearth, but in large numbers. From Zalavat to
  the Harrowdeep the reports came in. Sightings. Testimonies. De-
  scriptions of attacks or near-attacks. Droppings of unknown ori-
  gins and excessive size. As a child he had heard the legends of the
  giants who ruled this land. As a youth, preparing for his service
  in the giant government, he had studied these elder eddas and
  epic poems. He knew what to look for, and what it all meant, at
  a time when others were fumbling toward the truth. He knew.
  Dragons were returning to Dor-Erthenos.
  And it would be only a matter of time before a dragon en-
  countered a representative of  the Hu-Charad, the ruling giants
  and masters of this land. Perhaps it would be a military outpost,
  perhaps a local official, perhaps a chance traveler. Someone some-
  where would have to make that initial, true, official contact.
  And Janostis the Facilitator—sibeccai, minor functionary in
  the greater giant bureaucracy—knew that person had to be him.
  63
  E N V O Y
  
  A peaceful contact between the giants and the ancient drag-
  ons would be a boon to all the realm. And if Janostis brought
  such a gift to the giants, his superiors would at last recognize
  his true potential. Recognize, and without a doubt, reward it.
  They would elevate him within the bureaucracy as they had ele-
  vated his people from savagery centuries before. They would
  improve his posting, promoting him in rank from Facilitator to
  Director, perhaps even Grand Director
  He liked the sound of that. Janostis the Grand Director.
  But Janostis the Facilitator’s timeframe was incredibly small,
  a window more slender than that in a faen’s front hallway—as
  soon as he sent out the reports that he had already gathered,
  others would come to the same conclusions. He could delay a
  day, a week at most. Any longer, and the sheer weight of new
  information would cause others to investigate.
  So he seized the rhodin by the horns and hatched his plan.
  Boldly, he spread requests for information through the bureau-
  cracy. Not asking about dragons, of course, but rather questions
  about odd sightings, animal attacks, or strange vegetation. He
  had most of the information already, but more importantly, he
  was letting it be known that he was asking. He requisitioned
  books from the library at Se-Heton, all the better to keep the
  knowledge to himself. 
  The purpose of all this was to drive anyone looking for simi-
  lar information toward him. Anyone with a question on the
  subject. Anyone with a firm report or further information.
  Janostis could then position himself as a knowledgeable advisor
  and investigator. Perhaps even an ally for someone else with
  knowledge. And if the questioners were too powerful in the 
  hierarchy, or too close to the truth, Janostis would be in a 
  position to send them down a blind passage or two.
  And at his tiny desk in his small office in his nondescript
  building, he reviewed the old legends and the musty tomes and
  discovered what the civilized world knew of the dragons.
  64
  The dragons were legendary creatures—they had contested
  with the giants at the dawn of the world, but were long
  gone from this land by time the giants arrived on these
  shores. They were alternately portrayed as great beasts, clever
  sorcerers, wise rulers, scaled tyrants, and collectors of gold
  or stories—sometimes both. They were not quite gods but
  seemed within spitting distance of them. The old poems
  talked of gigantic wings, foul and flaming jaws, and armor
  made of overlapping scales. And they had left this land
  behind, fleeing to parts unknown; “rarer than a dragon’s 
  scale” meant very rare, indeed.
  Yet these mighty dragons, for all their physical power, also
  held great knowledge. They had created the dramojh—also
  called the dragon scions—the near-demonic creatures that had
  conquered the land, possibly driving the dragons from it (on
  this point the legends were conflicting and unclear). Janostis
  felt the short fur rise along his shoulders as he read over the
  tales of the dragon scions. The giants had come to this land
  specifically to battle the dramojh and free the captive peoples 
  of the realm from their tyranny.
  The dragons had passed along only a smattering of their
  knowledge to their hell-spawned heirs, yet that was enough to
  make the dramojh powerful in their own right. 
  It was the dramojh, heirs to the dragons, who had, in turn,
  made the spider-legged slassans, the serpent-tressed medusae,
  the keening lamia, the squamous lir, and other abominations. 
  Considering the growing reports, surely someone with con-
  crete information on the dragons would come to him. The
  nature of the response surprised him when it finally came. 
  It arrived in the form of a nondescript young woman dressed
  in simple robes. Her voice was soft and sibilant, and she
  smelled like the desert at dawn. She appeared at the corner 
  of his desk, and at first he was only vaguely aware of her.
  “I am Orthac,” she said. 
  E N V O Y
  J E F F  G R U B B
  65
  
  black, but had greyed slightly with age. Its surface was a branch-
  ing pattern of raised veins.
  It was a dragon’s scale.
  “You are sufficient,” she said. “I will be at the North Gate at
  dawn.” And she left, leaving the scale on the desk and her
  desert smell hanging in the air behind her. Janostis blinked at
  her departure. He looked at the scale, then at the empty space
  where she had stood.
  Then he started to make arrangements.
  * * * * *
  Janostis met the woman Orthac at the North Gate at dawn.
  Janostis wore the dragon scale as a pendant. She did not com-
  ment on it, but seemed amused by the carriage he had hired for
  the trip.
  “If you have other arrangements . . . ?” Janostis turned the
  unfinished statement into a question.
  “It will be sufficient,” said Orthac simply, and stepped up
  into the carriage.
  After three days by carriage and two on foot, they had reached
  the foothills east of Mount Herrosh. Orthac was silent most of
  the way. Humans were like that, Janostis realized ruefully. They
  either chattered incessantly about everything or moodily pulled
  themselves into their cloaks. 
  Faced with a vacuum, Janostis filled the quiet with stories.
  Humans always liked to hear about others, he had discovered.
  He briefly talked about what he knew of dragons, seeking con-
  firmation of his studies. When Orthac would neither confirm
  nor deny anything, he changed the subject to himself. He spoke
  of his own minor successes at negotiating with this merchant
  house or that giant clan. And if he rounded up a bit to reflect
  better upon himself, she did not seem to mind.
  Indeed, by the time they had reached the foothills, Janostis be-
  lieved himself when he said he was an envoy.
  67
  E N V O Y
  “Sorry, I’m on break,” said Janostis, his muzzle deep in the
  latest scrolls requisitioned from the Se-Heton library. 
  “You are needed,” she said simply.
  “On break,” repeated Janostis. “Really.”
  “You are hunting dragons,” she said, her soft timbre un-
  changed.
  Janostis’ head came up, and for the first time he truly looked
  at her. Yes, he realized, initial impressions were often the most
  correct. Nondescript. Would have passed her in a hallway with-
  out even remembering. Yet there was something about her that
  made the fur at the scruff of his neck go all prickly.
  “You are needed,” she said again, now that she had his atten-
  tion. Her accent was unlike any Janostis had heard before. 
  “I am . . . a humble servant of our Hu-Charad rulers,”
  replied Janostis, lowering his muzzle slightly trying to appear
  courteous. “I report to them. I facilitate. I meet with foreign
  delegations and trading companies. I negotiate on their behalf.
  Think of me as . . . an envoy.”
  “You speak for others?” she said, and Janostis was not sure if
  that was a question or not.
  “I help the great and glorious giants in their wise rule. They
  rely on my advice.” He paused a moment, then added. “Almost
  exclusively.”
  “I can help you find your dragon,” Orthac said. “One will be
  in the Bitter Peaks, in the unsettled lands east of Mount Her-
  rosh. Come with me if you want to meet it.”
  Janostis felt his ears standing fully upright in curiosity, but his
  eyes narrowed in suspicion. One did not rise to even the middle
  levels of bureaucracy without keeping one’s wits about oneself.
  Was this some peasant with a wild fabrication? Or perhaps a col-
  league had discovered his plan and was seeking to distract him?
  Janostis said, “How do I know you are telling the truth?”
  The human female placed a flat object on his desk, about the
  size of his hand. It had been darker shade, blue almost going to
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  J E F F  G R U B B
  
  was reptilian, and it looked like one of the draconian mojh. Yet
  it was more than a mojh—taller, its head dominated by the
  great rill of spiky extrusions, and it had a sharp, pointed chin
  that looked like nothing less than a heavily-lacquered beard.
  Nictating eyes regarded him from beneath ridged protrusions,
  separated by a single punch-hole of a nostril, all above a lipless
  maw of erratic teeth. Deprived of her illusionary garb, the crea-
  ture named Orthac was dressed in short cotton leggings and a
  long, open vest that draped to her lean knees.
  Janostis’ ears flattened fully along the top of his head and,
  despite himself, he took two steps backward, almost crouching.
  He could feel his lips pulling back in a snarl, but restrained
  himself. He recognized this thing before him from his own
  recent researches into dragon lore.
  “Squamous lir,” he said, trying not to bark out the words.
  The scaly humanoid nodded. “I am of that race. This is the
  first gate. The first challenge. Do you wish to proceed, knowing
  what I am?”
  Part of Janostis’ mind, the part he always thought of being the
  earlier, more primitive part, untouched and unimproved by
  giant magic, wanted to flee at once, hurdling down the hillside
  for the safety of his small office and tiny desk and warm hearth.
  Yet another part, the more civilized part, the part dedicated
  to the Hu-Charad and his own (ever-rising) place in the bu-
  reaucracy, restrained him. The squamous lir, the old books said,
  were experts in dragon lore. Indeed, many of the documents he
  had researched in the past week or so made it clear that the
  source of their information was from members of this very race. 
  The squamous lir, Janostis knew, were dedicated to learning
  more about the dragons. The squamous lir were not direct cre-
  ations of the dragons. Rather, the dragons created the demonic
  dramojh, which in turn created such beings as the slassans and
  the squamous lir. It was little wonder that lir had information
  on the creators of their own creators.
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  E N V O Y
  Yet the woman remained drawn in on herself, nodding only
  occasionally to show she was paying attention. 
  At one point, after an evening of cold rations around a small
  fire and a mostly fictitious account of a meeting with a verrik
  ambassador, Janostis asked directly, “Why did you choose me?”
  “You speak for others,” said Orthac.
  Janostis tried again. “Yes, but how did I come to your atten-
  tion? How did you end up in my particular office? You heard
  the rumors? You knew of my interest? Did someone send you?”
  “You speak for others,” repeated the slender human, “That is
  sufficient.” And with that she pulled herself deeper into her trav-
  eling cloak, leaving Janostis alone by the fire with his thoughts
  and dreams of the giants recognizing his true potential.
  * * * * *
  On the sixth day of the journey they entered the foothills
  proper. There was little time for talk now, as Janostis seemed to
  spend most of his time trying to catch his breath.
  “Is it much farther?” he asked, after a trio of steep switch-
  backs, barely visible to him but apparently obvious to the
  human female. His chest was heaving from the climb.
  The woman stopped and pulled herself erect with a jolt.
  Janostis wondered if he had offended her in some way. 
  “This is the first gate,” she said calmly,
  Janostis did not see any gate, or any ghost of a gate, or fence,
  or a wall, anywhere around. 
  “I take it you are using a metaphor,” he said, keeping his
  voice level, but his ears tilted backward, wary. 
  “You must know something before we proceed.” Saying that,
  she dropped both her traveling cloak and her robe, and with it the
  spells that had kept her true form hidden. Janostis saw that his
  traveling companion was not human after all.
  The creature was still slender, and could charitably be de-
  scribed as female, but now its flesh was dry and scaly. Its frame
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  J E F F  G R U B B
  
  encampment occupied a wide spot halfway down the spiraled
  path. Small figures could be seen at the bottom of the pit,
  which looked to be a blue-tinged catch basin of runoff.
  Janostis stood there, slightly bent, hands resting on his thighs,
  catching his breath from the climb, his tongue hanging to one side.
  Above the wheeze of his own laboring lungs, Janostis could now
  hear the sound of tools ringing against rock and human voices.
  “So where is the dragon?” said Janostis.
  “There will be a dragon,” said the squamous lir. “This is the
  second challenge. You may turn back if you so choose.”
  Janostis regarded the open pit mine. It looked no different
  than a hundred similar operations along the Bitter Peaks. There
  was obviously no dragon present. He touched the dragon scale
  hanging around his neck, and shrugged agreement.
  “It is . . .” he paused, “sufficient.”
  “Come,” said the squamous lir, and Janostis followed her.
  They reached the edge of the mine and started the long spiral
  down into the open pit. Janostis got a good look at both the
  miners and the overseers. There were other squamous lir here
  (Janostis counted four more) dressed in long vests similar to
  hers. All of them were directing the miners. None were doing
  any of the labor themselves.
  The miners were human, all of them. They were at the muscu-
  lar end of the human spectrum, dedicated to putting their backs
  into hard work. The inside of Janostis’ muzzle tickled—in the
  elder days before the giants came to this land, the dramojh had
  enslaved the humans. The image of humans working while these
  reptilian creatures commanded them bothered him at a basic level.
  “What are these people doing?” he asked as they arrived at
  the campsite.
  “They are preparing for the dragon,” said Orthac. She
  stopped at a large tent in the encampment. Another, taller
  squamous lir stepped out, one whose scales were tipped with
  yellow. (Older? thought Janostis. Male?). Orthac bowed to the
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  E N V O Y
  The parts of Janostis’ mind warred within him for a moment,
  as his reptilian companion regarded him, her eyelids blinking
  slowly like shutters in a soft breeze. 
  The fear rose within Janostis but was matched and then 
  exceeded by his ambition. If anyone knew where to find a
  dragon, it would be the squamous lir. She was nothing less 
  than a golden opportunity.
  “My appearance frightens you,” said the lir, and Janostis was
  unsure whether that was a question or a statement. 
  The sibeccai could still feel the fur prickling on his neck and
  back. He nodded, turned the motion into a theatrical shrug,
  and said, “What you told me in De-Shamod, that was truth?
  About the dragon, I mean.”
  “You want to meet a dragon,” said Orthac, simply. “We want
  you to meet a dragon. There will be a dragon.”
  “I want to meet a dragon,” agreed Janostis. “Let us proceed.”
  “It is not far,” said the squamous lir, turning to continue the
  climb. Only after following a dozen paces did Janostis realize
  that the creature had finally answered his original question.
  After an uncountable number of other switchbacks, they
  reached an upland vale cradled between two steep-sided moun-
  tains. They were high up at this point, in the rain shadow between
  the peaks. The brush grew scrawnier over distance and altitude,
  and was now reduced to scattered clumps of golden, dry weeds.
  None of the brush, Janostis noted, was burned, or frozen, or
  curiously acid-spattered. He could catch only a wisp of smoke
  on the air. Nothing bespoke of dragons to him.
  “There will be a dragon?” he asked again.
  “There will be,” she replied simply. “We are here. This is the
  second gate.”
  The sibeccai envoy crested a low hillock and stopped beside
  Orthac. Before them sprawled a huge open-pit mine carved
  into the vale between the mountains. The pit was as wide as the
  vale itself, and a long, curving path spiraled up its sides. A tent
  70
  J E F F  G R U B B
  
  Janostis felt comfortable for the first time in days. This human
  was at least behaving like a normal human. Almost too much so.
  Talkative. Chatty. All of his emotions on the surface. Janostis
  paced along beside him. “Then what are you excavating?”
  The miner looked at him, smiled, and then stamped his foot,
  hard, on the blue surface. Despite himself, Janostis jumped, expect-
  ing the jigsaw pattern to shatter. The blue surface didn’t budge,
  and even the miner’s dusty boots left no mark on its surface.
  “What is this?” said Janostis.
  “Dunno,” said the human, “but it’s what they brought us
  here to do. Promised good pay, if we can just clear it.”
  “Promised?” said Janostis. “You have yet to be paid?”
  “Not yet, but they talked a good rate, and we get to keep
  digging after they get what they’re after. As a mine, it looks very
  promising.” When he said they, the human gave a head-shake
  toward the large tent where the squamous lir had retreated.
  “But you don’t know what they’re . . . you’re digging up?”
  said Janostis
  “There are some ideas,” said the human. “Some say it’s a
  dragon’s egg.”
  Janostis furrowed his brow. “It would be a very large dragon.”
  “Very large,” said the human, “but I didn’t say I believed it.
  It’s just what some say. It could also be the roof of an old
  temple. A big old temple, with a dome. Part of a big city.” He
  looked quite pleased with himself—he obviously was a big 
  proponent of that theory. “From the lir’s talking, we think the
  dragons are coming back. We’re preparing the temple for
  them.”
  That made even less sense to Janostis. Did ancient dragons have
  temples, much less cities? Nothing in his books indicated that.
  “So when will you finish?” the sibeccai asked.
  “Almost done,” said the human. “Almost wrapped up. That’s
  why everyone is so excited. Excuse me,” and with that, they
  reached the other group of humans. The miner gave a series of
  73
  E N V O Y
  taller one and said to Janostis, “I must prepare as well. Make
  yourself comfortable. You may stay or go as you see fit.” And
  with that she disappeared into the tent.
  There seemed few places where Janostis might be comfort-
  able here, unless he chose to recline on the stone blocks them-
  selves. Instead he continued to spiral down to the lake at the
  bottom of the pit.
  As he neared the bottom, the sibeccai saw that what he’d
  thought was a catch basin was not a pool after all, but a mosaic
  like that in the Lady Protector’s throne room, made of inter-
  laced azure stones. It was lined but without any real pattern, a
  jigsaw spiraling crazily out in all directions, rising slightly in the
  center. The humans seemed to be most active at the edges of
  this blue surface, breaking up piles of rock and pushing it to all
  sides, revealing more and more of the azure surface.
  The beetling human moved past Janostis again, carrying orders
  from one group of humans another. “Excuse me,” he said, brightly.
  “Excused,” said Janostis, smoothly. The human seemed almost
  giddy. Enthusiasm was not an unusual human mood, but the
  human’s degree of excitement seemed out of place in the sweat
  and toil of a mining pit. “May I ask a few questions?” said
  Janostis, falling in alongside the scampering human.
  “No worry,” said the human, “but you have to keep up.” He
  headed toward a group of miners on the far side of the pit, fear-
  lessly striding across the blue surface.
  Janostis stepped out cautiously onto the azure mosaic. It
  seemed firm enough, and the sibeccai reached down and passed
  a hand over the surface. Cool, but pebbled, like a lizard’s skin.
  The bulge in the center of the exposed area reminded him of
  bread fresh from the oven. 
  He loped after the human “What are you mining?” he asked.
  “Mining?” Nothing,” said the human, “Nothing yet. Though
  there is a good chance for gold, and we found some silver seams
  early on. No, no, we’re excavating.”
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  J E F F  G R U B B
  
  “You’ve put spells on them,” said Janostis. “You have en-
  chanted them to serve willingly.”
  “We have gifted them with spells to boost their abilities and
  speed their steps, so they may complete their tasks more readily.”
  “You may leave if this offends,” said Orthac. “This is the
  third gate.”
  “I am tired of gates,” said Janostis, crossly.
  “I thought you said this one was intelligent,” said the older lir.
  “He is the best that could be found,” said Orthac.
  “And he challenges us? He is nothing. You should dismiss
  him now, before he can make further trouble.”
  Janostis’ ears flattened along his head and he snarled. “Dismiss
  me? Why would you dismiss me?”
  “If you are insufficient,” said the elder, “it would be for the best.”
  “Insufficient?” snapped the sibeccai.
  “He may choose to leave at any time,” said Orthac. She
  spoke to the elder, but her eyes burrowed into Janostis.
  “No,” said Janostis. He pointed to Orthac, “You promised a
  dragon. I hold you to that promise. No more gates. No more
  challenges. I demand you deliver on your promise.”
  The elder lir looked at him hard. “As you wish.”
  Janostis studied the squamous lir’s face for a hint of a smile.
  Instead the elder looked past him and said, “Yes?”
  The enthusiastic, wild-eyed human miner had appeared in
  the doorway. “We’ve cleared the last parts. We’re ready for you.”
  “And so are we,” said the squamous lir. The others rose to
  their feet and began to file out. To Janostis he said, “We deliver
  on our promise. You may still leave now.”
  “I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” sniffed Janostis.
  Janostis and the human miner fell into line behind the six
  squamous lir as the reptilian humanoids descended into the pit.
  The other human miners had already retreated to the upper
  levels; they looked more like a crowd at a sporting event than a
  group of exhausted workers. The human miner stopped Janostis
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  E N V O Y
  orders punctuated by hand gestures, then leaned in to help as
  the group started rolling away a particularly large rock.
  The sibeccai watched them for a long moment. The enthusi-
  asm of the miners troubled him. Surely humans would not
  react that way so close to the end of a difficult project?  Happy
  to be done, yes, but wouldn’t they be tired? And humans work-
  ing on only the promise of pay? Plus, there were no shirkers in
  their numbers, another rarity. And these humans seemed unhu-
  manly incurious about their work.
  This place had the stench of magic on it. He knew he couldn’t
  really smell magic, but it caught in his muzzle like acrid smoke
  and bothered Janostis. 
  Ensorcelled. These humans were ensorcelled, enslaved by spells.
  And that made the squamous lir the sorcerers.
  Janostis strode back out of the pit, leaving the enthusiastic
  humans behind him. With every step he became more convinced
  that the lir were using these humans as little more than slaves. 
  He went back to the large tent and entered, unannounced.
  Orthac was there (he was surprised he could recognize her
  among the others), along with the elder squamous lir and the
  remaining four of the creatures. Orthac and the four were
  seated around the elder, who stood in the center of the circle.
  Musky, dusty scents drifted in the air, and Janostis fought the
  urge to sneeze.
  The elder looked at him with a hard, inhuman glare. “You
  interrupt.”
  “I want some answers,” said Janostis.
  “Everyone wants answers,” said the elder. Beside him, Orthac
  rose to her feet. Her eyes were blinking quickly. Irritation, won-
  dered Janostis, or concern?
  “Why do the humans dig here while the lir do not?” asked
  Janostis.
  “They were hired to do so,” said the elder, “as you were en-
  gaged.”
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  J E F F  G R U B B
  
  that the blue surface itself was reacting to the incantation,
  shimmering in response to the ceremony. Shimmering and
  clearing, turning translucent. Dark shapes now moved beneath
  the surface like great fish beneath the ice. Janostis felt as though
  his ears were going to bleed.
  He struggled to step out onto the surface, but the human
  miner reached out with his other hand, pulling him back
  harder this time. 
  Janostis spun in place and bit the human, hard, just above
  the wrist. The human gave a frightened yip like a disciplined
  pup, and Janostis was suddenly free. He bounded across the
  mosaic toward Orthac.
  And he felt the ground beneath him begin to crackle like ice
  breaking up in the first thaw.
  Janostis looked down and saw that the bluish glaze of the
  mosaic was evaporating as the ceremony rose to a crescendo.
  The dark shapes were moving faster now and looked clearer as
  the last of the mosaic’s surface turned transparent.
  It was a nest of slassans beneath their feet, and the blue
  mosaic held it shut, like a seal on a letter, a shell wrapped
  around an egg. And burrowing up through the shell was a
  horde of the dramojh’s fell creations. They were all claws and
  scales and jaws, a twisted combination of spider and eel. They
  ripped the ground beneath Janostis’ feet, feeling at last the light
  above them, sensing the weakness of their prison, rousing from
  whatever nightmare dreams they slumbered within. 
  Heeding the call of the squamous lir.
  And Janostis froze in place. All he could see was the quiver-
  ing maws snaking up toward him, toward a weak spot in the
  shell, drawn by his presence, by the warmth of his body.
  The ground beneath him cracked in a long fissure. He heard
  Orthac shout and something hit him hard, knocking him over.
  Something else, large and muscular, grabbed him by the scruff
  of his neck and pulled him to the edge. The strong-thewed
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  E N V O Y
  before the edge of the blue mosaic, but the rest of the lir moved
  out onto the floor, spacing themselves evenly along its edge.
  They moved with practiced, serious motions. Orthac walked
  across the mottled surface, then turned, facing him. Her eyelids
  beat sideways, as if blinking back tears.
  A ceremony, thought Janostis. To break through? To what?
  Was this a dragon egg about to be hatched? Or was it a dragon
  temple? Part of a lost city?
  Janostis shook his head. Whatever ensorcelment fell upon
  this land was affecting him as well. Dragons did not build
  temples, or live in cities, not that he knew of. 
  His studies did say the dramojh built cities, but the dramojh
  were all dead.
  Yet their creations weren’t. The medusae. The squamous lir.
  And the dagger-toothed slassans.
  Suddenly Janostis realized just what they were breaking into.
  It was not a mosaic, or an eggshell, or a dome. It was a seal. A
  seal covering the legacy of the dramojh.
  He took a step forward, but the human’s burly arm reached
  out to restrain him.
  “Too late now,” said the human. “You’ll queer the ceremony.”
  The squamous lir had already started chanting. It was a sibi-
  lant, buzzing chant that seemed to drive into Janostis’ bones,
  with an overlay of an equally annoying whine that made the
  tips of his ears twitch. 
  The chant grew in intensity and pitch, rebounded off the
  close walls of the open pit, and redoubled in volume. The
  humans seemed to have taken it up as well. The air suddenly felt
  cold at the bottom of the pit, as if the sun had passed behind a
  cloud. Janostis let out a sharp breath and it fogged before him.
  Janostis took another step forward, trying to reach Orthac
  and stop the ceremony, but the human’s grip on his shoulder
  bore down harder, holding him fast.
  The chant took another jump in pitch, and now it seemed
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  J E F F  G R U B B
  
  into their fanged mouths. The wriggling beasts screamed in
  pain from the strength of the grip, and each dragon raised its
  head in turn and swallowed a slassan whole. The great beasts
  dipped their heads again briefly, only to come up with another
  mouthful of the foul creatures. A few rough bites to quiet the
  screaming mass, then a raising of the head to slip them down
  the gullet. A shake of the head, almost like a feline worrying a
  rat, then an effortless swallow, and a return to the bounty.
  Janostis didn’t remember fleeing up the ramp, away from the
  dragons’ feeding, but he was there, he and the human miner
  and Orthac and the others. He watched the feasting for longer
  than he knew. No one—human, sibeccai, or squamous lir, said
  anything. Any sound was drowned out by inhuman screams of
  the dragons’ victims.
  The dragons dipped deeper and deeper into the nest, and
  smoke now rose from the hole, along with the smell of melting
  things. The smallest dragon, the coin-colored one, had disap-
  peared into the hole entirely, and when it hauled itself out, its
  belly was distended from its gorging. It pulled itself to the edge
  of the pit, curled in on itself, and promptly went to sleep, ig-
  noring the ongoing slaughter. 
  The other dragons slowed only slightly. The night-beast came
  up from each grab with a struggling slassan more and more
  slowly each time, and finally it, too, was sated and curled up to
  sleep. The blood-colored dragon, its hide resplendent and shim-
  mering from the slassan blood, finally slowed, yet it seemed to
  do so more from lack of prey than lack of appetite. It dipped in
  once, twice, and a third time. When it had cleaned its plate en-
  tirely, it pulled back and regarded the rest of the assemblage.
  It sat on its haunches and regarded Janostis and the others
  with large yellow eyes. It licked its lips and grumbled in a voice
  a deep as the mountains itself.
  “What do you want”?
  Orthac was suddenly at Janostis’ shoulder. “Now,” she said.
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  E N V O Y
  human miner dropped both him and Orthac, who had
  knocked Janostis over, on the safe, solid ground.
  “We have broken the seal,” said Orthac weakly. “But the cer-
  emony is a call as well. If that part failed, all is for naught.”
  Janostis gazed out over the blue expanse and ruefully thought
  that the first part of the ceremony was a howling success. Al-
  ready a half-dozen breaks were appearing across the crystal
  mosaic, and the first serpentine heads were snaking out, reborn
  after centuries of sleep, returning to the land of the living. The
  other squamous lir had already retired to the safety of solid
  rock, but they looked delighted by their endeavors. 
  But all Janostis could think was that his had been a stupid,
  stupid plan, and he should have never been talked into coming
  out here. Obviously, he was there for a sacrifice. He turned
  toward Orthac to scream at her.
  But the squamous lir was looking not at him or at the break-
  ing seal of the slassan nest. Instead she was looking skyward.
  Janostis looked up and saw them: three great shadows block-
  ing out the sky. They were larger than any ship of the giants
  that he had ever seen. As they landed, their huge leathery wings
  kicked up thunderheads of dust, forcing the humans, the lir,
  and even Janostis to back away from the pit.
  The dragons had returned in the flesh—larger than anything
  Janostis could have imagined. Great horned heads and huge jaws.
  Ridges of spines along their backs and spurs at the joints. Wings
  larger than the sails of a greatship. The smallest of the beasts
  shone like freshly-minted gold coins, a second was as dark as
  the night sky, and the third, the largest, was the color of blood. 
  The eggshell of the seal was now collapsing in on itself, and the
  slassans were surging out of the pit, screaming in the new light of
  day. The dragons returned the cry with a mighty roar, and Janostis
  felt this would be the last sound he heard on this world.
  And then the dragons began to feed. Their long, serpentine
  heads lanced into the open holes and pulled struggling slassans
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  J E F F  G R U B B
  
  “What?” said the sibeccai.
  “It is your time,” she said, “You are the envoy. You speak for
  others. Go speak for us.”
  “What?” repeated Janostis.
  For the first time, the squamous lir showed an obvious
  emotion—frustration. “You speak for others. That is why we
  brought you here. You bragged of your abilities as we came
  here. You wanted to meet with a dragon. We want to meet the
  dragon as well. We wish to serve them, as you serve the giants.
  Introduce us to it.”
  “You don’t know the dragons?” asked Janostis.
  The lir snorted through its single nostril. “If we knew them,
  would we have had to summon them here? We knew the cere-
  mony that would open the ancient nest and in opening it,
  summon them. And we believed they would have little love of
  their former minions, or their minions’ minions. They would
  come and feed. We knew the ceremony of unsealing. All we
  needed was someone to speak to them on our behalf. You.”
  “Me?” said Janostis, feeling a cold, wet hand clamp around
  his heart. “You’re smart. You’re related. You can do it.”
  “We were made by dramojh, like you were made by the
  giants,” said Orthac, “To them we are no different than the
  slassans, and no better. They already scent our origins in our
  blood, but they are curious, since we are here with humans,
  whom they know from earlier as slaves to the slassan, and you,
  who they do not know at all.”
  Janostis tried to put some steel into his voice. “And if I
  refuse?”
  “This is the final gate. You may always refuse,” she said
  simply. “But if you do, we will attempt to speak for ourselves.
  And they will destroy us as they destroyed the slassans, without
  a second thought. Then they will destroy the humans who were
  our allies. Then they may decide that they like how humans
  taste. And what will you tell your giant masters then?
  J E F F  G R U B B
  The dragon let out a great catlike yawn, showing the cavern
  of its mouth and its long rows of fanglike teeth. 
  Janostis took a step forward, though it felt to him like the
  rest of the crowd took a step back. Another step. Surely, this
  was no worse than a hostile merchant, or an ambassador of the
  Verrik, or a rival bureaucrat. It was simply an identification of
  needs and wants. What do dragons want?
  The dragon, for its part, regarded the sibeccai with bale-fire
  eyes. Janostis felt that it could see into his heart itself, and
  could weigh his words for lies.
  “Who are you?” said the dragon. Its voice seemed to wrap
  itself around his bones and shake him, hard.
  “I am Janostis the . . . Envoy,” said the sibeccai. He opened
  his mouth to continue, but for the first time in his life did not
  know what to say. “I . . . speak for others.”
  The dragon cocked its head at him. 
  “Why did they choose you?” asked the dragon.
  “I am an envoy,” said Janostis. “I, um, speak. For others. For
  the squamous lir who provided you with this feast.”
  The dragon looked up at the collected lir and humans, and
  for an instant, Janostis thought he caught an expression of cu-
  riosity on the great creature’s face. Then its heavy eyes were on
  him again. “Why you?” the dragon asked. 
  Janostis’ mind whirled and, despite himself, he turned back
  towards the gathered others. Orthac looked worried, the
  humans scared, the other lir, unreadable and mute. Like prison-
  ers in the docket, waiting for the judge to pass sentence.
  He turned back to the dragon. “I am sibeccai. You know the
  race?”
  “No,” said the dragon, and for the first time Janostis allowed
  the cold hand around his heart to relax. He now knew one
  thing a dragon might want—information.
  “My race was once rougher and cruder—unkempt, savage
  creatures. We were taken by the giants and made better. You
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  E N V O Y
  80
  
  dragon here. They needed someone who spoke for others. They
  allowed me to fill in certain blanks, and to leap to my own
  conclusions, to their advantage. They have shown themselves to
  be both honest and crafty. This land has changed since the last
  time you were here, and in this land the union of honesty and
  guile is very powerful. Let me tell you—they know this realm
  and would serve you well.”
  The dragon regarded the squamous lir clustered on the ramp.
  “They are not our children,” it said at last.
  “No, said Janostis, “but they have the potential to be.”
  The dragon paused for a moment, and then said, “Tell me
  more of how the squamous lir may serve us.”
  * * * * *
  Night had fallen by the time they finished, and the humans
  had pulled back up to their camp to celebrate. At some point
  Janostis introduced Orthac to the dragon by name, and she, in
  turn, introduced the elder and the others. The conversation
  then moved into a language that Janostis was unfamiliar with.
  He retreated to the camp, where the humans were drinking and
  feasting and sleeping off the effects of the lir’s spells.
  The burly human miner insisted on describing in detail
  where they were going to exploit the silver and hunt for gold.
  He also tried to get Janostis interested a mug or three of mead,
  but the sibeccai refused, politely. Instead he just sat looking
  into the fire as the celebration swirled around him.
  Orthac came up about an hour later, bearing a scroll. “This
  document,” she said, “announces the return of the dragons to
  this land and recognizes the squamous lir as their servants.”
  “Servants of all dragons?” He did not reach out for the scroll.
  “These dragons, at least,” said Orthac, and Janostis thought
  he could detect bemusement in her voice. “This document also
  expressly thanks one Janostis the Envoy for his contribution,
  which was greatly appreciated.”
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  E N V O Y
  know the giants, from long ago. We, the sibeccai, were given
  the chance to reach our potential. Not given our potential, but
  given the chance. We were improved.”
  “This is important?” said the dragon, sounding impatient
  and vaguely hungry.
  “You created the dramojh,” started Janostis.
  “I did not create the dramojh!” snarled the dragon, and
  Janostis had to step back from the blast of warm air.
  “Not you,” added the sibeccai quickly. “Not you personally.
  No. You as in ‘you dragons’. The dragons created the dramojh.
  The dramojh in turn created other beings, like the slassans.”
  “Abominations,” muttered the dragon. Behind him, Janostis
  could feel the lir draw in their breaths sharply.
  “And they also made the squamous lir,” said the sibeccai,
  “who offer you this gift, this collection of slassans long-buried,
  to call you forth. They call you forth to offer you their services.”
  “We need no new servants. We have many to serve us. We
  are dragons and we are mighty.”
  Janostis pressed his point. “I serve the giants, who are also
  mighty,” he said, pausing to let the words sink in. Just the shadow
  of a threat. “The giants are mighty but still chose us to aid them
  in their work. So, too, do the lir, who have kept alive your dra-
  conic traditions, who have always sought you, wish to serve you.”
  Janostis paused a moment. If the dragons truly needed no aid,
  it would repeat the boast about its many servants. Otherwise . . . 
  “Why should the lir serve us?” said the dragon.
  Janostis nodded. “They have long searched for your kind.
  They wish to show their dedication. They wish to learn from
  you, as my people have learned from the giants. That is why
  they tricked me into being here.”
  “Tricked you?” said the dragon, and the sibeccai could hear
  the curl of a smile in its voice. “They deceived you?”
  Janostis was glad his fur covered his blush. “They . . . allowed
  me to become deceived. They told me truths—there would be a
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  J E F F  G R U B B
  
  The sibeccai stood as the steward reviewed the scroll. Janostis
  was not as nervous as he thought he would be. Perhaps after
  being in the presence of a dragon, the prestige of a mere giant,
  one of the creators, was less awe inspiring.
  The steward did not look up from the scroll but said, “You
  did this by yourself.”
  “Yes, Steward. I saw the opportunity and took the initiative.”
  Another grunt. The giant looked up, pale blue eyes sweeping
  over the sibeccai. “This is a good base. Not too solid, not too
  sweeping. It can be worked with. It refers to you here as  . . . ”
  “The Envoy,” nodded Janostis. “An honorific from the situa-
  tion. Not a true title.”
  “It fits,” said the giant, “and it reflects your performance. Yes,
  from this day, you are Janostis the Envoy, agent to the dragons
  within the Lands of the Diamond Throne.” Behind him, Janos-
  tis heard a door opening and closing.
  “I . . . am honored,” said Janostis. He struggled to control his
  glee before the steward. “Should I arrange for an office, or . . .” 
  “No office, at least not for a while,” said the steward. “You’ll
  be spending too much time on the road. We’re going to need
  to know as much information about the returned dragons as
  possible. I understand that you have been studying them of
  late.”
  Janostis stammered, “No office? But surely my duties. . .”
  “. . . will be primarily with the agent from the dragons of the
  Bitter Peaks.”
  “Who . . . ?” But he caught the wafting scent of the desert
  dawn and knew.
  “I believe you know our new Envoy?” said the giant to the
  person behind Janostis.
  “I know him well,” came a soft, sibilant voice. Janostis
  turned to see Orthac behind him. 
  Her eyelids nictated, and she managed a humanish smile.
  “He will be . . . more than sufficient.”
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  E N V O Y
  Janostis held up a hand and growled. “So I was sufficient
  after all. After a few false starts.”
  There was a silence between them. “You are angry.”
  Janostis let out a deep breath. “I was scared. Absolutely, spell-
  brained scared. You know how I managed to pull it off?” He
  did not wait for her reply. “I realized you were no different than
  I was. Not that you were a creation of another, greater race. No,
  I mean you were willing to deceive to get what you wanted.
  And once I could see that, only then could I realize why the
  dragons needed you. That was why you really needed me. I
  could help the dragon recognize that you were crafty, and there-
  fore useful.”
  “You convinced it.”
  “It was only when the dragon realized you were capable of
  deceit did it think of you as more than abominations.” Now it
  was Orthac’s turn to be quiet. 
  Janostis took the scroll from her and said, “I have what I
  came for. This will be a ticket to some plush position within
  the government. The Hu-Charad bureaucracy is large and
  sprawling, and I can find some safe corner far from enthusiastic
  miners and hungry slassans—particularly away from dragons
  that understand sibeccai all too well. I will be gone by morning.
  No need to accompany me. Good-bye.”
  * * * * *
  It took six days for Janostis to return to De-Shamod, the last
  three on an oxcart. It took him another day to write up his
  report, as honest as he dared.
  Then he went home and slept for a day. Upon his return, there
  was a summons on his tiny desk in his small office in his non-
  descript building, a summons from one of the giant stewards. 
  The steward sat on the low dais in his giant’s chair, the squa-
  mous scroll in his lap. Janostis entered and knelt, rising only
  when the giant gave a guttural assent.
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  J E F F  G R U B B
  
  sigh. “Well, what’s left of it. We should change the bandages.
  That burn on your shoulder is a bad one.”
  Ia-Keltior kept her eyes closed and let the prattle of words
  flow over her like the cold autumn rain that pattered down
  through the leaves of her shelter. He seemed to be talking to
  her, yet she wasn’t certain who the speaker was, or what he was.
  Since she had awakened to his soft, light voice she hadn’t had
  the strength to open her mouth, let alone force her eyes open.
  She didn’t even know when he had appeared to take care of her.
  She wondered whether she would be dead by now if not for
  him. Of course, she could still die. She almost preferred the
  idea. Never in her young life had she felt so utterly devastated
  in body and soul.
  Something delicate brushed over her forehead. She tried to
  reach for it, but her arm felt like a stone. All she could muster
  was a feeble flutter of her hand.
  “Ah!” the voice piped up near her head. “The giantess moves
  at last. This is good. Do not fear, young woman. Your eyes are
  dark because I had to bandage them. Your face came too close
  to dragon fire.”
  A spurt of fear shot strength into Ia-Keltior’s arm. She man-
  aged to reach up and feel the cloth wrapped loosely around her
  head. In spite of the warning and her own better sense, she
  tried to open her eyes. Her left eye opened to a fog of light
  seeping through several layers of fabric. The other eye opened
  to . . . darkness and pain.
  She clamped her teeth over a whimper that tried to escape
  from her aching throat. She coughed instead, sending a searing
  jolt of pain through her head, lungs, and shoulder. Groaning,
  she rolled over to her left side and cradled her head in her left
  arm.
  “You hurt, yes. You were badly injured and breathed too
  much smoke,” said her companion. “But if you can sit up, I
  have something you can drink that will help.”
  87
  A
  re you feeling better yet? I have more water and some
  soup too, which I think you should drink as soon as
  possible ’cause you’re really weak, and those burns are
  bad.” There were rustling sounds like the noises of softly-shod
  feet on wet leaves, the voice went on again, quietly and calmly
  with just a hint of a lilt. 
  “Why did you irritate that dragon? Don’t you know better?
  Some of them have really nasty tempers. Actually, in the stories,
  most of them do. Can you believe it, though? A dragon! A real,
  live, fire-snorting, wing-waving, tail-thumping dragon! I didn’t
  know dragons still existed. I wonder where they’ve been. I
  wonder why they came back. They haven’t been seen in these
  mountains for thousands of years. And why did this one come
  here? There’s not much in these hills to interest a creature as an-
  cient as a dragon. I remember our stories tell about dragons—
  curl your hair, those stories would. Even yours.” A pause and a
  86
  M A R Y  H .  H E R B E R T
  O A T H S W O R N
  O A T H S W O R N
  
  She thought about her injuries and current events and
  sighed. “Mi-Theron. We came from Mi-Theron.” There was a
  quick laugh and she heard the faen move away. “I’m sorry,” she
  said quickly. “I owe you my life, and it seems I will have to
  depend on you a little while longer. Will you help me?”
  There were more rustling sounds and noises from the fire,
  then he returned with the cup filled with soup this time. “Of
  course. It is a promise I made to Tomask, the god of injured
  travelers.”
  Ia-Keltior allowed a feeble smile. The faen were a deeply reli-
  gious people who could find and recognize new personal gods
  at the slightest provocation.
  She felt his hands rearrange her cloak on her upper body,
  then he moved away and she heard more sounds from the shel-
  ter around her. Apparently he was weaving more branches into
  the leaky roof.
  “This rain won’t last much longer,” he announced.
  The young giantess barely heard him. “How long has it
  been?” she asked quietly.
  “It’s been raining since yesterday. That’s when I found you in
  the woods. You wandered a long way.”
  She said nothing, only stared into the darkness behind her
  eyes. Eventually she drank the soup and felt her strength come
  trudging back. But as the lethargy faded, she could feel her rage
  and grief kindle in its place.
  Menien came back and retrieved his empty bowl. “I saw the
  dragon, you know.” His lively voice was filled with awe.
  Her hand shot out and grabbed the front of his heavy jacket.
  “Did you see where it went? When did you see it? Could you
  find it again?” Her voice was sharp and urgent.
  He twisted out of her grasp and straightened his jacket with
  a jerk. “Why? Haven’t you seen enough of it? I saw what it did
  to your group. I will take you back to the river. You can get a
  riverboat there to take you home.” 
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  O A T H S W O R N
  Small hands lifted her shoulders with surprising strength and
  helped her lean back against a tree trunk. The wet bark seeped
  dampness into her filthy tunic. The smell of wood smoke,
  mingled with the odors of wet woods, filled her nostrils and
  reminded her bitterly that she was not home in her own house
  with her father working contentedly in his library. She savagely
  pushed that thought away.
  She sagged against the tree. For a moment the light voice was
  silent, and she could hear the sounds of utensils scraping over
  metal, the crackle of a small fire, the steady patter of a light rain
  on trees. Then she smelled a rich, earthy scent and felt the heat
  of steam on her face.
  “Drink this. Slowly. It’s not tasty, but it will give you strength.”
  A small bowl was pressed to her mouth. She drank the hot
  contents as he suggested, ignoring the taste reminiscent of pine
  sap and dandelion tea. While her energy did not come flooding
  back, the drink eased the pain in her throat, settled her stom-
  ach, and gave her strength to stay upright. At least for now.
  As her companion took the cup from her, Ia-Keltior reached
  out and touched his face. Her fingers spanned his entire head.
  He stilled, waiting patiently while she traced his features and
  touched his chest.
  “So small,” she breathed. “Long hair, pointed ears. There is
  only one creature with those small manlike features and such a
  stature. You’re a faen.”
  He laughed and ducked out of her reach. “A loresong, yes.
  Menien Trailsinger. And you are a giantess. A young one, I
  would say, for you look no older than a sixteen-year-old human
  I know, and you are only six feet tall.” She could hear the grin
  in his voice. “A giant and a faen. Quite a pair, huh?”
  “We’re not a pair,” she grumbled, knowing she sounded un-
  grateful and peevish.
  “Oh, ho,” he chuckled. “Shall I leave you, then? You can make
  your own way to De-Shamod, or wherever you came from.”
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  M A R Y  H .  H E R B E R T
  
  After a while she pushed the bandages off her left eye and
  looked around at the blurry clearing. The faen in his green
  jacket and brown pants was a moving blob in a hazy, indistinct
  sea of yellows, greens, and browns. 
  “Does this mean you will come with me?” she asked hesi-
  tantly.
  “That village is days from here,” he said as an answer. “We
  have several more hours of daylight, which should see us well
  on our way. I’ll cut a walking stick for you. That’ll have to do
  for now.”
  Ia-Keltior closed her eyes against the painful light and leaned
  against the tree.
  “Oh, Father,” she whispered only to herself. “Forgive me.”
  * * * * *
  It was that night that Ia-Keltior began to suspect they were
  being followed. She sat hunched by a small fire while the faen
  slept and added a stick or two when the flames began to die. At
  one point she looked up and saw a vague, indistinct figure
  standing in the darkness at the edge of their clearing. She
  squinted hard to see it clearly, but it had no solid form. It made
  no move to threaten her, and by dawn it was gone. She dis-
  counted it as a figment of her very tired imagination.
  But she saw the shadow thing the next night and the next,
  growing larger and more distinct. It came when the loresong
  was asleep and moved silently around their camp, always vigi-
  lant and unaggressive.
  She tried to approach it once, and it glided away and van-
  ished as mysteriously as it appeared. She tried to waken Menien
  to show him the shadow thing, but by the time the faen awoke,
  it was gone. It never appeared to Menien and never came
  during the day. She puzzled over the odd visitation and won-
  dered why it came only to her. Perhaps it was ghost or simply
  the hallucination of a brain worn by too many shocks and too
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  O A T H S W O R N
  Her hand slid to her throat; her injured eyes burned with
  tears. “No! I will not go home until I have righted this terrible
  wrong. I have to find that dragon!”
  There was a long silence between the two while the rain
  dripped around them and the fire quietly burned under its shelter.
  “Is this a vow? Are you oathsworn?” he asked at last.
  Oathsworn. Now there was something she had never consid-
  ered in her sheltered life. Oathsworn were the most dedicated
  and steadfast individuals in the land, setting their lives to fulfill a
  sacred vow. Did they feel any different from what she felt now?
  It was said that oathsworn began their careers alone, that they
  received their calling on a psychic level. She didn’t know if what
  was in her heart was a sacred calling or not, but it felt every bit as
  compelling. She swore to her father’s soul and to those who had
  accompanied him to the Houses of the Eternal that she would
  find the dragon and mend the great wrong she had done them.
  “Perhaps,” she said quietly. “I must seek the dragon.”
  “Well, that may be a problem,” said Menien. “I only saw it
  in the air, flying at a great distance. I don’t know where it is.”
  Ia-Keltior nodded once, rolled to her hands and knees, and
  crawled out of her shelter. Reaching out in front of her with
  one hand, she found a tree and pulled herself up the trunk
  until she was standing upright. The world rocked sickeningly
  around her, and she had to wrap both arms around the tree
  until the ground stopped pitching and the pounding in her
  head dropped to a mere throb.
  “Where do you plan to go?” the loresong asked with interest.
  Ia-Keltior held on to her tree and pressed her face against the
  cool, wet bark. “To a village called Waterglen. They were the
  ones who asked for help.”
  There was another reflective silence. Then she heard him
  move toward the fire, and she listened to the quick, light
  sounds he made as he tore down the shelter, put out the fire,
  and repacked his small traveler’s pack.
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  M A R Y  H .  H E R B E R T
  
  Ia-Keltior thought she knew the mountains from her excur-
  sions into the southern hills near her home. Now she realized
  she was literally a babe in the woods. If it weren’t for the faen,
  she would not have made it this far.
  She planted the staff in the rocks and climbed slowly after
  him, feeling her way with feet, hands, and stick. Her left eye
  was still uncovered and although her vision remained blurred,
  she could see shapes and shadows and outlines. Her right eye
  was still bandaged.  
  Upon reaching the summit of the hill, they crossed a broad,
  open meadow and came to a place where the ground dropped
  gently into a rounded valley dotted with boulders and copses of
  slender trees.
  Menien stopped so abruptly, Ia-Keltior bumped into him.
  She was about to apologize to him when a gust of wind
  whisked up from the valley, carrying a stench of old burn and
  decay. Her body went numb; her mind turned to rage.
  “Where are we?” she demanded.
  Menien’s voice came back to her, soft with sadness. “We had
  to pass by the place where your party was attacked. I thought . . .
  maybe . . . you’d want to say goodbye.”
  “No!” The denial came out as sharp and defiant as a wolf’s
  snarl. “Not yet.” The stones ground beneath her heels as she
  turned away.
  “They’re just over there.” He pointed toward a thin cluster of
  burned tree trunks that pointed to the sky like grave markers.
  Surrounding the dead trees was a large patch of charred grass
  where the huddled forms of burned bodies lay scattered.
  “No!” she cried again, her voice strained to the breaking
  point. “I must be forgiven first.”
  “Forgiven for—” His question abruptly cut off, and she
  heard him step hurriedly away from her. “Stay here!” he called.
  A host of emotions and worries swarmed through her mind.
  What did he see? What was out there?
  O A T H S W O R N
  much sadness.  Perhaps when they found the village, the
  thing—whatever it was—would vanish for good.
  * * * * *
  For the four hundred sixty-third time in the three days since
  Ia-Keltior regained her senses, Menien broke into song. It was a
  weird ballad sung in a minor key in a language she did not recog-
  nize. It didn’t surprise her, though. The faen had a fine tenor voice
  and a remarkable memory for every song he had ever heard—and
  he seemed determined to sing them all, from drinking songs to
  dirges to odd bits of poetry someone had set to music.
  “You are well named, Trailsinger,” she sighed. 
  He broke off his tune and turned around to grin at her.
  “Thank you. It’s a nickname really. My real name is too hard
  for most Others to remember.”
  The giantess’ foot slipped on a rock, and she fell forward to
  her knees. “Please tell me the village is around here some-
  where,” she groaned, climbing back to her weary feet. Her shins
  were bruised and her limbs ached.
  His only answer was to return to his song and continue the
  long climb up the steep, rocky hill. 
  Ia-Keltior brushed off the mud and forced herself to follow.
  The way was difficult even for a climber with two good eyes.
  There was a path of sorts, but it had been made by feet much
  smaller and harder than hers—the feet of creatures who were
  not intent on going anywhere in a hurry. It straggled up the
  hillside like so many other paths she had already struggled up.
  Was there no “down” in these mountains?
  The Elder Mountains were well named, being ancient weath-
  ered summits whose sheer, jagged walls had been worn down in
  the passage of millennia. But while they were not nearly im-
  passable ramparts like the towering Bitter Peaks to the west,
  they were rugged, rock-strewn mountains whose stony heads
  rose sluggishly out of a cloak of heavy vegetation. 
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  M A R Y  H .  H E R B E R T
  93
  
  distinct, and suddenly it clarified into hoof beats. She saw two
  large black shapes approaching at a canter.
  Her breath sucked through her teeth in a quick gasp of pleas-
  ure. The two radonts came to a stop, their heads turned toward
  her. The giantess did not move, frightened of scaring the horses
  away. She waited nervously while Menien bowed low. He said
  nothing out loud, but he seemed to be communicating with
  them, for one radont stomped a hoof and neighed several times
  in response to some sort of prompting.
  “One is a wild radont who came to investigate the attack on
  your party,” Menien supplied for her. “He found the other, a
  domesticated radont, nearby. One of yours?”
  Ia-Keltior held her breath. She squinted with her one eye, wish-
  ing she could see the magnificent animals more clearly. Radonts
  were huge—large enough to carry a full-grown giant—with thick
  sturdy legs, ebony coats, and the regal bearing of the Lords of
  Horses. She moved slowly to get closer to them, to see them
  better with her one eye. But the mare nickered a welcome and
  thrust her warm muzzle against the young giant’s face. Ia-Keltior
  gave a cry, “Tirrana,” and buried her face in the radont’s mane. 
  “I have told the stallion of your search for the dragon. He
  wants to know the reason for your request,” the faen said aloud
  to her. “You should tell him. He might help you if he knows
  your cause is just and your oath is truth.”
  “Can’t he see the truth around him?” she snapped. Then she
  bit her tongue hard and used the pain to fight back the sudden
  rush of tears. She didn’t want to tell them everything, only her
  driving need to find the dragon. Surely the rest of it was unim-
  portant. But wild radonts were highly intelligent and consid-
  ered themselves to be allies and equals of giants, partners in any
  endeavor they chose to perform with one of the Hu-Charad. If
  she tried to lie to this stallion, he would sense it and leave her
  here in this desolate place. And yet, she worried, if she told him
  the whole story, he—and Menien—might reject her completely.
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  O A T H S W O R N
  “There on the high hill,” Menien cried. “There are radonts
  up there watching us.”
  Ia-Keltior’s head snapped up. Try as she might she could not
  see them, but the coldness in her heart eased just a little at the
  thought of their presence. A memory, raw with pain, focused in
  her mind with stark clarity: her father’s small delegation, dis-
  mounted, holding the reins of their mounts; the ebon horses
  taut with fear as the dragon swept overhead.
  Was it possible some of them had survived?
  “Be still. Be patient. Let them see you. I will try to call
  them,” Menien said. He climbed up on the rock beside her
  and, throwing out his arms, burst into a rollicking wild song
  peppered with thundering bass notes, tenor trills that filled the
  ears like the neighs of excited horses, and high-pitched whistles.
  His long hair blew in the cold wind, and his cheeks turned red
  from his effort.
  The giantess turned to listen, amazed. “What song is that?”
  He paused, his dark eyes fixed on an open meadow just
  ahead. “It is a song a radont taught me once when I helped her.”
  “But radonts are not telepathic with two-legged people, only
  horses and other radonts.”
  “But I am. I have learned to talk to other intelligent crea-
  tures. Radonts are easy.”
  Her one eye widened. “Are you an ollamh lorekeeper?”
  The ollamh lorekeepers were faen teachers, storytellers, poets,
  historians, singers, and judges rolled into one. They were the repos-
  itories of all faen lore and history and the masters of faen wisdom.
  “Would I be out in this forsaken wilderness if I were?” he
  replied. “Some day I hope to be. When I am allowed to return
  to my village.”
  His short tone and his words struck through her own self-
  pity, but before she could ask another question, she heard a
  muted tattoo roll down from the mountain. She straightened,
  tilting her head to hear. The sound grew louder and more 
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  M A R Y  H .  H E R B E R T
  
  “His blood is my blood. His voice is my voice. He watches me
  and guides my way. I will finish what he started,” she answered.
  The slender faen nodded once. “The Horse Lord wants to
  know what it is you wish to accomplish?”
  To kill it! screamed her thoughts. But giants were not sup-
  posed to be vindictive killers. Out loud she answered as levelly
  as she could, “To stop it from raiding and terrorizing the
  people.” Which was true, from one perspective.
  Weary and drained beyond measure, she dropped back to the
  stone and sat with her head in her hands. Menien said nothing
  but stood beside her and patiently waited. She didn’t dare ask
  him what he would do if the radont condemned her. She didn’t
  think she could bear it if he left her.
  She heard a sudden commotion, and a huge black shape
  moved into her limited vision. It stamped a massive hoof.
  “He asks if you are blind,” Menien said.
  She lifted her bandaged head toward the radont stallion, and
  her lips twisted into a wry grimace. “Am I blind to what? The
  danger of facing a dragon? The stupidity of trying to find the an-
  cient beast with no weapon, only one good eye, and a faen who
  sings the entire repertoire of his people at the top of his lungs?”
  “I do not,” Menien interjected indignantly.
  “No, I am not blind to my chances.” She raised her hands im-
  ploringly. “But I have to try. It is a promise I made to my father.”
  Menien tilted his head toward the stallion and said, “He says
  he can heal you if you are willing.”
  The words of agreement pounced to her lips, but she cut
  them off before they could escape. “Not yet,” she whispered. “I
  will bear this a little while longer as my penance.”
  The loresong crossed his arms. “Don’t be rock headed. You
  are hunting a dragon. You will need command of every faculty.”
  A snort from the stallion emphasized the faen’s words.
  Ia-Keltior bowed her head in acceptance. She did not move as
  the radont dipped his head and touched her gently with the
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  O A T H S W O R N
  She began slowly, halting over her words, hoping she could
  gloss over the worst. “There is a village in these mountains
  somewhere. I don’t know where. It is called Waterglen. They
  have been suffering depredations from something they haven’t
  seen. Their herds are stolen, people disappear, tracts of woods
  are burned or trampled flat, the crops are ruined. They thought
  the damage could be caused by a dragon, but the notion seemed
  so far-fetched, they didn’t want to raise a warning. Finally, in
  desperation, they sent word up the river as far as Mi-Theron,
  asking for help. The steward sent them to my father, who used
  to be a Knight of the Diamond.” This order was known
  throughout the realm for enforcing the laws of Dor-Erthenos,
  the Lands of the Diamond Throne.
  Her voice caught and she put a hand to her heaving chest.
  Her emotions rose like a storm surge, and she could not draw
  breath fast enough to keep up with her words. Once started,
  they flowed from her unchecked, like blood from a torn vein.
  “My father suspected the truth, for we had heard rumors that
  dragons were returning to the land. But we didn’t know!  When
  the elders of Waterglen came to him and begged for help, he
  agreed to go and try to negotiate with the dragon. He brought
  me to help him and learn his ways.” A bitter sound escaped her
  throat. “To help! Do you know what I did? I panicked. I saw that
  monster fly overhead—it was just looking at us—but I could not
  control my fear. My father yelled at me to put my bow down.
  I couldn’t! I couldn’t stop myself. I raised the bow and, in my
  terror, I fired an arrow at the dragon. I didn’t kill it, of course. I
  don’t think I even hurt it. But it took the arrow as an attack, and
  it veered around and flamed us. My father died trying to protect
  me. The others in our party didn’t survive. . . .” Her voice trailed
  off. Abruptly she flung herself to her feet, her stick held out
  before her like a pike. “I have to find the dragon. I must finish
  my father’s vow and right this terrible grief I have done.”
  “Your father’s vow, or yours?” Menien asked quietly.
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  M A R Y  H .  H E R B E R T
  
  “Of course. We can help each other.” He paused and added,
  “Wait.” 
  Startled, she watched him hurry over to the dead patch of
  grass and burnt lives. When he came back, he was carrying a
  long, heavy staff. He pressed it into her hand, and her fingers
  closed instinctively around its sooty circumference. Her vision
  blurred with tears.
  “He would want you to have that,” Menien said.
  She didn’t ask how he had known. Emotion overcame her.
  He was right. Her father’s magister’s staff had been his pride
  and joy. Now it was hers. 
  With the aid of a handy rock, Ia-Keltior managed to climb
  up onto the radont’s back and pull Menien up behind her. The
  radont was so large, the faen had to sit crosswise and hold onto
  the giantess’ cloak. Warmth from the radont’s broad back
  seeped into their damp clothes and chased some of the chill
  from their bodies.
  Tirrana moved smoothly into a slow lope along the road to
  Waterglen. Menien grinned and launched into his four hun-
  dred sixty-fourth song. Unhearing, Ia-Keltior turned to bid
  farewell to her father. “I will return to speed you to the Houses
  of the Eternal,” she murmured. “When I have avenged you.”
  * * * * *
  That night the shadow came into camp. It came late when
  the others were asleep and Ia-Keltior tended the fire. 
  The giantess saw the slight movement among the trees and
  tilted her head to see the figure standing at the edge of the fire-
  light. Strangely she felt no fear, only a resigned curiosity that
  this thing, whatever it was, seemed to be following her.
  “What do you want?” she called softly.
  It drifted closer. Even with her restored vision she still could
  not see it clearly. The figure stood upright, about as tall as she, but
  she could see no detail of its clothing—if it had any—or its face.
  O A T H S W O R N
  velvet softness of his muzzle. In silence his spell was formed, and
  power from his own magic poured into her mind and body. It
  laved her face with warmth and touched her with the blessed re-
  lease of pain. Her eyes tingled and suddenly she realized the grass
  she was staring at had changed from a golden blur to a finely de-
  tailed image of grass stalks, dried leaves, dead mulch, and the
  tiniest clump of mountain star flowers she had ever seen.
  She pulled the bandage off and smiled up at the stallion in
  gratitude and humility.
  He snorted once and neighed to Menien.
  “He says he must go to report to his herd. He thinks you
  would be wise to negotiate a truce of some kind between the
  village and the dragon. Seek a peace between them. The dragon
  may be searching for something. Perhaps you could learn what
  it is and help him find it.”
  She ground her teeth and tried to smile. She could not tell
  them that the only resolution she wanted was the dragon’s death.
  The wild radont neighed and stamped his hoof again. Giving
  a snort of farewell, he cantered away, leaving the mare, Tirrana,
  in his wake. 
  The remaining radont stepped forward and dipped her
  muzzle to Ia-Keltior’s face. Each inhaled deeply of the other’s
  scent. The giantess smelled warm horse, cold mountain air, and
  the pungent odors of crushed herbs and grasses. She was so re-
  lieved and so tired, she drooped forward and rested her fore-
  head on the radont’s thick-coated leg. Domesticated radonts
  did not have the intelligence of their wild brethren, but they
  had the same strength, loyalty, and will.
  A small hand took her fingers. “She says she is glad to see
  you. She is willing to help. You should ride and save your
  knees. The mare has agreed to carry us both.”
  Ia-Keltior looked up and saw his delicately handsome face
  clearly for the first time. “Us?” she asked gratefully. “You are
  still coming with me? You know what I am attempting to do.”
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  M A R Y  H .  H E R B E R T
  99
  
  “Didn’t you see it?” she cried through her tears. “The figure,
  there by the fire!”
  Tirrana neighed and trotted around the small camp to look,
  but there was nothing to find.
  Menien put sleep aside and built up the fire. He brewed a
  kettle of bark tea and gave a bowl of it to Ia-Keltior. “When was
  the last time you slept?” he asked, his small face filled with worry.
  “I saw it, Menien! I am not imagining this,” she insisted. She
  drank the tea, grateful for its warmth and the terrible taste that
  helped distract her from the pain in her head.
  “The radont tells me she can smell nothing unusual. There
  are no footprints or sign of anything.”
  She wiped her face fiercely on her sleeve and stared into the
  darkness. “I’m telling you, there was a figure standing right
  there. It was tall and it had wings. It spoke to me telepathically.
  It must have been doing something to you two as well, because
  I couldn’t wake you up!”
  The small faen shrugged. “There is nothing in my lore that fits
  that description.” He moved gently around her, refilling the bowl.
  There was nothing in Ia-Keltior’s memory that fit that de-
  scription, either. If she hadn’t seen it several times before, she
  would perhaps believe it had been a dream. But the creature
  had come to her every night since she woke in the clearing, and
  its effects on her felt all too real. 
  If only her father were with her. He had read vast numbers of
  books and ancient scrolls in his lifetime and studied the incredible
  wealth of knowledge in the world of Serran. He could have helped
  her understand what was happening to her. Her grief returned,
  sharp and poignant, and she covered her head and wept.
  * * * * *
  The village of Waterglen was in a shambles. No, Ia-Keltior
  amended that, it was in a ruin. Many of the houses and out-
  buildings were smashed or trampled, and several barns had
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  O A T H S W O R N
  “Who are you?” she demanded, raising her father’s staff be-
  tween her and the shadow.
  You do not recognize me? The words formed in her mind like
  small flames licking at tinder.
  “Should I?” 
  If you don’t, you will soon.
  “What do you want?”
  To be near you.
  “Why?”
  You seek revenge. The words hissed and sizzled in her brain.
  “Against the dragon? Do you know the dragon?”
  It destroyed what we loved. It ruined our lives.
  Ia-Keltior rubbed her temples to ease a throbbing ache grow-
  ing in her head. Fear grew with it and left her skin cold and her
  hands shaking. What was this thing? Trying to be surreptitious,
  she nudged Menien with her boot. “Why don’t you kill it?” she
  said to the shadow, nudging the faen harder.
  I cannot do it alone.
  The form drifted closer, its features still indistinct to the gi-
  antess. She peered harder at it over the fire and could just make
  out a dark mass on the shadow creature’s back.
  You swore an oath, it went on. And I have heard. The dragon
  must be destroyed.
  “The radont suggested I try to negotiate with it,” she said,
  testing its response.
  The being bent toward her, and the mass on its back suddenly
  spread out and arched around it. It was a massive pair of wings.
  The time to negotiate is past! The dragon dies! It is your oath.
  The shadow’s voice beat into her mind like a firebrand, burn-
  ing the words on her soul. Pain seared through her aching head.
  Her voice rose in a terrified shriek.
  Menien and the radont snapped awake even as the shadow
  vanished.
  “What?” cried the faen blearily. “What is it?”
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  M A R Y  H .  H E R B E R T
  
  The giantess shook her head hard, not listening. Her only
  desire was to find a weapon and kill the dragon. “Maybe I can
  find a sword in one of the houses,” she mumbled.
  Tirrana flattened her ears and squealed.  
  “You’ll do no such thing!” Menien said, horrified at the sug-
  gestion. “That beast could crush you with its tail before you got
  within twenty feet of it. A sword! Don’t be ridiculous. Whatever
  we do, we have to find a way to rescue those people.”
  “What people?” she cried, angry that they were trying to
  thwart her, angry at the conflict in her heart.
  “The dragon has hostages. They’re in a corral just there by
  the edge of the common.”
  “Hostages or supper?” she snapped.
  “We shall have to go talk to it,” Menien replied.
  His head was held high, but Ia-Keltior could feel his small
  body trembling against her back. That sign of Menien’s fear
  cooled her rage as nothing else had and brought her thoughts
  back to other considerations. She had sworn to right a wrong, to
  fulfill her father’s oath. He had not promised to kill the dragon,
  only to help the villagers. He had made no specific plans or
  promises, only an offer to protect them. As much as she wanted
  to slake her need for revenge, perhaps she should slow down and
  plan ahead. Yes, she could go charging into the village without a
  sword or a bow or even a dagger, and Menien would be right.
  She would be crushed with one swing of the dragon’s heavy tail,
  or mashed beneath a foot, or burned to a pathetic pile of ash.
  Perhaps a modicum of reason would be a good idea. Her people
  believed in service, after all, not blind vengeance.
  She blinked rapidly in the pale sunlight. What had her father
  said once? The only cure for grief is action. He had quoted that
  shortly after her mother died, and soon thereafter he had retired
  from the knighthood and plunged himself into an intense study
  of magic, law, and history. Whether it had cured him or not,
  Ia-Keltior never knew.
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  O A T H S W O R N
  been burned. The streets were empty of any life except for a rat
  that scuttled out of sight when Tirrana walked warily on the
  road past a deserted livestock market. 
  “Stop,” demanded Menien. “Listen.”
  The three froze in place and strained to listen for a sound,
  any sound that might tell them something still lived in this
  scene of devastation.
  Somewhere, not too far away, they heard an odd whistling
  noise and a muffled rumble of something heavy being moved.
  “Perhaps we should get a better view of things before we go
  riding blithely into the square,” suggested the loresong.
  The radont turned on her heel before Ia-Keltior could protest
  and cantered back out of the village. She turned up a high hill
  that overlooked the sheltered valley where the settlement lay. In
  the cover of a thin copse of trees the mare stopped, and the
  three companions stared down at the village below. 
  It had been a prosperous place, from the look of the stone
  houses and shops that lined the two intersecting streets. Besides
  a livestock market, there was another market in the common,
  an inn, and a dock beside the narrow river that flowed around
  its western edge. Almost all of it was smashed to rubble now.
  They did not have to look far to find the culprit—and the
  source of the odd noises. In the center of the village, where the
  common had once gathered people together, a huge mottled
  form squatted over the scorched grass. It had crushed a building
  aside and was digging industriously into the side of a gently
  mounded hill. 
  Ia-Keltior felt her heart race. A red haze filled her mind, and
  her hands clenched into fists. Terror and fury together stormed
  through her. It was the same dragon. She would recognize that
  strange mottled brown and gold color anywhere. Neither metal-
  lic nor chromatic, it had aged into its own mysterious patina.
  “Look!” the faen pointed downward toward the village.
  “There are still people down there.”
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  M A R Y  H .  H E R B E R T
  
  so soft she could barely hear him. “He told me not to return
  until I had learned compassion and the willingness to serve
  others. I can memorize songs and tales better than most, but a
  lorekeeper must be more than just a singer.”
  “Have you learned anything?”
  “Not to take up with young giants on suicide missions. I’ll
  never get to be a lorekeeper that way.”
  Ia-Keltior’s mouth spread wide in a grin, and all at once she
  began to sing a giant’s song of battle, one of her father’s fa-
  vorites. Giants relied heavily on music and ritual in their lives,
  and often used songs for important ceremonies. She wished she
  could stop and perform the Chi-Julud, the Wardance, which
  transformed a giant’s normally patient personality to a more
  warlike and deadly mien. But the ritual needed other giants to
  be effective, and all she had was a radont and a faen. She would
  have to make do. 
  Without hesitation Menien joined his voice to hers and their
  song rose above the wreckage of Waterglen. The powerful tune
  may not have had the same effect as the war ritual, yet it
  helped hide their fear.
  Several bangs and crashes and the sound of splintering tim-
  bers came from up ahead, and something heavy crashed to the
  ground. There were words, too, in a language none of them
  knew, spoken loudly and angrily by a voice amplified by a long
  throat and a deep set of lungs.
  The radont passed the last mangled house on the road and
  stepped into the open space of the common. The human pris-
  oners saw them immediately and swarmed to the fence of their
  prison pen. The giantess’ song died into silence.
  Holding the white shift high on her staff, Ia-Keltior glared at
  the dragon, who was digging busily around the foundation of
  another house at the foot of the hill and paying no attention to
  the approaching radont.
  The black mare changed that with a ringing neigh.
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  O A T H S W O R N
  She steeled herself and said as calmly as she could, “Very
  well, we will need a white flag for a parley. If you two wish to
  avoid this meeting, you may stay here.”
  The faen stood up behind her and stared over her shoulder at
  the distant dragon. “He doesn’t seem to be the sort of dragon
  who negotiates.”
  “Oh, you noticed,” the giantess said, her voice edged with
  irony. “Then we shall just have to rely on his sense of tradi-
  tion.” 
  She kept her voice cool and distant, as if the coming con-
  frontation meant little to her. But she could not control the
  tremors in the pit of her stomach or the anger cresting in her
  head. She had never taken a formal vow to be an oathsworn,
  had never received the training, had never even experienced the
  intensity of emotions that she felt now. Yet she did not question
  her motives, She had to face the dragon and face her fear, or
  her father’s death would be meaningless.
  The radont shook her head, sending her long mane flying,
  and snorted a great gust of air. She cantered back down the hill
  and entered the village on the east side. They paused long
  enough to find a white linen shift in an abandoned house.
  Then the faen and the giantess remounted, and the mare
  walked boldly up the wagon road toward the common.
  Ia-Keltior felt the tremors in her belly spread out like ripples
  until her entire body trembled. Her hands turned to ice and her
  heart pounded.
  “People would understand if you turned around and went
  away,” Menien murmured behind her. “You can’t be expected to
  deal with a dragon alone.”
  “My father wouldn’t understand,” she responded sharply.
  “You knew I had to do this. Why are you coming with me?”
  He was uncharacteristically silent for a long moment while
  Tirrana picked her way among the rubble and debris in the
  road. “Our lorekeeper sent me away,” he said finally in a voice
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  M A R Y  H .  H E R B E R T
  
  “We were not coming to steal anything. We had come only to
  talk, and you murdered them all!” she shouted.
  “Obviously I was sloppy, since you have returned to pester me.”
  “It is said in our lore,” the giantess spoke with cold fury,
  “that if an injury is done to a man, it should be so severe that
  his vengeance need not be feared.” 
  The dragon’s response took even the radont by surprise. Smoke
  rolled from his nostrils, and his eyes flared with a red light. “I said,
  go!” and he whipped his tail around into Tirrana’s broad side.
  The powerful blow knocked the black mare to the ground. Ia-
  Keltior and Menien flew off her back to land in a pile of dirt and
  rubble. Winded and stunned, the young giantess lay on her back,
  gasping for air. Her blackened staff lay unseen several yards away.  
  “Father, please,” she whispered. “Help me.”
  Frantic screams suddenly yanked her upright. She saw the
  prisoners screaming and pointing at the dragon, who had
  pinned the radont to the ground. His head dipped down, his
  lips lifted over a set of wicked teeth.
  Ia-Keltior staggered to her feet. In that instant she saw the
  shadow creature standing beside her. Its form was indistinct
  even in the light of day, but its features looked vaguely familiar,
  and the great wings spread out on either side like sails. 
  I am with you. The words formed in her mind, framed with
  love and reinforced with knowledge.
  * * * * *
  She looked at the waiting shadow, and understanding
  exploded with incandescent light in her mind. Her fear van-
  ished. There was only her oath, the promise she had made to
  her father. The shadow sprang at her, it wings forming a cloak
  around her. Opening her arms, she welcomed it into her mind
  and body in a symbiotic joining that united the two into one.
  Power she had never felt before flowed through her muscles.
  Energy as hot as flame burned in her veins. Images of things
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  O A T H S W O R N
  With a snort that sounded a little surprised, the dragon
  twisted around and flattened his body to the ground. His
  snakelike head lowered to glare fiercely at the new intruders. He
  spied the white flag, and his eyes narrowed to mere slits.
  “What is this?” he growled. His taloned foot raked the ground.
  “It’s a white flag of parley,” Ia-Keltior stated the obvious.
  “Surely dragons haven’t been gone from the land so long they
  have forgotten the traditions of parley?”
  “We remember, but it is meaningless. I have no desire to talk.”
  “You’re doing it now. We just wanted to ask what you were
  looking for.”
  His nose dropped lower until Ia-Keltior was looking up the
  dark pits of his nostrils. “Who said I was looking for anything?”
  he snapped, a little too quickly.
  “I am making this place my lair.”
  “But this is already a home to a population of humans,” the
  giantess said reasonably. “Have you paid them for their land?
  Or their ruined crops? Or the destroyed houses? I thought
  dragons were more civilized that mere brigands.”
  “We are ancient and wise beyond your feeble measure. This
  was my forefathers’ lair thousands of years ago. This land is
  mine. It is not my business that puny humans decided to build
  this village on top of it.” He curved his head toward the large
  hole he was digging into the mounded hill. “My ancestors were
  forced to leave before they could move their most valuable treas-
  ures. There is a relic of great power buried somewhere around
  here. I want that relic. Now go!” he roared. “Parley is over.”
  Ia-Keltior wasn’t ready to give in that easily. “I wish to nego-
  tiate a peace with you. Perhaps we could help find this relic.”
  The dragon peered down his long nose at her. “I know you. 
  I recognize your scent. You were part of the raiding party that
  was coming to steal my treasure.”
  Ia-Keltior stiffened. Any calm or cautious tendency she had
  fled into the darkness behind her memories of fire and shame.
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  M A R Y  H .  H E R B E R T
  
  her like a javelin. She caught it with one hand and turned on a
  wingtip just in time to catch the fire aimed at the faen.  Menien
  fell flat on the ground, his arms over his head as she heaved the
  fire back at the dragon’s head, forcing him to duck. 
  Instead of diving for cover or making a run for it, Menien
  scrambled to his feet and ran closer to the dragon. The old
  monster’s head swung around and dropped to snap the faen
  into pieces. But before the great mouth opened, Menien lifted
  his hands and began to sing. His melodious voice rose above
  the dragon’s racket and abruptly silenced it. The old creature
  stopped in place and stared at the young faen, mesmerized.
  Swiftly the giantess beat upward, carrying the charred staff. It
  was not a sword, but it might have its purpose. Her father had
  given up the sword and exchanged it for this staff, the tool of a
  magister. Perhaps she could remember one of the spells he often
  practiced in his study. But she would have to think of some-
  thing quickly. The mesmerizing spell Menien was using was
  simple magic taught to beginning lorekeepers. That he could
  make it work on something as old and cunning as the dragon
  was impressive. Unfortunately, it probably wouldn’t last long.
  Already the dragon stirred restlessly. Menien raised his voice
  and sang harder. 
  Winging overhead, Ia-Keltior stared down the length of the
  staff. The end had been worn to a point of sorts by the rocks
  and rough terrain she had climbed over. The length of the staff
  was scorched black and hardened by dragon fire.
  Then her father’s voice echoed in her thoughts, and the
  words she needed came to her: a simple spell, one of her father’s
  favorites. She had heard him practice it so many times she
  could repeat the words in her sleep. The “Spell of True Flight,”
  he called it. Placing both hands on the staff, she began the
  chant she knew so well.
  “Faster!” Menien shouted between the words of his song.
  “I’m losing him!”
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  O A T H S W O R N
  she had never known raced into her mind and gave her the
  weapons she needed. She spread the great wings on her back
  and sprang into the air. They had tried negotiations; now she
  would do it her way.
  Taken by surprise, the dragon reared his head and spouted a
  stream of flame at her. 
  Without thinking about what she was doing or how she
  could do it, she lifted her hands, gathered the dragon fire into a
  ball, and slammed it back at him. The fireball struck him on
  the side and burned a hole in his wing vane. The dragon roared
  in pain and fury and charged after her, the radont forgotten.  
  Blowing more flame, he jumped upward and took wing to
  gain height on her and destroy her from above.
  The giantess, unencumbered by his great weight, flew faster.
  Gathering his fire, she sent more fireballs blazing back at him,
  each time aiming for his wings. In moments, the dragon could
  no longer stay aloft. With a shriek of rage, he spiraled down
  and landed heavily on the burned grass of the common. Ia-
  Keltior dove after him. 
  He crouched down, and his tail lashed up toward her wings. 
  She veered frantically out of the way and looked desperately
  for another weapon. While the dragon’s fire worked well on the
  thinner skin of his wings, it did not penetrate his scales well.
  She needed something faster and more effective before he over-
  whelmed her with sheer size. But there was nothing at hand.
  He came at her again with tail and teeth, forcing her to fly up
  to a safer distance.
  Around and around the open common of the wrecked village,
  the dragon and his winged opponent fought a deadly dance of
  fire and magic. Soon Ia-Keltior’s muscles began to ache, and the
  burn on her shoulder hurt with an almost blinding fury. 
  Desperate for help, she spotted Menien. Heedless of his own
  danger, the loresong ran toward her carrying her staff. Just as the
  dragon spotted him, he skidded to a halt and heaved the staff at
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  M A R Y  H .  H E R B E R T
  
  only sit where she had landed and lean back against the corpse
  of the dragon. Tears trickled down her face.
  “That was incredible!” shouted Menien. “How did you do it?”
  “I asked my father for help.”
  “That shadow thing was your father?”
  She laughed. She was utterly spent and drained, yet she felt
  elated. “No. That was part of me. It was the power of my oath
  and the strength of my love. It took form somehow and, when I
  needed it, my father’s spirit helped me to understand and use it.”
  “Was your father a great mage?” a strange voice asked. 
  She turned and saw an elderly man kneel by her side. He was
  battered and bloodied, but he had an indefatigable stubborn-
  ness in his eyes that Ia-Keltior liked.
  “No, he was training to be a magister, but he died before he
  could finish his rites.”
  “Well,” said the old man. “He must have had talent, which he
  passed on to you. That was the most exciting thing I have seen in
  a long while, young lady. As an elder in this community, I would
  be honored to have you stay with us as long as you like.”
  She looked around her at Waterglen and saw the people had
  already started to spread out through the ruins to search. They
  would rebuild and perhaps make use of the dragon’s scales and
  bones to help pay for the tools and materials they could not
  make themselves. There was also the dragon’s relic hidden
  somewhere in the rounded hills of the valley. She had a feeling
  it would not remain hidden much longer. Why not? she thought
  to herself. After all, she had given her oath to protect this village.
  She reached out and touched Menien’s green jacket. “Lore-
  keeper, how many more songs to you know?” 
  “Hundreds,” he grinned, propping himself against Tirrana’s leg. 
  “Enough to last until I heal. Will you stay that long, and
  help me lay my father to rest, before you return home?”
  He bowed. “Only if I am allowed to write a ballad about the
  young giantess and the dragon. It will be my gift to your father.”
  111
  O A T H S W O R N
  Her great wings swept into a downbeat; the words soared
  from her mouth.
  On the ground, the dragon rolled his eyes to look at her in-
  stead of staring in rapt attention at the faen.
  She felt the staff begin to tingle in her hands, and then it was
  done. She flew up higher, tucked in her wings, then swept
  downward like a diving raptor.
  The dragon wrenched his head up, opened his mouth, and . . .
  Ia-Keltior threw the staff like a spear, with all the grief and all
  the power of her oath behind it. The staff flew straight and true
  into the dragon’s open mouth. The length of the staff caught
  the leading edge of his flame, burst into fire, and, still burning,
  stabbed through the dragon’s skull and into his brain. The
  dragon stood poised at the brink of life, blood and flames spew-
  ing out of his mouth. Then he slowly collapsed, his body sag-
  ging into the stillness of death. 
  The instant the dragon died, Ia-Keltior felt something
  change. The power drained from her limbs, the strength wilted
  from her mind. She felt weak and bereft and, worst of all, she
  felt the wings shrivel on her back. Her companion of the battle
  was gone, disappearing as surely as her father’s lifeforce.
  “Menien,” she cried, trying to backwing as she began to fall.
  “This way!” the faen cried.
  She made one last desperate flap with the wings before they
  were gone to force her falling body over the corpse of the
  dragon. Below her, she could see Menien and Tirrana grab one
  of the perforated wings and pull it out beneath her like a large
  blanket. She had just enough time to hope it would hold her
  weight before she crashed into the dragon and rolled onto its
  wing. Sliding and rolling down the wing vane, she landed in a
  heap at the radont’s feet.
  All at once she was surrounded by humans laughing and
  crying and shouting. Menien broke into a song of victory, and
  the radont neighed her own tidings. The young giantess could
  110
  M A R Y  H .  H E R B E R T
  
  the dragon swooped out of low-hanging clouds. Talesh had just
  enough time to bark a warning, and Ramthor’s proud warriors
  scattered into the brush like antelope. The kill lay where it had
  fallen, but it was no longer theirs. 
  The dragon’s wings snapped as it landed beside the hill goats.
  It roared once, echoing among the gullies and down the hills to
  the Central Plains. That roar was becoming as familiar as the
  beast’s stench.
  Ramthor gathered the others quickly, silently, padding over the
  ground and pulling the pack together with a few gestures, baring
  his fangs, and tossing his mane to emphasize his point. They
  couldn’t stay to watch the dragon feed. The finest pack of hunters
  on the Central Plains slunk into the twilight, driven off their kill.
  * * * * *
  That night, beside a tiny campfire hidden in a gully, Ramthor
  patched a cut Talesh had gotten as he fled the dragon and lis-
  tened to the rumble among his companions. Nunchot, the eld-
  est whitemane still on the hunter’s path, complained, “My neck
  hurts from looking up at the skies. How many kills has that
  beast taken from us?” A low mutter of agreement rippled
  through the hunting party.
  “Too many,” said Jossla, a broad-shouldered litorian with an
  excellent spear-eye. “I miss the taste of water bison. And ground
  sloth. And horse. And today, I miss the taste of hill goat.” 
  The wood in the campfire popped and shifted; they had no
  meat to cook, but the fire’s warmth was welcome. Ramthor
  knew that, if not for smaller animals they could carry slung over
  their shoulders, the gazelles and antelopes, the tribe’s hunger
  would be even worse. When his hunters complained of empty
  bellies, a challenge for the leadership might not be far off.
  “Ulyovar’s tribe went to De-Shamod, to swear fealty to the
  giants,” said Talesh. He squirmed away from Ramthor’s attempt
  to bind a cloth over the bandages. Ramthor placed a heavy,
  113
  R
  amthor could smell the dragon’s stench all over the Swift-
  foot tribe’s hunting grounds, long before he and his
  hunters scattered the hyenas and buzzards from their
  scavenging. The birds were cleaning the last strips of flesh from a
  kill with dragon tracks all around it. 
  On this trip, Ramthor had led seven young litorian hunters
  after hill goats in the foothills of Mount Herrosh, hoping they
  would be lucky. After all, he figured, the dragon might avoid
  the gullies and scrub forest of the mountains. Ramthor’s luck
  held steady: just as bad as it had been all summer. They found
  two hill goat carcasses surrounded by dragon spoor on the third
  day, and another the next morning.
  Despite that, they found two goats of their own and brought
  them down after patient hours of stalking. After the kill, the
  scent of blood sharpened his hunger and drove caution from his
  mind. He set the youngest hunter, Talesh, to take watch, but
  112
  W O L F G A N G  B A U R
  P R I D E
  P R I D E
  
  The hunters ate all they could, stripping the skin off the car-
  cass, devouring easy meat raw, and packing large cuts in salt
  and hides to take back to the hunting camp. It was the first
  large kill they had lingered over in months, and Ramthor knew
  they had until dawn to make the most of it.
  Perhaps this would be the way for them from now on; it had
  worked, and there was no arguing with success. But night hunt-
  ing presented its own difficulties: Talesh, spear-eyed Jossa, Nun-
  chot, and even keen-nosed Bandortat couldn’t find their prey as
  easily, as the night air dampened the scents. Worse, a wounded
  antelope, gazelle, or plains horse could still run and would be
  tough to track through the tall grass at night. Ramthor knew lito-
  rians were better daylight hunters. Or at least, so it had been for
  his father, his grandfather, and a thousand fathers before them.
  * * * * *
  A week later, the others complained of just the difficulties
  Ramthor had foreseen. He listened as if it were the first time
  the issues had occurred to him.
  “It’s not enough,” said Nunchot. Ramthor’s heart shrank to
  hear the whitemane’s scolding tone. “We skulk in the dark, and
  the tribe eats a little, but who are we now? Night-skulking
  mojh? Worthless raiding rhodin? Nothing more than scavengers
  at our own kills? This is not the Swiftfoot tribe of my father.”
  He spat on the ground, then stepped back into the shadows.
  Bandortat stepped forward into the firelight, taking up the
  conversation, bowing slightly to Nunchot. “We have to do
  something bold. The dragon keeps us starving. It’s time we took
  it down through sheer numbers.” Nunchot and the others were
  silent. The pause stretched out as the hunters considered the
  size of the task. The campfire crackled and shifted. The smoke
  filled Ramthor’s nostrils, blocking out the damp smells of night.
  Keen-nosed Bandortat spoke for the others, and no one con-
  tradicted his rashness and folly. Nunchot at least should have
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  P R I D E
  clawed hand on the youngster’s shoulder to steady him. Talesh
  kept talking. “The elders say Ulyovar’s people were tired of the
  Black Beast taking all their best kills.”
  “We don’t have to leave our hunting grounds. We won’t go
  anywhere,” said Ramthor. “We’ll hunt at night. That dragon
  can’t see every kill.”
  * * * * *
  The Swiftfoot hunters slept late the next day and prepared
  themselves for darkness by blacking their metal spearpoints
  with grease and ashes, to avoid a telltale glint. They brushed
  their reddish-brown manes and cleaned the dirt from their
  claws to give themselves a better grip on their spears, javelins,
  and bows. Broad in the shoulders and muscled like oxen, the
  hunters gripped tiny bone needles in their scarred hands and
  mended leather garments, repaired quivers, and checked the
  trail bags holding their supply of jerky and nuts. Nunchot lav-
  ished time on a suit of boiled buffalo hide, made of a triple
  thickness of hide, all polished and painted. Nunchot was not as
  quick as he once was. Most of the hunters touched their
  amulets and ancestor tokens. Ramthor did not believe the
  amulets gave a hunter much help, but he didn’t share his skepti-
  cism with the others. The simple amulets scratched from bone
  or made from tooth and claw restored their spirits and kept the
  hunters dreaming of success rather than hunger.
  That night their luck did improve; even in the dim starlight
  it was impossible to miss the hand-deep hoofprints of a water
  bison, their favorite prey. In one way, the night hunt was easier:
  the bison didn’t see them coming, and it had poor night vision,
  blundering into a tree when they rushed it from one side. That
  moment of confusion was all Ramthor needed to swing the
  fatal blow. The water bison fell slumped against the tree, push-
  ing the trunk and rattling the leaves. Ramthor worried that the
  dragon could hear the sound, then shook his head.
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  W O L F G A N G  B A U R
  
  all hunting on our plains. If we do not defend our lands, the
  giants certainly won’t.” Three of the young hunters—keen-
  nosed Bandortat, heavy Grunfess, and spear-eyed Jossa—all
  growled agreement. Light-maned young Talesh, Nunchot,
  clever Agemtat, and fat Ennerung were silent. Ramthor could
  see that Talesh was more nervous than eager. Unusual wisdom
  in one so young.
  Ramthor considered a journey to a safe refuge without cares
  or hunger. He’d been dreaming of it every night, but the visions
  never showed him where to go, only taunted him. Better to
  make a stand while the others still respected his leadership.
  “Very well,” he said. “We will choose our ground, ambush the
  beast, and make sure it never flies again.” The young hunters
  roared and shook their spears, and even fat Ennerung was
  caught up in the moment. 
  Nunchot, Agemtat, and Jossa did not roar. They had hunted
  large and deadly monsters before, and they knew what kind of
  risk this would be. Nunchot was the only one to speak it. “This
  is not a hunt for prey. If we make any mistake, it will sense our
  intent. We must treat it as if it were an armored river horse:
  Move quickly, strike carefully, and overrun it in a rush. If we
  fail, the Swiftfoot tribe is no more.”
  The young hunters looked at one another. They did not con-
  tradict their elder.
  Ramthor said, “Nunchot is right; this dragon will probably
  catch one of us in its claws before a spear finds its heart. We
  must scout the ground to give ourselves every advantage. Be
  ready to leave before sunup.” 
  Ramthor walked off quickly and prepared himself to tell Old
  Elemarra, the akashic wise woman of the Swiftfoot tribe, of the
  hunters’ plans. Elemarra, her old gossips, and the female chiefs
  would tell the others. The lorekeeping woman would not like
  the news, but the young warriors were bitter with their own
  failure. Only blood would slake their rage. 
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  P R I D E
  known better. The tribe had lost half a dozen hunters in his
  grandfather’s time to a nightmarish shadow troll, and the Swift-
  foot had never quite recovered their former glory. Attacking a
  dragon was pure foolishness.
  Ramthor had toyed with the idea himself in the first weeks of
  the black beast’s arrival. Every litorian warrior dreamed of such a
  moment: prey worthy of a song, a kill that every tribe on the Cen-
  tral Plains would envy. But the Swiftfoot numbers were not great:
  six hunters in their prime, one boy still learning, one whitemane
  overdue to retire to the winter lodge with the old women and
  chew mush. Ramthor wanted the kill, but it was not a practical
  dream. Tribal hunting chiefs who sought only glory might win it
  at the cost of their tribe. In his mind he knew that, though his
  heart still yearned to seize the chance of a spectacular kill.
  Ramthor rumbled, a close-mouthed growl. “It’s a dragon, not
  a water bison,” he said. “Yes, it would bring us great glory to
  defeat it, but if only one or two of us survive the struggle, our
  people will suffer and our children will scatter among our
  neighbors. This is not glory. It’s barely even victory.” He looked
  around, catching the eye of each hunter in turn, beginning with
  Nunchot and ending with young Talesh. 
  Ramthor picked up a stick and stirred the fire. “I have a
  better plan. We must leave our territory, find better lands. The
  hills have always been difficult hunting.”
  “Where would we go?” said Nunchot. His voice was shaky
  with age, but deep. He shook his mane, looked away into the
  dark toward the smudge of grey on the eastern horizon. “The
  Spotted Hide tribe has already been driven away. We hunt their
  riverbed, yet it does us no good to find more prey we cannot
  feast on. More dragons fly to the west, and the stragglers from
  the southern tribes tell a story we already know.”
  “We’ll find someplace,” said Ramthor.
  Nunchot snorted. “No place is safe; every tribe is hungry.
  Perhaps it is not the same beast everywhere, but the dragons are
  116
  W O L F G A N G  B A U R
  
  * * * * *
  Ramthor prepared everything he could; he chose a site along
  a riverbank, a place where the river slowed to a crawl, with the
  shelter of trees to hide it from the sky. He hid their spears and
  the tribe’s single crossbow in the brush, and brought Old Ele-
  marra, their best shaman, along for luck. Early in the morning,
  the hunters caught a fine plains horse on the edge of the grass-
  lands, ran it up the gorge to the riverbank, and brought it
  down just outside the trees. Visible from the sky, but within a
  spear’s throw of the bushes. A small ambush ditch allowed the
  litorians to crawl up close to the horse carcass without disturb-
  ing the grasses and without leaving a scent trail in the wind.
  The perfect site.
  Of course, after that, things didn’t quite go according to
  plan. They waited for hours. That was normal for an ambush
  hunt like this. Ramthor sat hidden in a muddy overhang along
  the river bank. He let his hunters eat their fill instead of con-
  serving their meager supply; no sense in dying hungry. 
  Jossa and Talesh’s young eyes saw it first, a small black spot in
  the sky, circling. It slowly grew closer and larger, then it made
  its usual scouting pass. Bardortat and Jossa staged a false, pan-
  icky retreat to the trees, leaving the plains horse half-eaten in
  the sun. The dragon fell out of the sky like a storm, scattering
  leaves and dirt. 
  The beast looked like a small hill in the sun, a glittering pile
  of mottled violet, brown, and black scales, with eyes as deep as
  any watering hole. Its black wings cast a huge shadow as it
  dived and whirled. Its claws were the size of axeheads, and the
  white spikes along its back made any killing leap behind it dan-
  gerous. Ramthor remembered thinking that perhaps shredding
  its wings would be best. Then it spoke a shattering word of
  power that deafened them all; the syllables hung in the late af-
  ternoon air with a buzz, then silence. Ramthor realized that he
  118
  could no longer hear; none of the Swiftfoot could hear one an-
  other’s cries or signals.
  Heavy Grunfess and Talesh threw their spears too soon,
  before Bardortat and Jossa had fully recovered their breath from
  sprinting back from the kill. Worse, they threw just as the
  dragon looked directly toward the tribe’s ambush ditch, a semi-
  circle of woven grass that made it easier to get close to prey.
  The dragon ignored the spears, which bounced off its hide, and
  instead saw Bardortat and Jossa’s stealthy charge coming. If
  those two had been just a little faster, perhaps. Or if the spears
  had caught under a scale. If only. 
  The rest was not worth remembering, but Ramthor couldn’t
  help himself. He hadn’t seen the dragon’s claw strike, but he
  had seen Jossa’s head roll back to the riverbank. Bardortat was
  gutted almost right on top of the plains horse carcass. Talesh,
  foolish youth, threw his axe and closed with his spear, just in
  time to see the beast pull its head up and let loose. Talesh was
  burnt to cinders where he stood, and Ramthor’s eyes saw him
  turn from flesh to shadow to ashes, outlined by the violet white
  fire of the beast’s breath, brighter than sunlight. 
  Ramthor ran for the riverbank and hid among the reeds. He
  hid there until his hearing returned and he could hear the
  dragon methodically crunching Jossa’s bones.
  Ramthor was not the only coward that day. The rest of the
  hunters had scattered, been eaten, or fled; the leader saw none
  of them down by the reeds. Ramthor spent the twilight hour
  searching for survivors but smelled only death. His stomach
  turned when he found heavy Grunfess, gutted and with all his
  choicest flesh eaten. He recognized him only because patches 
  of his reddish mane were still attached to his skull. He found
  light-maned Talesh’s bones and ashes, Bardortat’s fly-crusted 
  remains, and spear-eyed Jossa’s skull. At each spot, he spoke 
  the ceremonial words as quietly as he could, to give their 
  spirits rest.
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  P R I D E
  W O L F G A N G  B A U R
  
  After midnight, he found Nunchot, clever Agemtat, fat En-
  nerung, and Old Elemarra, each too old, too wise, or too slow
  to take foolish risks. Ramthor joined them under the cover of
  brush, patient enough to wait for dawn. When it came, together
  the remnants of the Swiftfoot tribe lived up to its name. They
  returned to the hunting camp and found that it, too, had been
  raided by the beast; the younger women and older boys had sur-
  vived, but the dragon had burned many elders and infants in the
  camp tents, or had run them down in the tall grass of the plains.
  Somehow, the dragon knew they were members of the same
  tribe as the hunting party, or perhaps in its rage it merely de-
  stroyed the nearest litorians it could find. Of thirty proud-
  maned Swiftfoot, young and old, only fourteen survived—
  and just four of them hunters.
  Ramthor gathered what remained and the Swiftfoot fled to
  De-Shamod, the fortress capital of the giants. As he placed one
  foot in front of the other, he muttered under his breath. No
  one heard him, but he swore his vengeance against the Black
  Beast of Herrosh.
  * * * * *
  Once within the barren walls and muck of the city, the women,
  children, and elders grew silent; the tribe had never visited a city
  quite so large. The walls reared like cliffs, the streets spread as wide
  as a river and twice as busy, and above all, the confusing welter of
  food smells and jabbering noise. They all looked to Ramthor for
  food, for solace, and for answers. Ramthor had none. How could
  he explain why any thinking creature would live in its own filth
  when it could live free on the open plains instead? To ease their
  minds, though, he asked the Swiftfoot to remain together in the
  company of the White Claw, an allied tribe. Perhaps the White
  Claw could explain city customs to his people.
  Ramthor had other tasks and spent hours trying to navigate
  the stone streets. While walking in the tanner’s quarter,
  W O L F G A N G  B A U R
  Ramthor saw a group of a dozen litorians, all well-fed, heavily
  muscled, and clad in scaled armor. “Who are you, and why
  does your tribe flourish when others starve?” he asked, too sur-
  prised for tact. Their leader laughed and shook his head.
  “You and every other refugee should do as we did,” said the
  mercenary. “Go see the Speaker Malethar. He speaks for our
  people to the giants, and he hires our best warriors for their
  armies.”
  Ramthor had heard that litorian mercenaries were popular
  and commanded high prices for their service. But he had always
  considered the mercenaries less pure than the Central Plains
  hunters, somehow tainted by their city lives and penned meat.
  But the mercenary was half a hand taller than Ramthor, well ar-
  mored in steely scales and a helmet that gathered his mane into
  a topknot flowing out through a narrow ring at the top. He
  carried a gleaming broad sword and a punch dagger with a hilt
  set with amber. His fur was clean, his leggings embroidered
  with giantish patterns. This was a wealthy warrior, indeed.
  “Where would I find the speaker?” said Ramthor.
  “In the city center,” said the mercenary. “But bathe first. You
  have the dust of the outlands on you still. And maybe fleas!”
  He guffawed and walked off with his friends down the street.
  Ramthor’s claws twitched, but he had sworn vengeance against
  the Black Beast. A slayer’s oath would tax all his strength. On
  the plains, Ramthor never left a challenge unanswered, but here
  in the giant city, what use was it to fight a stranger over a trifle?
  He had a plan to kill the beast. Nothing else mattered.
  Perhaps he was learning city ways after all.
  * * * * *
  Ramthor traded untanned water bison hides, plus their teeth
  and horns, to one of the furriers in De-Shamod’s great market
  for enough golden queens and silver deuces to keep him, the
  children, and his elders fed and sheltered for a few days. The
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  P R I D E
  120
  
  herds of Gahanis. Three tribes asked the speaker for food, gold,
  and shelter; he granted this to one of them, whose members
  were clearly starving. Two other tribes asked to join the giant’s
  legions; all were told that both male and female warriors would
  be accepted and granted giant-forged armor and weapons, but
  their children must be fostered to other tribes. Their tribal
  names would end, and the litorians would take on legion
  names. One tribe agreed; the other found the price too steep.
  “Ramthor, hunting chieftain of the Swiftfoot tribe, approach
  the speaker and state your case,” said the clerk, his high voice
  ringing to the rafters.
  Ramthor stepped forward; he did not need to look back to
  know that Nunchot, Agemtat, and Old Elemarra followed him.
  He opened his arms wide and bowed to Speaker Malethar,
  looking up to find the black-maned litorian watching him with
  dull eyes. The lazy hours of talk had made Malethar sluggish.
  Perhaps Ramthor could turn this to his advantage.
  “Mighty Speaker, I am Ramthor, the hunting chieftain of the
  Swiftfoot, son of Fellthor and Smilara, and latest victim of the
  Black Beast of Mount Herrosh.” Ramthor straightened up and
  pointed toward the mountain. “For all of the spring and
  summer, it has stolen our kills, just as it stole the kills of the
  Three Stripes and the White Claws, who have already spoken
  here. We ask for no gold, no food, no shelter.”
  “Then what do you want, Swiftfoot?” asked Speaker Malethar.
  “We are a hunting tribe, not a city tribe, though our num-
  bers have been cut in half and we have had no time to grieve.
  We ask for vengeance.” 
  The speaker’s eyes cleared as Ramthor spoke. His nose
  wrinkled as at a bad smell. “The beast you speak of is a
  dragon, Swiftfoot. It and its kind have sent emissaries and
  seek an understanding with the giants of the Diamond
  Throne. They may agree not to attack the people of the giant
  lands, as long as they are left unmolested in return.”
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  P R I D E
  remaining hunters settled in at the sign of the Fish and Ferry,
  by the river water where the giants’ deep voices rang all day
  along the docks. Ramthor and the elders groomed themselves
  and donned sets of the overrobes worn to audiences in the
  giantish court. The White Claw assured them that the Speaker
  for the Litorians, Malethar, listened to anyone who visited and
  did not demand bribes the way some other speakers did. Many
  litorian refugees in the city had pleaded with him before for
  food, shelter, and new hunting grounds. So far, Malethar
  seemed to have listened a great deal and spoken rather little.
  The audience day was Waday, beginning at dawn and going
  until the last litorian left the hall. Ramthor, Nunchot, clever
  Agemtat, and Old Elemarra went to the Speaker’s Hall, leaving
  fat Ennerung to watch over the rest of the tribe. They strode in,
  their claws clicking on the cold marble, and asked to add their
  names to the list of supplicants. No one opposed them, and a
  small sibeccai clerk politely wrote down their names and the
  name of the Swiftfoot. Ramthor swelled a little with pride. His
  people would stand before the speaker, as good as any other
  tribe. Better, perhaps, for they had faced the beast and could tell
  the speaker how to defeat it, how many of the litorian mercenar-
  ies in their silver scales it would be best to send. The Swiftfoot
  would be the eyes and scouts for the sword of the giants’ army.
  Ramthor’s grin at the thought was not a pleasant grin. He could
  almost taste the sour dragon flesh between his claws already.
  The meaning of the list soon became clear, though. Many
  other tribes had come to complain. Each told of hunting
  grounds thinned by the flying threat of hungry dragons. Some
  sounded like the Black Beast, though others called it the Pass
  Dragon, or the Demon of Mount Herrosh. Others were clearly
  different animals: the scarlet-orange dragon called the Hound
  of the Verrik in the distant southern plains, the greenish-yellow-
  brown beast called the River Drinker ranging along the Ghost-
  wash, the pale white Moonlight Rustler devastating the cattle
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  W O L F G A N G  B A U R
  
  tribe lies dead on Mount Herrosh. Do not be a fool and throw
  away the other half as well.”
  Ramthor hesitated only a moment. “The Swiftfoot can hold
  their own.” He thought he heard a snicker from the sibeccai
  clerk or one of the waiting petitioners, but his gaze stayed fixed
  on the speaker. His blood ran hot. “A tribe that does not defend
  its territory is no tribe at all. You are nothing more than sibeccai
  jackals—scavengers.” He heard the sharp intake of breath from
  the sibeccai and human members of the audience. 
  “You insult the giants and their friends. Begone, and do not
  return,” said the speaker, gesturing to brush them away with
  one heavy clawed hand. 
  Ramthor laughed. “Insults mean nothing; actions are the
  measure of a warrior. I thank you for listening to our plea,
  speaker. We will find new hunting grounds without your assis-
  tance.” It was a lie, but the giants would lock him up if they
  knew what was really in his heart.
  Ramthor turned and left, his knuckles white, his heart
  pounding. 
  * * * * *
  The meeting had failed. The elder women would have been
  furious, but few of them had survived the dragon’s assault.
  Ramthor left his tribemates, avoiding Elemarra the akashic, for
  the cagey old woman always asked sharp questions he did not
  want to answer. No one should know all his plans before he was
  ready. 
  Ramthor immediately made the rounds of the Swiftfoot’s
  closest friends and allies, then other drifting refugees and tribal
  remnants. Some greeted him with hands on hilts, suspicion in
  every twitching whisker, but most were pleased to hear of a
  dragon hunt. It was unheard of, bold—a thing of sheer bravado
  that any litorian thought a noble cause.  Most were too polite
  to mention that it was likely suicide. 
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  “And they may not agree!” said Ramthor.
  “If your tribe is half-dead, chieftain,” said the Speaker, “look
  to your own foolishness and mend your ways.”
  “The beast kills us slowly by stealing the meat from our mouths.
  To allow it to starve us this way is shameful,” said Ramthor.
  Speaker Malethar sighed. “I have heard this pride before, and
  it accomplishes nothing. To seek vengeance against the dragon
  is to seek your own destruction.”
  “With the help of a company of litorian warriors, the thing is
  done! Surely it is not wrong to want to keep one’s kills, to feed
  the children and the whitemaned elderly? Why do you side with
  this monster against your own people?” Ramthor’s voice rose.
  “The giants have forbidden it. Reprisal against the dragons is
  more than a tribal matter; it could drag us all into war. A war we
  are in no wise ready for.” The speaker’s eyes narrowed. “With
  your rage, you would be better served to join the legions,
  Ramthor. Your people’s skills are known, their scouting and
  cleverness. Join the legions defending De-Shamod, instead of
  bringing ruin upon the giants and our people alike. I can grant
  you a captain’s rank, if your warriors and shaman join with
  you.”
  Ramthor almost snarled, but caution held him back. He
  bared his teeth and spoke in a roar. “It is not to serve the giants
  that we came! We seek our lands, and if you will not help us
  keep them, we will defend them ourselves!”
  “No, you will not, for I forbid it in the name of the giants’
  kingdom,” said the speaker. He half-turned away to face his
  clerk, as if the conversation were already over.
  “It is not my kingdom you speak for, then,” said Ramthor.
  “My kingdom is found in the tall grasses of the plains, not the
  stone and the river and the sea. If the giants will do nothing to
  help me, then I likewise owe them nothing.”
  The speaker turned back to face Ramthor, his lips pulled
  back from his bright fangs. “You have already said half your
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  W O L F G A N G  B A U R
  
  By the full moon, Ramthor was almost done with his efforts to
  gather new strength for his venture. He had decided not to ques-
  tion just the hunting chieftains, but also to recruit among the
  young warriors, those with the hottest blood and sharpest taste
  for revenge. Even among the elders he found a few sympathetic
  ears, refugees who smiled all the way to their fangs when he sug-
  gested that a dragon could be killed, if only there were enough
  hands and enough spears. The akashics of the city spoke their se-
  crets to Elemarra. Every litorian hand turned to help Ramthor’s
  scheme, but still he worried. He had never hunted with these
  tribes before. Sheer numbers could help, but could also just get
  in each other’s way. He wished for something greater, a weapon
  or a witchery that would guarantee victory. He shook his head
  sadly; he was old enough to know no hunter was ever guaranteed
  a kill. Sheer courage and thicker shields would have to do.
  The next morning, a note arrived from Speaker Malethar
  asking him to appear and explain his intentions at the court.
  Ramthor ignored the summons but stopped leaving the tribe’s
  quarters alone: Nunchot and some of the White Claws became
  his constant companions. Not everyone hindered him; some
  meant well. Even the litorian guards who had insulted him in
  the street took the time to find him and warn him off, saying
  that his arrest was certain unless he left or stopped agitating for
  a dragon hunt.
  Though nine tribes claimed they would help, in the end just
  five other shattered tribes joined them on the trail north and
  west from De-Shamod. Outside the city gates, they met seven
  tribeless young bravos, males with thick manes and (perhaps)
  empty heads. All told, there were Ramthor, Nunchot, clever
  Agemtat, fat Ennerung, and twenty-nine warriors of the White
  Claw, Sunsnake, Blackmane, and other tribes. They left early,
  before the dawn. By the time the morning mist had burned
  away, they were miles away, loping steadily through the chest-
  high grasses, eating up the miles.
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  P R I D E
  Nine hunting chieftains pledged their support when he ap-
  proached them at the city wells or taverns; four of those came
  slinking back to the Swiftfoot and White Claw encampment
  carrying their elders’ denials between their teeth.  A few singers
  even began telling the tale of the Black Beast in the taverns,
  though they all sang it as a tale of tribal death foretold, a
  tragedy that simply hadn’t come to fruition yet.
  Several times he saw a grey-cloaked sibeccai merchant follow-
  ing him from the taverns to his quarters, but the man never ap-
  proached him. Let him report to his giantish masters, let him
  lick their boots and spin his tales.
  Some of the work was haggling. Usually the Swiftfoot visited
  the outskirts of De-Shamod at the end of the hunting season to
  trade for salt, spices, cloth, and jewels. This time, Ramthor and
  Nunchot gathered all the axes and boar spears they could, as
  well as a shield for each warrior, wood and iron thick enough to
  turn dragon fire. He traded their light hunting crossbow for a
  heavy crossbow able to punch through black scales as thick as a
  litorian wrist. Again Ramthor spotted the grey-cloaked sibeccai,
  though this time he seemed to be purchasing some needlelike
  throwing daggers. Perhaps the giants and their servants did not
  approve of his warlike talk or of uniting the tribes for a hunt.
  That night, Ramthor was stopped by the city watch and
  asked a few sharp questions: “Why are you buying shields for
  war? Are you a rebel against the Diamond Throne? Why have
  you not left town as you said you would?” Ramthor had no an-
  swers, and spoke meekly. It didn’t help; two members of the
  city watch pinned his arms as their captain barked in his face
  and finally beat him with truncheons until it became clear that
  Ramthor was simply going to remain silent. He crawled back to
  the small house favored by the White Claws, who took him in
  and made a fuss over his bloodied fur. The next morning,
  Ramthor began using messengers to do his bidding, asking
  others to visit him instead of showing himself on the streets.
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  W O L F G A N G  B A U R
  
  sweetened with honey and spiced with cloves to hide the taste.
  He held her hand to anchor her as she slid into the akashic
  memory. Elemarra lay on soft furs atop the Spiral Stone, whis-
  pering secrets in a voice not her own. Sometimes she stayed
  silent for long minutes, but again and again she spoke.
  “The dragons have driven the litorians from the plains many
  times.” A long pause. “Our ancestors fled south.” Another
  pause. “But the dragonslayers of the Red Axe tribe found the
  three Great Strikes.” 
  Ramthor’s ears perked up. “Tell me, Elemarra, what are
  they?” he said. “What do my hunters need to know?” She
  seemed not to hear him, but snuffled into the furs. The old
  woman shifted left and right, as if buffeted by spirits around
  her. She mumbled again, louder.
  “What? You must tell me!” Ramthor hoped that the akashic
  memory could pull something, some distant ancestor’s blessing,
  from the mists. He had never really respected the elderly
  woman before, but he swore silently that this would change if
  only they could grant him this secret. He wanted to shake her
  old bones, but feared breaking her trance. The minutes crawled
  by. Elemarra began to drool. Perhaps the old akashic was reach-
  ing too far into the past? When had dragons last been seen in
  this land? Could she be lost among the ghosts of their ances-
  tors? Ramthor worried that she might not come back.
  Nothing had ever sounded so sweet as Elemarra’s thin voice, qua-
  vering, “The wing lock, the eye strike, and the pale throat scale.”
  “Tell me more,” said Ramthor, softly. And she did. She spoke
  though the whole of the deep night, ever so slowly, carefully,
  and bloodcurdlingly filling his ears with the hunting secrets of
  litorian dragonslayers ten thousand years dead.
  That night, Ramthor dreamed of his father, his grandfather,
  and ancestors so ancient he could only tremble before them.
  Over and over, he pictured the strikes Elemarra had described
  to him, felt the leap in his legs, reached through scales with a
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  P R I D E
  * * * * *
  Two days outside the city, it was clear that the giants were pursu-
  ing them, as an enormous Hu-Charad captain leading two dozen
  swift, jackal-like sibeccai paralleled their course. Some of the scouts
  reported that a grey-cloaked sibeccai witch of some kind led them.
  Ramthor growled low; they would be shadowed every step. He had
  hoped not to waste time putting the giants off the scent outside
  the city, but he had no choice. He turned and led the tribes south,
  away from their territories on Mount Herrosh, toward the grounds
  of the Blackmanes where the Spiral Stone stood, a place of good
  omen. As soon as the giants and their sibeccai were convinced
  that they were not going back to Mount Herrosh, they lost
  interest, and one morning they were simply gone.
  Ramthor didn’t quite believe they’d give up so easily. In the end,
  the tribe spent a week at the Spiral Stone. Elemarra sought out
  Ramthor the first night. “I have not been idle while you gathered
  our strength in the city. The other elders and akashics believe that
  this stone holds a great secret of the dragon times of old.”
  “What makes you think so?” said Ramthor. Like the others,
  he had touched the gritty warmth of Spiral Stone for luck as
  they arrived, but did not give it another thought.
  Elemarra said, “I have sought answers from the akashic
  memory, and I am close to some of them now. Others are too
  far from recent memory to capture, even with a mind as old as
  mine. The Spiral Stone is an akashic node. It makes it easier to
  reach into the past, and easier to hold your kill.”
  “Well, good,” said Ramthor. That was plain enough to un-
  derstand. “So work your hunt and tell me what you learn.”
  “It’s not something I can do alone. I need a hunter’s mind
  and a hunter’s understanding of what I learn.”  
  Reluctantly, Ramthor agreed, although the akashic’s ability to
  consult the memories of the ancestors made his fur stand on
  end. Elemarra gave him a mixture of herbs and bitter roots,
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  flesh at the joints and eye sockets, a crest of pure white spines.
  Its fangs dripped with hunger, and its eyes darted from one lito-
  rian to the next. 
  The dragon’s charge was very, very quick, and its neck darted
  forward even faster. Ramthor barely had time to shout and raise
  his pike from the dust; Nunchot and Agemtat were faster, and
  the young Sunsnake volunteer the fastest of them all. All four
  pikes splintered under the dragon’s charge, but one of the pike
  heads had struck home—the dragon’s own weight had driven it
  onto the blade. The dragon held the young Sunsnake in its jaws
  for a moment, then bit him in half. Ramthor, Nunchot, and
  Agemtat fled before it could choose another victim.
  They would not have made it but for Old Elemarra’s en-
  chantment, which had concealed their true numbers, obscuring
  fifteen Sunsnake and White Claws under a haze of heat shim-
  mer and sun glare. From every side, Ramthor saw the roaring
  litorian warriors emerge out of ambush, booming their battle
  cries that they could not hear, for they had sealed their ears
  with wax to protect against the dragon’s roar. 
  To one side, he saw the White Claw chieftain signal, “Now!”
  followed by the satisfying thwack of crossbow quarrels. Four
  scratched the scales but slid off, but one buried itself deep in
  the dragon’s haunches. Another buried itself in the creature’s
  wing, pinning it to its side. The dragon hopped to its right,
  away from the volley, and raised its wing, tearing a bloody hole
  in the black surface where the quarrel had been.
  Ramthor felt the beast’s inrush of breath and saw its neck
  rear back. Its tail swept a handful of White Claw warriors aside
  like dolls, and one of the White Claws landed head-first against
  a stone. Two dead already, and the battle only joined for a few
  heartbeats.
  Ramthor remembered light-maned Talesh, turned to ashes
  before his eyes, and he threw his spear as carefully as spear-eyed
  Jossa, with all the speed and muscle of heavy Grunfess. Every
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  P R I D E
  steel edge that was his own right hand. Elemarra had spoken of
  hundreds of dragonslayers who had died, describing each fall in
  bloody detail. He would not fail his people. He could not. Such
  a thing must not be.
  * * * * *
  In the days that followed, the combined tribes of litorians
  moved over the grasslands, not bothering to hide themselves
  from the dragon. Indeed, they made their campfires more
  numerous, left their droppings clustered close together, the
  scent trail strong. Let the dragon come; they had dared attack it
  and they would not live in fear. And indeed, the dragon often
  flew along the horizon, but it left them alone.
  A week later, the scouts found one of the dragon’s favorite
  watering holes. It was nesting season for the flightless axebirds,
  and the dragon killed and ate dozens of them and their young
  by the waterhole, feathers and all. The scouts approached the
  nesting grounds a few times, but they fled whenever the dragon
  roared or made a scouting pass. The dragon grew accustomed
  to seeing the hunters flee. 
  They fled half a hundred times until one day, the dragon
  again saw the grasses and savannah shrubs by the waterhole,
  and the body of a striding axebird, and four litorians hunkered
  over their kill, just as the hunters had intended it should see.
  The dragon landed heavily beside the waterhole, half a bowshot
  from the axebird's carcass, its wings stirring up a few feathers and
  a scattering of dry grass. Its veined, bluish-black wings quickly
  folded back, and the dragon raised its neck, trumpeting its arrival
  with a sound loud enough to shake the dust off its back. But the
  four litorians at their kill did not scatter, as they usually did. In-
  stead, they picked up their spears and turned to form a line
  abreast between the dragon and the raw reek of fresh blood.
  The dragon did not hesitate. Roaring, it gathered itself, a
  mountain of black and brown mottled scales, hints of violet
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  W O L F G A N G  B A U R
  
  volley, but their aim was shaky from fear and rage. Ramthor
  thought that the hunters’ numbers would tell in the end, but
  they were losing those numbers much more quickly than he’d
  expected. Again the beast unleashed its blazing fire, and
  Ramthor rolled away barely in time. Others were not so quick.
  Ramthor stepped to the opposite side, turning his head away
  from the blazing light and concentrating on the pattern of its
  throat scales. If the akashic whisper was right, the weak point
  was so high that only a leap could reach it. Even the length of
  his war axe might not be quite enough to reach if the dragon’s
  head reared up. He moved in and out, trying to get close when
  the dragon’s head darted down to strike. Behind him, he heard
  a hunter turn and run.
  Keeping his concentration was difficult, as the dragon struck
  sharply at anyone close and kept turning to lash along its sides
  with tail and wing. Wherever the dragon turned, the litorians
  struck from the off side, leaping over its lashing tail and one
  striking wing, darting in to throw a javelin at point-blank range
  or to slip in low and strike at the underbelly. 
  Slowly, slowly, like a giant ground sloth, its blood drained
  away and its reactions slowed. But not fast enough. It had al-
  ready killed at least ten hunters, and wounded eight more so
  they could not continue. The hunting party was coming apart.
  Ramthor looked and saw Nunchot, Elemarra, and three elder
  White Claws with crossbows. Only fat Ennerung and five Sun-
  snakes and Blackmanes were still at close quarters with the
  beast. They’d all be dead in another minute.
  Still Ramthor waited, watching the steady rhythm of the
  hunters and their prey, the same rhythm he had seen at the
  akashic node. Without thought, he saw his chance, saw the pale
  scale at the dragon’s weak point, and charged forward in a rush.
  His arms and legs, tired from constant movement and the long
  grinding fight, felt as light as puffseeds on the wind. He planted
  his feet and leapt for the beast’s throat, axe already swinging.
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  P R I D E
  one of his father’s fathers was in that spear-cast, every blessing
  of the elders, and yet the spear itself felt as light as a clump of
  fur, shed and drifting in the summer haze. The spear flew
  straight and high, into the dragon’s left eye, an eye the blue of
  summer horizons. The beast choked, its blue flame coughed up
  into the air instead of down onto the hunters.
  Clever Agemtat stepped forward with his axe while the beast
  was still clawing at an eye, and hacked at the injured wing. If
  the beast got off the ground, it might still recover and return to
  exact a heavy price from hunting camps for hundreds of miles
  around. Agemtat struck at the wing joint with a full swing and
  connected, but was himself knocked sprawling when the huge
  wing twitched in response. The axe flew from his hand, and he
  did not get up. 
  The dragon whirled, knocking down seven or eight litorians
  all along one flank, but there were too many, and its wing was
  too injured. Agemtat’s axe seemed to have done its work. The
  injured wing scraped across the ground, stirring up the dust
  and hampering every move the dragon made. 
  For a time, the hunters circled to stay on its blind side,
  hoping the dragon’s exhaustion and pain would do their work
  for them. But the beast was cannier than Ramthor suspected.
  The dragging wing, the blinded weak side, none of it was as
  bad as the wyrm pretended. The three boldest hunters rushed
  it, trying to finish the beast quickly. Roaring, it folded the
  wounded wing back along the length of its body with a snap in
  the air and rushed to meet their charge, catching the leading
  hunter in its claws. Reaching down, it snapped the spine of the
  second with a bite, and it caught the last with a blast of violet
  fire as he turned to run. 
  The older hunters reloaded the crossbows, and others stood
  their ground with spears set to defend them. Six dead already,
  and yet the beast was still strong enough to chase them, bold
  enough to roar its challenges. The old hunters loosed the second
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  Elemarra, then to whitemane Nunchot and fat Ennerung. The
  blood tasted foul, but to Ramthor it was sweet as giantish wine,
  and surely as intoxicating. Ramthor and the others each ate a
  handful of the dragon’s uncooked flesh, reptilian and gamy.
  Their names would be remembered. Every hunt was a tally of
  small victories and small defeats, this tally mark cut a little
  deeper than most. No sibeccai, no giant had believed in this
  hunt, no domesticated mercenary or scavenger would share in
  its feast. Every year when the winter rains came, the shamans
  would tell the tale around the campfire. Surely it would be told
  to his children and grandchildren: the tale of the dragon hunt,
  and the return of the Central Plains hunting grounds to the
  litorians.
  In days to come, the giants would hear about this battle, and
  the taste of hot blood and the joy of victory would fade. The
  giants would declare them outlaws and promise severe reprisals
  against the Swiftfoot, Blackmane, Sunsnake, and White Claw.
  The giant’s patrols might find them, tracked by sibeccai noses
  and sorcery. Other dragons might seek to collect a blood price,
  chasing litorians and killing their youngest and oldest. It didn’t
  matter; worrying wouldn’t change the truth. The land was
  theirs. Ramthor and his hunters had triumphed over a dragon.
  Even if their tribes were scattered and destroyed, their names
  would live on, in the akashic memory and in litorian legend.
  They had silenced the dragon’s roar and soon would teach
  others to do the same. They had fought together, and won to-
  gether, not as separate tribes but as one pride, and one people.
  Ramthor bellowed his victory call, a blood-dark summons to
  eat from the hands of the hunters. No one was going to push
  him and his brothers off this kill. No one would dare. 
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  P R I D E
  The dragon saw his charge, but was engaged with two Black-
  manes trying to gut it. Somehow it pulled back its scaly neck
  and struck out with a claw, cutting Ramthor’s fine steel scales
  like the skin of a fish. Ramthor’s thigh burned as the claw
  ripped it open, but then his axe struck home. The dragon’s neck
  twitched in reaction, and Ramthor was thrown to the earth
  with the crack of broken ribs.
  The ancestors had not lied, and Old Elemarra’s faint whispers
  from the akashic memory had been right. The pale throat scale
  lay shattered to prove it. The death throes were hard to see; the
  beast moved in a quick circle and threw up dust in all direc-
  tions, scattering the hunters in fear of a last charge. When the
  dust settled, Ramthor saw that its wing lay twisted on the
  ground, and the dragon’s neck was sprawled in the dirt. No one
  could believe it was dead, and yet it lay there, unmoving.
  Ramthor rushed in close and saw that the beast was paralyzed,
  its neck broken but its breath still rasping. He stepped up,
  raised his axe to the heavens, and struck the death-blow, sepa-
  rating its head from the body and tumbling the head with its
  one remaining heaven-blue eye into the dust.
  * * * * *
  In the end, the hunters lost fully fifteen of their number, and
  nine were injured, the chieftain of the White Claw among them.
  They counted it a price worth paying for the loss of their com-
  rades, children, and elders, the months of starvation, the shame
  that the beast had wrought on a hunting nation. More than that:
  Clever Agemtat had lingered among them for long minutes
  before his cracked skull killed him, and he kept saying the same
  words as he lay dying: “I am proud to have taken my death-blow
  here, with you, today.” Perhaps he could not hear their answers;
  the dragon’s roar had deafened many despite their precautions.
  Ramthor was the first to open the dragon heart vein, gather-
  ing the drops in a wooden cup and offering them first to Old
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  W O L F G A N G  B A U R
  
  He staggered into the brightness and twenty yards farther,
  then slumped down on the ground, spent. It’s over, he told him-
  self, and I only did what I had to do. What I vowed to do.
  * * * * *
  The sheep ran back and forth, but their plight was hopeless.
  Springing, its prodigious bat wings beating, the gigantic reptile
  repeatedly bounded over them, planted itself in front of them,
  and slaughtered more, with a snap of its jaws, a swipe of its
  talons, or a puff of fiery breath.
  Watching from a stand of oaks, Dathred knew the dragon
  was a wonder and could even see that, with its glittering scarlet
  scales and pale golden pinions, it was beautiful. But he didn’t
  care. He was too sick with anger. And guilt.
  “You’re the village champion,” said Mabbor, the stooped,
  wizened shepherd. “Do something!”
  “There’s nothing I can do,” Dathred said. “Not alone. I sent
  to Navael for help.”
  “Which will take weeks getting here, if it comes at all,”
  Mabbor said. “By then, that thing will have destroyed all the
  livestock, torn up all the crops, and most likely started killing
  people when it needs a new amusement.”
  The dragon pulped the last ewe with a flick of its serpentine
  tail, then leaped into the air and flew away without even eating
  any of its kill.
  “I’m sorry,” Dathred said. “Truly. If I thought I had one
  chance in a thousand of defeating a wyrm . . .”
  The old man made a sour face. “It’s all right. Everybody knows
  you’re no coward, and no one wants you to throw your life away.”
  Forgiveness only made Dathred feel more useless.
  For the rest of the day and into the night, he walked the hills
  and moors, pondering, and, when his wits failed him, even asking
  the gods for help. He’d never placed any stock in such beings, but
  if dragons still walked the earth, maybe deities were real as well.
  137
  A
  t first, intermittent flares of yellow light illuminated the
  tunnel. Then Dathred ran around a bend, and all was
  darkness, though he could still hear the roaring and
  scuttling. He raced blindly onward, upward, stumbling, banging
  his toes against stalagmites, until the clamor of battle faded.
  Finally, panting, the warrior—a short, sturdily built man in
  his middle years, with auburn hair just beginning to go white—
  stumbled to a halt. Standing still made it easier to invoke his
  abilities. He asked for light and felt a sudden stab of fear that
  none would appear. That he was now unworthy to receive it.
  But a ball of pearly glow flowered in the air and floated along
  before him as he resumed his flight.
  He had to squint when he reached the mouth of the
  cavern, because the afternoon sun still shone outside. It was
  difficult to believe he’d descended into the earth such a short
  time ago.
  136
  R I C H A R D  L E E  B Y E R S
  V O W S
  V O W S
  
  “Gold and jewels.” The legends said dragons lusted after
  treasure. Dathred could only hope they spoke true. “Obviously,
  my friends and I don’t possess them ourselves. But I can show
  you where to get them, because I know where the wyrms of old
  made their lairs, before you all flew into the West. It’s said the
  ancient drakes left much of their hoards behind.”
  “And you humans know where this wealth can be found, but
  in all the centuries since, no one has bothered to plunder it?”
  It was a shrewd question. Dathred felt himself start to sweat.
  “The stories tell of a curse. But you needn’t fear it, because you
  won’t come as a thief. Your ancestors’ wealth is rightfully yours.”
  The reptile’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose it would be. So, you’ll
  lead me to a place where dragons dwelled, and if we find treas-
  ure there, I’ll leave the farmers and their chattels alone there-
  after. Is that the bargain?”
  “Yes.”
  The creature stood silent, considering, until Dathred thought
  the waiting would make him scream. At last it said, “I take you
  for a knight, or something comparable.”
  “Something comparable, yes.”
  “Then swear on your honor to be my true and faithful guide.”
  Dathred felt a pang of dismay. In point of fact, he was a cham-
  pion of light, pledged to uphold goodness and truth. In conse-
  quence, though he might on occasion employ trickery to mislead
  a foe, his actual oath was sacred, and he’d never broken it.
  Yet he’d also vowed to protect Rosehill, come what might, and
  surely that promise took precedence over any pledge extorted by
  a heartless monster. He drew the broadsword hanging at his hip,
  pressed it to his heart, and swore as the dragon bade him.
  This isn’t a real vow, he insisted to himself, just a ploy. I’m
  only swearing on a piece of steel, not my sword of light. Still, it
  was hard to force the words out.
  When he finished, the dragon said, “Since we’re to travel to-
  gether, what do I call you?”
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  V O W S
  Perhaps one of them even whispered the scheme that finally
  popped into his head, though it seemed unlikely a god would
  conceive of anything so hare-brained.
  * * * * *
  Dathred hummed a marching song as he traversed the heath
  where the dragon went to rest. He didn’t want the creature to
  think he was trying to creep up on it.
  In fact, it was the reptile that surprised him, suddenly rearing
  up from the grass, where it seemed impossible that anything so
  immense could lie unnoticed. The yellow, slit-pupiled eyes glared
  from the wedge-shaped crimson head with its crest and frills.
  Badly startled, Dathred nearly summoned his sword and shield
  of light into his hands as a reflex. He caught himself just in time,
  though, and bowed instead, as he’d once bowed to stewards,
  speakers, and nobles in the more populous lands to the south.
  The wyrm just kept on staring, until he feared his nerve
  would break beneath the pressure of its gaze. At last it said,
  “What do you want?” Its voice, though deep, was higher and
  softer than any tone he would have expected from such a long,
  enormous throat. Its breath smelled of burning.
  “To bargain,” he replied.
  Though a dragon’s mouth was formed differently than a
  man’s, the wyrm demonstrated that it could nonetheless
  manage a sneer. “For your life?”
  Dathred swallowed. “For the life of Rosehill—my village.
  You kill our animals and trample our crops. Just for sport, as far
  as we can tell. We can’t survive if you destroy our food.”
  The dragon flipped its golden wings in a gesture like a shrug.
  “What do I care? You’re not my kind. If you can’t live near me,
  move elsewhere.”
  “We’d rather pay you to go away.”
  The wyrm snorted. “With what? Goats? Cabbages? A wattle
  hut?”
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  “Interesting.”
  Dathred couldn’t imagine why. It seemed too humble and
  homely a matter to interest a horror out of legend. “Do dragons
  get the catarrh?”
  Amberwing made a rumbling sound. It alarmed Dathred for
  an instant, until he recognized it for a chuckle. “No,” the rep-
  tile said. “I just have a . . . curiosity about this land. Since I’m
  going to make my home here from now on.”
  “Why? Is it better than the place where you drakes have
  spent the last however many ages it’s been?”
  Amberwing grunted. “It’s supposed to be.”
  “Because if it’s not, what’s the point of returning and trou-
  bling the folk who never left? I mean, if you have a country all
  your own—”
  He heard, or perhaps only sensed, a surge of motion at his
  back. He tried to pivot to face it, to defend himself if possible,
  but he was too slow. Claws as long as scimitars seized him and
  slammed him to the ground. Amberwing lowered his head to
  glare at him. Smoke fumed from the wyrm’s nostrils and maw.
  “Your folk mean nothing to me,” the reptile said, “and I’ll
  settle where I please.”
  “Evidently I’ve offended you somehow,” Dathred wheezed.
  The drake was squeezing and squashing the breath out of him.
  “But if you kill me, you’ll never find the treasure.”
  “I . . . don’t mean to hurt you,” said Amberwing. He released
  Dathred and stepped back, giving the human room to stand
  up. “But stop prattling about matters you can’t understand.”
  “As you wish.” Dathred hesitated. “Shall we continue on?”
  When Amberwing agreed, the champion found it required an
  effort of will to turn his back on his titanic companion once more.
  After a while, the drake asked, “How do you name the white
  birds with the brown spots on their wings?”
  * * * * *
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  V O W S
  “Dathred.”
  “And I’m the lord Sjakrinshyamandalac.”
  “Sja . . . Sjakrinkee . . .”
  The dragon spat a wisp of smoke. “Don’t tie your tongue in a
  knot. In your speech, it means ‘Amberwing.’”
  * * * * *
  Even Amberwing seemed surprised by the edge of the Har-
  rowdeep, by the hugeness of the mossy tree trunks, the density
  of the brush, and the sudden dimness when the foliage over-
  head blocked out the sun. “It will be slow going,” he said.
  “We’ll find trails farther in,” Dathred replied.
  “Still, when I think how easily we could fly over it . . .”
  “I told you, I couldn’t locate the cave from the air. That’s not
  how I’m accustomed to finding my way, and the branches are
  too thick to let me spot landmarks on the ground.”
  The dragon grunted. “Lead on, then.”
  Oh, I will, Dathred thought. He’d lead Amberwing in circles
  as long as he dared. It would buy time for the soldiers from
  Navael to reach the village.
  They hiked without speaking for a while. Considering his
  size and weight, Amberwing’s progress through the under-
  growth and over dry, fallen leaves was miraculously, eerily quiet.
  The thought of his false oath wore at Dathred like a stone in a
  shoe. He tried to dismiss it and concentrate on watching for
  dangers, which the vast forest possessed in abundance.
  Eventually, Amberwing jerked his head to point to a delicate
  pink blossom adorning a vine. “What’s this?”
  Dathred blinked in surprise at the question. “Maidenblush.
  Doesn’t it grow where you come from?”
  “No. Nor does this.” The dragon pointed a curved, gleaming
  talon at a bush with dark, furry leaves.
  “That’s sourroot. The healers brew it into a nasty tea and
  make you drink it when you have a cough.”
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  R I C H A R D  L E E  B Y E R S
  
  On their fifth night in the forest, Amberwing said, “You keep
  watch for once.” He lay down, curled into a ball, and the lids
  drooped down over his feline eyes.
  Dathred’s heart beat faster, for it was the first time Amber-
  wing had sought to sleep. Dragons evidently didn’t need it as
  often as men, and the warrior had nearly abandoned hope of
  gaining such an opportunity.
  He waited until the wyrm’s breathing became slow and shal-
  low, then rose silently to his feet. Now was the time to summon
  his sword of light. Because, while he had no hope of besting a
  dragon in anything approximating a fair fight, he just might be
  able to kill a slumbering one.
  But his heart rebelled at the thought of using his sacred gifts
  to strike such a foul blow. He eased his steel sword out of the
  scabbard instead. Poised it to thrust. Balked.
  Because he didn’t want to be a traitor and oathbreaker.
  He told himself his reluctance was ridiculous. His pledge to
  the dragon was no true vow, and in any case, he’d started violat-
  ing it the instant they sealed their bargain. It was days too late
  for qualms and reservations.
  By the moon and stars, he had to take this chance! Otherwise,
  he truly was false: to the village. To his genuine oath and allegiance.
  But he couldn’t. Not with his mind muddled and divided. He
  needed to clear his head, and it would be difficult to do it
  standing over Amberwing. The spectacle of the dragon’s vulner-
  ability, the trust manifest in his willingness to sleep in his com-
  panion’s presence, made Dathred feel vile and ashamed.
  He crept some distance away, then stood steeling himself for
  the task at hand, breathing hard as if performing some arduous
  labor. Until the stone whizzed out of the darkness and hit him
  in the head.
  Only his helmet kept the blow from smashing his skull, as
  his brigandine somewhat blunted the impacts of the volley of
  rocks that followed an instant later. He staggered, and shadows
  rushed him. They were half again as tall as a man, gaunt and
  long-armed, with noses like spikes or hooks. Trolls!
  Dathred’s head rang from the knock it had taken, and he
  struggled to shake off the shock of it. He dropped his mundane
  weapon and evoked his sword and shield of light, both shining
  as if formed of curdled moonlight. Then the first of the man-
  eaters shambled into striking distance.
  The troll clawed at him. He defended with the shield and
  slashed open its belly. It reeled back, but now, from the corner
  of his eye, he glimpsed another on his flank. As he pivoted, it
  bobbed its head down to bite. He met the attack with a stop
  cut to its spindly neck. The blade sent its head flying, and the
  body fell . . .then started sluggishly groping about, seeking what
  it had lost, for that was the way of trolls. They were hellishly
  difficult to kill.
  Dathred crippled a third creature, maimed a fourth. Then
  something hit him in the back of the head. He pitched forward
  onto his knees, and the trolls swarmed onto him.
  A prodigious roar split the night, followed at once by a
  plume of flame. Kneeling, Dathred flinched from the heat but
  remained untouched by the actual fire. The trolls clustered
  around him were less fortunate. The flare charred their flesh
  and set their manes of snaky hair ablaze.
  The attack killed several of them outright. The survivors bolted.
  Amberwing looked about, making sure the skirmish was over,
  then stalked up to Dathred. “Are you all right?” the dragon asked.
  Dathred checked and found he was, more or less, although
  the trolls’ raking talons had torn his brigandine in several
  places. “Yes.”
  “You’re lucky the commotion woke me. What were you
  doing, wandering off alone?”
  Still rattled by his narrow escape, the champion fumbled for
  a serviceable explanation. “You don’t want me pissing in the
  middle of our campsite, do you?”
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  V O W S
  R I C H A R D  L E E  B Y E R S
  142
  
  “I suppose not.”
  “I . . . was lucky you were here. Thank you.”
  Amberwing grinned. “You said it yourself. If I lose you, I lose
  the treasure.”
  That was it, of course. He’d rescued Dathred for purely self-
  ish reasons. Still, the champion knew that even if another
  chance presented itself, he wouldn’t have the stomach to kill the
  dragon in his sleep.
  The realization brought a surge of guilt. He strained to quell it
  by telling himself such an attack was a stupid notion anyway. What
  if one stroke failed to dispatch such a formidable creature? Then
  Amberwing would rise up, tear him apart, and then, for all he
  knew, massacre the whole village in retribution for his treachery.
  No, surely it was better to continue as he was. Give the sol-
  diers time to come, and, when he felt he could stall no longer,
  guide Amberwing to the cavern. One way or another, some-
  body or something would slay the dragon.
  * * * * *
  “So,” said Dathred, pushing aside a low-hanging branch, “the
  princess slipped away from her minders, out of the castle, and
  down to the river, stole a boat, and rowed out into the center of
  the current. There, she summoned a water spirit—”
  “Wait,” said Amberwing. “The princess knew magic?”
  “Yes.”
  “You should have mentioned it before. You don’t know how
  to tell a story.”
  “I never claimed I did. Look, you’ve made it clear you don’t care
  about humans. Why do you want to hear these old tales anyway?”
  “To get a sense of things.”
  “I don’t understand.”
  Amberwing spat a wisp of smoke. “How could you? Why
  don’t you tell me a story from your own life. Maybe you can
  keep that straight.”
  R I C H A R D  L E E  B Y E R S
  “I’ve never done anything that would make a good yarn.”
  “You’re brave, an able swordsman, and wield some sort of
  magic, too. I saw the glowing blade and shield you conjured to
  fend off the trolls. You could be a captain in a great host, or
  some lord’s personal champion. How, then, did you wind up
  the protector of a small hamlet on the edge of the wild?”
  “Well . . .” Dathred brushed a gnat away from his face.
  “When I was still a boy, I heard the call to become a champion
  of light and fight for what’s worthy and true.”
  Amberwing cocked his serpentine head. “You mean, some
  knightly order announced it was seeking recruits?”
  “No, nothing like that. I simply felt an urge. A need. So I
  pledged myself to the ideal and started learning the sword and
  lance. Much to the dismay of my parents, who wanted me to
  follow their path and become a merchant. In time, my cham-
  pion abilities began to emerge, and when I was ready, I offered
  my services to the Lord Protector who ruled in those days.” Ac-
  cording to tidings that had only recently reached remote, iso-
  lated Rosehill, a Lady Protector had now succeeded him.
  “Because your monarch was the paragon of everything
  ‘worthy and true?’”
  Dathred bristled at the irony in the dragon’s tone. “The Lord
  Protector’s rule was just and compassionate. My duties gave me
  plenty of opportunity to uphold the good.”
  “Peace, human. If you say it, I believe it. Go on with the tale.”
  “In time, a crazy magister named Cosinda led an uprising
  against the giants. Since only a few malcontents supported it, it
  had no chance of success, but it caused a lot of needless misery
  and destruction before we soldiers broke its back. Cosinda and
  her surviving followers fled north, and my comrades and I pur-
  sued. The rebels dispersed and, resolved to hunt down every
  last one of them, my company split up, too.
  “The problem with a situation like that,” Dathred continued,
  “is you can wind up chasing a band of fugitives as big or bigger
  145
  V O W S
  144
  
  “But you weren’t?”
  “No,” Amberwing sighed, “never in two hundred years of
  life, and eventually, I imagined I’d inferred the reason. It was
  because I was living in the wrong place. My connection was to
  the homeland of my forebears. So naturally, when it became
  possible to return, I did.”
  “From your tone, it hasn’t been what you expected.”
  “No. My ancestors claimed—and loved—this territory, but
  to me, it’s just another patch of ground.” The dragon hesitated.
  “Why do you think I slaughtered your animals? I’m disap-
  pointed. Bored. Frustrated.”
  It almost sounded like some veiled approximation of an
  apology. Dathred told himself the arrogant drake couldn’t 
  actually mean it as such. “I wish I knew the answer to your
  plight.”
  “But you did, or at least I hope so. Did you really think I’m
  making this journey just for treasure? Oh, I’ll be happy to claim
  it, but the real point is to visit the actual lairs of my ancestors.
  Perhaps there, at long last, I can feel what they felt, and fill the
  hollow place inside me.”
  Dathred’s jaw clenched. Amberwing’s explanation made him
  feel even baser and more treacherous than before.
  Curse it, he didn’t want to feel sympathy for the dragon. He
  couldn’t afford it, and neither could Rosehill. He’d delayed long
  enough. It was time to head straight for their destination.
  * * * * *
  The ground rose, and then they came to it: a great arched
  cavity in the hillside, with brush blurring the edges. The pas-
  sage within descended into darkness.
  Dathred pulled the torch from his knapsack, reached for his
  belt pouch to extract flint and steel, then jumped when Amber-
  wing set the length of dry wood alight with a puff of flame. Had
  the dragon’s aim been off by even a little, he might well have set
  147
  V O W S
  than your own, and they can stop running and set a trap for
  you. That’s what happened to my friends and me. We fought
  our way clear and even put the rebels to flight again, but not
  before I suffered an ugly wound.” Beneath his brigandine and
  tunic, the long scar on his chest itched at the memory.
  “Everyone assumed I’d die. Even if they’d believed otherwise,
  they could neither tarry with me nor carry me along with them.
  They had to keep chasing the enemy. So they left me at a
  nearby settlement.”
  “Rosehill,” said Amberwing, “where you evidently recovered.”
  “Yes, thanks to the care the villagers gave me. It took months,
  though. Time enough for me to start feeling like a part of the
  place, and to observe how my new friends suffered when goblins
  and their ilk came raiding out of the wild. They fought back
  courageously, but none of them was a trained warrior. It struck
  me that even one such could make a difference in their lives.”
  “Thus you decided to stay.”
  “Yes. It felt right, just as it had once felt proper to offer my
  sword to the Diamond Throne. I asked permission to make a
  permanent home among them, and we broke bread together.
  That was their ritual to welcome and adopt me as one of their
  own.” He shrugged. “I warned you it wasn’t much of a story.”
  “No,” said Amberwing, his tail dragging over a rotten log,
  “it’s not. But it almost makes me envy you.”
  Dathred glanced quizzically at the reptile. “Are you mocking
  me?”
  “No. Before, you wondered why dragons have returned to
  these lands.”
  “Yes. I’m still curious.”
  “Different wyrms have different reasons, I suppose. For my part
  . . . Well, dragons are magical creatures. Manifestations of the vi-
  tality of the land. We’re meant to feel a bond with it, like the love
  you hold for your wretched village, perhaps, but stronger. We’re
  supposed to be as one with fields and forest, water and sky.”
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  R I C H A R D  L E E  B Y E R S
  
  A splash of hissing acid blistered Amberwing’s scales. An ear-
  splitting screech made him lash his sinuous neck like a whip. A
  bright, sparking form like a living lightning bolt sprang into the
  air, caught hold of his leathery wing, and tore at the folds of hide.
  Amberwing roared and spat a gout of fire. Probably it incin-
  erated some of the hostile spellcasters. But plainly not all of
  them, for more magic battered him. Stones exploded from the
  floor to hammer his head and chest. A prodigious mass of ice
  abruptly congealed around his neck, shoulders, and forelegs,
  immobilizing him like a drunkard confined in the stocks.
  Dathred cast away his torch. Underground dwellers could see
  in the dark, but even so, prey carrying a light was more likely to
  draw their attention. He turned and ran. Amberwing bellowed his
  name. Something twisted inside him, but he didn’t break stride.
  The slassans’ slave warriors weren’t all concentrating on the
  dragon. A pair of stunted, flat-faced goblins scuttled out of the
  dark to block Dathred’s way. For an instant, he considered in-
  voking his champion’s sword, but that would shed light, and he
  could only use this ability a few times each day. Instead, he
  yanked out his steel blade, parried a spear thrust, and cut into
  his attacker’s neck. The sword stuck in the wound, and the
  second goblin lunged to spit him on its lance. He released the
  weapon’s hilt, dodged and shifted forward simultaneously, and
  punched the creature in the mouth. Jagged fangs broke against
  his knuckles, and the goblin collapsed. He freed his sword and
  ran on.
  * * * * *
  Dathred watched the cave mouth to see if Amberwing would
  follow him back out. It wasn’t impossible. Slassans were a
  byword for terror and power, but so were dragons.
  Still, no one and nothing else emerged. Dathred tried again
  to dredge up the elation of victory. What came instead was an-
  other pang of self-loathing.
  149
  V O W S
  his companion on fire also. Dathred glowered, and the wyrm
  replied with a grin of impish excitement and good humor.
  They headed into the cavern. The torch hissed and crackled
  in the cool air. Shadow oozed at the edge of the wavering light.
  Dathred’s heart pounded, and his mouth was dry. Tangled
  emotions ground together in his head: shame, and resentment
  of Amberwing for compelling him to break his oath. An eager
  resolve to see his task completed, even if it was at the cost of his
  own life. And, of course, fear.
  After a while, Amberwing said, “I see no sign that dragons
  ever laired here.”
  Dathred groped for a reassuring answer and couldn’t think of
  anything at all, certainly nothing likely to stop the wyrm from
  turning back prematurely.
  “But then, we might not, not after all this time, nor this close
  to the surface,” Amberwing continued. “My kind don’t like the
  entrances to our caves to look like anything out of the ordinary.
  We don’t want foes and robbers knowing where we live.”
  He stalked onward. Dathred let out a sigh, then followed. A
  few minutes later, the darkness sprang to life around them.
  Dathred had expected something to happen. The cavern was
  an entrance to the Dark Depths, domain of the abominable
  slassans and their slave creatures, and surely they kept it
  guarded. But even so, the sudden movement caught him by
  surprise. The subterranean dwellers must have used spells of
  concealment to creep so close undetected.
  From the corner of his eye, he saw a shaft of violet light
  streaking at him. He wrenched himself to the side, and it
  missed by a finger length.
  At the same time, a whole barrage of magical effects erupted,
  whining, sizzling, and banging through the air, filling it with
  flashes of colored light and vile stenches. Fortunately, though, the
  enemy had aimed the rest of its spells at Amberwing. For after
  all, a single human was a paltry threat compared to a dragon.
  148
  R I C H A R D  L E E  B Y E R S
  
  they wouldn’t have to share any plunder, or the meat they’d
  strip from his bones.
  Hooting and jeering, they spread out to flank him as they ad-
  vanced. That was a potential problem, but he had to allow it if
  he was to lure them in close before abandoning his pretense of
  helplessness. He stood swaying and moaning until the goblins
  were almost near enough to strike, then whipped out his sword.
  It was the steel blade once again. The sword of light only lasted
  a few minutes before dissolving, and in all likelihood, he’d face
  more formidable foes later on. He sprang and cut.
  The first of his enemies dropped with a split skull. He piv-
  oted, parried a slash from a scimitar, and hacked open his at-
  tacker’s belly. Sensing danger at his back, he knew he had no
  time to whirl and defend. Instead, he leaped forward, nearly
  flinging himself onto a spear point but managing to stop short.
  The goblin with the lance tried to drive it on into his chest.
  Dathred knocked the weapon out of line and cut into the crea-
  ture’s torso, parry and riposte a single arc of motion, then spun
  back around to face the warrior behind him.
  The goblin’s eyes widened in dismay as it realized it was the
  only one still on its feet. As it started to back away, Dathred
  charged it, and it swept its scimitar in a horizontal stop cut. The
  champion beat the curved blade with his own and knocked it
  out of his adversary’s grip. He pulped the goblin’s nose with the
  heavy brass pommel of his sword, then booted its legs out from
  under it, dropping it to the ground. Panting, he threatened it
  with his point. Supine and disarmed, the creature cowered.
  “Answer my questions,” Dathred said in the subterranean
  tongue called Undercommon, learned during his service to the
  Lord Protector, “and I’ll let you live.”
  “Yes,” his prisoner moaned. “Anything. I tell.”
  “Did you and your comrades capture the dragon alive?”
  “Yes.”
  “Where is he now? A slassan city?”
  151
  V O W S
  Which, in turn, made him angry. It was neither fair nor sen-
  sible that he should have to despise himself simply for doing his
  duty. Especially considering that now it truly was too late for
  second thoughts. Amberwing was already dead.
  Or was he? Slassans were notorious mages and slave takers,
  and Amberwing was an arcane wonder the likes of which no
  one had seen for centuries. It seemed plausible the abomina-
  tions had attempted to capture him alive, to study and exploit.
  Dathred gave his head a shake, trying to break the chain of
  thoughts he didn’t want to think. He resolved to get up and
  march away, put distance between himself and the cave, for
  surely this was a perilous place to linger after nightfall.
  In the end, though, that wasn’t what he did.
  * * * * *
  Dathred would be helpless without light, yet had no hope of
  making a stealthy advance with any sort of illumination shining
  in his vicinity. Accordingly, he skulked back into the cave,
  groped his way through the blackness for as long as he dared,
  then summoned another hovering ball of phosphorescence.
  From that point onward, he shuffled and staggered, whim-
  pering occasionally, even falling a time or two. He was trying to
  look like a man so sorely wounded he could barely cling to con-
  sciousness, so addled he didn’t even know how to find his way
  back to the mouth of the tunnel. Maybe the rents the trolls had
  clawed in his brigandine would foster the illusion.
  As he’d expected, he didn’t see the four goblin sentries until
  they scrambled from their hiding places to accost him.
  When he and Amberwing had reached this point before, the
  guards had obviously scurried deeper into the cavern to warn
  their masters, who had then arranged an ambush capable of
  overwhelming even a dragon. But Dathred was no drake, just a
  lone and seemingly crippled human. The goblins were confi-
  dent they could cope with him by themselves, and that way,
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  R I C H A R D  L E E  B Y E R S
  
  The commotion made it relatively easy to pass unnoticed.
  The creatures were too intent on their pleasure to pay Dathred
  any mind. He skulked along peering into the various chambers,
  looking for the dragon.
  He didn’t see him. But eventually he did spot a sentry—a
  rhodin with curling horns, caprine head, and hairy, manlike
  body—guarding the arched opening at the end of a passage
  long enough and high enough to accommodate a wyrm.
  Dathred ambled toward the creature. It glared and bared jagged
  teeth. Perhaps having to stand watch while the other thralls en-
  joyed themselves had put it in a foul humor. “Clear off,” it snarled.
  Dathred tried a friendly smile. “I just want—”
  “To peek and poke at it, like everybody else. Well, you can’t.
  The masters say nobody goes in.”
  “What if I bring you a drink, and food from the feast? It’s not
  fair, everybody else stuffing themselves while you go without.”
  The rhodin hesitated, then shook its head. “If the masters
  catch you inside, they’ll make us both drink acid.”
  “Oh, come on. They wouldn’t be as angry as all that . . .” As
  Dathred nattered on, he eased his hand toward the hilt of his
  sword, gripped it, yanked out the blade, and thrust it into the
  rhodin’s breast.
  The creature died instantly. Dathred caught the corpse as its
  knees began to buckle and heaved it through the opening into
  the next vault, where nobody in the central chamber could see it.
  But had anyone seen him kill the rhodin? Heart hammering,
  he peered back the way he’d come. Everyone was drinking and
  gorging, the same as before, which meant he was all right so far.
  He’d just have to hope nobody would notice—or, failing that,
  care—that the guard was no longer at his post.
  Dathred slipped warily into the next cave. It was another
  large chamber with a high ceiling, spacious enough for Amber-
  wing to lay with tail, neck, and wings stretched to full length
  on the limestone floor.
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  V O W S
  “No. City’s miles away. Couldn’t drag anything so big that
  far. Dragon’s still at outpost.”
  “Outpost?”
  “Camp. Place where we guard the path up to the forest.”
  Dathred frowned, pondering, then asked, “Do your masters
  keep human slaves there?”
  “Just a couple,” the goblin said. “Humans are too much
  bother. Can’t work without a torch or lamp.”
  “But there are a few?”
  “Yes.”
  “Go. Up to the Harrowdeep, and don’t come back. Even if I
  don’t kill you, your masters surely will, for failing to slay or cap-
  ture me and for giving away their secrets.”
  The goblin fled. Dathred watched it for a moment, then
  turned to inspect one of its fallen comrades, a creature mewling
  and shuddering in agony. He ended its suffering, then appro-
  priated its helmet with the distinctive scalloped crest and dark
  cloak embroidered with a pair of pale, twisted glyphs.
  A goblin was smaller than any full-grown man. But at least
  Dathred was short, and he doubted the slassans took any great
  pains to outfit their slaves in garments that fit properly. If he
  was lucky, the creature’s trappings might just serve to disguise
  him. He jammed the helmet on his own head, wrapped himself
  in the cape, and trudged onward.
  The slassans had established their outpost at a point where the
  passage expanded into a complex of interconnecting chambers
  and side galleries. Smoke from cook fires scented the air. Bedrolls
  lay on the ground, and hammocks hung between stalagmites.
  To Dathred’s surprise, a celebration of sorts was underway.
  Goblins, trolls, and other slaves chattered, laughed, and sang,
  tore at hunks of roasted meat, enormous mushrooms, and slabs
  of fungus, and swilled raw spirit from bowls. Evidently their
  masters had opted to reward them for their part in Amber-
  wing’s capture.
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  up. I killed the worm-things. I’m cutting you loose. But I can’t
  carry you out of here, and we’re running out of time. Nobody
  was in here with you when I arrived, but that luck can’t hold—”
  Then, as if his own words had summoned it into being, he
  sensed a presence behind him. He spun around.
  Considerably larger than a man, the slassan scuttled on eight
  segmented legs and possessed a bulbous, spidery body armored
  in dark chitin. Its long neck, however, was serpentine, and its
  head a hideous fusion of reptile and human.
  Dathred called on the power of the light once more, heightening
  his strength and vitality, and charged. He wanted to close before
  the slassan started using its magic to tear him apart at range.
  He didn’t quite make it. Baring its scores of needle fangs, the
  slassan glared at him, and pain exploded inside his skull. He
  stumbled, nearly collapsed, forced himself onward. He cut, and
  the sword of light slashed a rent in the creature’s torso.
  It screeched, struck like an adder, raked at him with the
  barbs on its two front legs. Its teeth and claws alike glistened
  with venom. Dathred’s shield rang as he blocked the blows. The
  impacts knocked him reeling backward.
  Having opened up the distance once again, the slassan used
  more of its magic. Force flared from its bulbous eyes, and, part-
  way to the target, became hurtling grit, as blinding and choking
  as the fiercest sandstorm. Dathred twisted away and cowered
  behind his shield as best he could, but the stuff battered and
  scraped him even so.
  The slassan charged and nearly trampled him and shredded
  him with its talons before he came back on guard. He cut it
  across the chest, but again, not deeply enough to stop it. The
  creature’s carapace absorbed the force of his strokes.
  The slassan struck. He lifted the shield an instant too late.
  The abomination’s fangs stabbed into his shoulder. At once a
  wave of weakness and numbness flowed from the wound
  through the rest of his body.
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  V O W S
  The dragon shook and jerked, and Dathred could make out
  at least two causes for his distress. Several plump, pale, grublike
  things, each a yard long, clung to Amberwing, nuzzling at him,
  apparently either eating his flesh or drinking his blood. Moreover,
  the wyrm’s captors had pressed his limbs down onto sharp stalag-
  mites, then used magic to swell the points of the rocky spikes into
  bulbs, effectively nailing the colossal reptile to the floor.
  “Amberwing!” Dathred said, keeping his voice low. The drake
  didn’t answer. Evidently enchantment or simple agony had
  plunged him into delirium.
  Perhaps if Dathred freed him from his torments, his wits
  would return. He reckoned now was the time for the sword of
  light. He called for it, and it shimmered into existence. While it
  endured, it could cut virtually anything, even rock.
  He moved to the length of bloody limestone impaling Amber-
  wing’s right forefoot. One of the huge grubs clung farther up the
  leg, and when he lifted his sword to chop the stalagmite, it
  abruptly reared, exposing a ring of gory lamprey teeth, and struck,
  the violence of the action hurling it through the air like an arrow.
  The worm’s leap caught Dathred by surprise, and he barely
  managed to twist aside in time. It smacked onto the floor beside
  him and instantly lifted its eyeless head for another attack. He
  hacked completely through its boneless softness, splitting it in two
  just beneath the circular maw. The body collapsed and flopped.
  He turned. The other grubs were crawling toward him, might
  all be on top of him already if they hadn’t needed to clamber
  over the immense contours of Amberwing’s body to reach him.
  Dathred summoned his shield of light, then darted back and
  forth, obliging them to change course repeatedly, denying them
  the chance to converge on him and attack all at once. They
  made that final explosive spring one at a time, and he killed
  them that way, until none remained.
  He started breaking Amberwing’s restraints, freeing his fore-
  foot. The dragon didn’t stir. “Come on,” Dathred pleaded, “wake
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  spat flame at them, but the flare fell short, and they scurried
  out of view.
  “We’ll have to fight them all, slassans and slaves alike, to get
  out of here,” Dathred gasped.
  “Good,” said Amberwing.
  “Are you sure about that?” The drake bore dozens of bloody
  injuries, from his torture and the ambush that proceeded it.
  “Entirely sure. They took me by surprise before. It kept me
  from using my own sorcery. This time they’ll see what a dragon
  can actually do.” Amberwing snarled an incantation. A mass of
  roaring flame sprang up in the chamber entrance, then surged
  after the fleeing slassans and toward the central cavern like a
  wave racing for the shore. Screams echoed down the passage.
  “Fair enough,” said Dathred, hefting his sword. “They’ll try
  to get around behind you. I’ll guard your back.”
  * * * * *
  A few stars shone through the thick foliage overhead.
  Dathred took a moment to look at them and wondered if it
  was for the final time.
  If so, he deserved to die. He’d failed the village. Betrayed it,
  even. Betrayed everyone and everything before he was done.
  “Now,” Amberwing growled, smelling of flame and blood as
  well as his normal dry reptilian scent, “we finally have time to
  talk. My kind never laired in those caves, did they?”
  “No,” Dathred said. “That was just a lie to draw you away
  from the settlement. To give a company of soldiers time to
  arrive and prepare to fight you, and, if possible, to lead you
  into harm’s way.”
  “As you did. But then you came back to rescue me. Why?”
  “I wish I knew. Because I vowed to guide you truly, perhaps,
  or because you saved my life. Please, since I did return for you,
  grant me one favor. Take your revenge on me alone. Leave
  Rosehill out of it. My friends had no idea what I intended.”
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  V O W S
  The slassan lifted its claws to finish the spastic human half dan-
  gling from its jaws. Dathred struggled to draw breath enough to
  bellow a battle cry, another technique for channeling the power of
  the light. Rather to his own amazement, the shout boomed from
  his lips, and its virtue cleansed the venom from his veins. He
  flung himself backward, jerking clear of the slassan’s fangs.
  So the fight would continue. But only, he suspected, for a
  little longer. Because he was overmatched, and, though no
  longer poisoned, the wound in his shoulder throbbed and bled
  profusely. Despite the supernatural augmentation to his
  strength, it was difficult to hold up the shield.
  Then, conscious once more, Amberwing roared and writhed.
  Perhaps the war cry had roused him. Alas, it wouldn’t matter.
  The stalagmite nails still held him at too many points along his
  body. If only Dathred had managed to destroy a few more!
  But he hadn’t, and now must simply acquit himself as best he
  could for however many heartbeats he had left. The slassan
  took a retreat, and he scrambled after it. Straight into the spider
  web of blue light that sprang into existence around him.
  The glowing strands felt solid as the stoutest rope and sticky
  as glue. Dathred strained but couldn’t break free or bring his
  sword to bear to slice the cords. The slassan laughed and lifted a
  barbed claw.
  At which point Amberwing heaved up from the floor. Unable
  to work his limbs off the stalagmites with any care or finesse,
  he’d simply ripped free all at once, tearing open his wounds in
  the process.
  The pain must have been ghastly, but it didn’t slow him. He
  sprang across the cavern and bore the slassan down beneath him.
  Talons slashing, jaws snapping, he tore the abomination apart.
  Once it was dead, the dragon turned, regarded Dathred for a
  moment, then spoke a word of power. Hissing, the web dissolved.
  Something scuttled. Dathred and Amberwing looked around.
  Another pair of slassans had entered the chamber. The wyrm
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  B
  y midday, the scimitar curve of the horizon was a breath-
  taking orange, the tint of exotic fruit and jungle flowers.
  By dusk’s approach, the orange stretched high and wide
  along the bridge of sky spanning the north and south. And it
  sparkled like starlight. Truly the desert was beautiful . . .
  . . . for those unfamiliar with its dangers. 
  Evening came, and with it, the sandstorm’s opening yawn over-
  took the desert, blinding travelers caught in the open plains. A
  few hours later, the storm raged full pitch, the strongest winds car-
  rying tiny darts of rough crystals in their fists. Anyone unprepared
  for this moment was dead, his exposed skin flayed and his mouth
  crusted with blood from each lungful drawn from the razor air.
  * * * * *
  Mradin moved quickly through the soft valleys between tow-
  ering dunes, pressed on by urgent matters. The storm raged
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  Amberwing sighed. “I did promise myself I’d kill you, once
  we escaped the caves. But I seem to have expended all my anger
  on the slassans.”
  “That’s . . . more generous than I could have expected.”
  The dragon shifted his wings in a shrug. “I enjoyed our time
  traveling together. Listening to your tales and lore, I sometimes
  felt easier in my skin, as if I actually was starting to become a
  part of this land.” He grunted. “It was just yearning playing
  tricks in my head, I suppose.”
  Dathred frowned as a thought struck him. “You know, I
  wonder.”
  Amberwing cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
  “When humans feel at home in a place, it may be partly be-
  cause they fancy the particular blue of the sky or green of the
  meadows, but mainly, it’s because of community. Ties of affec-
  tion and loyalty to their neighbors. Maybe a dose of that is
  what you need to anchor you to the country hereabouts.”
  “Well . . . perhaps.” The reptile scowled. “If I hadn’t already
  made myself a pest. A hardship. A menace.”
  “If it’s true every drake keeps treasure stashed away somewhere,
  you could make restitution for the damage you did, and pledge
  not to cause any more. In which case, I’d speak for you.” Dathred
  grinned, his heart suddenly light and full of hope. “Even after
  such a rocky start, I think I could persuade people of the advan-
  tages of having a dragon around. You’d certainly give the raiders
  something to think about, the next time they appear.”
  Amberwing peered at the man, almost as if he suspected a joke
  at his expense, then bared his rows of immense ivory fangs in a
  smile. “If you’re serious, I’d like a chance to know your folk, and
  see if it changes the way I feel. In fact, I’d like it very much.”
  “Well, I told you we villagers have a welcoming ceremony.
  Let’s see if I have any bread left in my knapsack.” 
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  about him, curling sand from the tops of banks and covering
  him under more dust, but it was of trivial concern. He was well
  protected from the biting winds, a heavy brown cloak upon his
  thin shoulders and an eyeless mask of camel bone shielding his
  face. It was a trick of the verrik bedu who often navigated such
  blinding storms through their active senses and a keen under-
  standing of their lands. 
  Beyond wearing their clothing, Mradin acted with the skill of
  the bedu; a long staff to probe the ground for sinkholes, the or-
  namental mask protecting his face, and his unerring sense of di-
  rection steered him through dune valleys as though they were
  marked by road signs. 
  A flutter in the wind caught Mradin’s attention. He stopped,
  listening for the rustling fabric. He heard it again and moved
  more quickly toward the noise, stumbling on fatigue-numbed
  legs. He was almost upon the village, with its tents and animal-
  hide lodge. It was a hundred feet away, he knew, but something
  behind him snarled, a deep, sinister growl. It was about forty
  feet to his back and running fast. Mradin sprinted for the safety
  of the village. . . .
  * * * * *
  The lodge was well insulated against the sands, but a prevail-
  ing dust haze still found its way inside. The black-robed bedu
  slept together tonight, their snores whispers against the roaring
  winds outside. Along each tent wall sat two bedu, men and
  women with closed eyes, their skin the hue of redberry stains,
  their legs folded beneath them. They listened to the wind,
  seemingly lost to the trance of their vigil.
  Outside, a howl was cut short. One of the guards, her eyes
  still closed, snapped her fingers lightly. The other guards were
  on their feet, by the sentry’s side, listening to the winds, curved
  sabers in their grip. Their eyes remained closed; no need to
  open them when there was nothing to see. Instead they listened
  160
  intently and heard more snarls. Five of the bedu warriors
  moved to the entrance flap, nimbly stepping in the empty
  spaces between the sleeping bodies with practiced familiarity.
  They stepped out into the storm, affixing plate-masks of bone
  or toughened palm-hide to their faces.
  The winds inflicted the occasional gash to exposed flesh and
  thin fabric from large, storm-propelled crystals, delivering
  death by a thousand cuts to those who remained in the storm
  long enough. The bedu intended to be quick, however. They
  navigated their way to the noise, catching the snarls and grunts
  that were not swept away. Only when they arrived, mere yards
  from the skirmish, did they open their eyes and lift their masks,
  the wind pushing at their backs.
  The stranger dressed like a bedu, but wore fabrics and
  pouches of strange materials. In his grip, a sword made of light-
  ning and crackling flame danced with the flick of his wrist and
  elbow. His movements were economical, never more than they
  needed to be, and his steps were light. Not once did he remove
  his mask to see. He fought blind.
  The three beasts darting around the stranger were likewise
  exotic. The bedu had never seen anything like them. They were
  like boars, with long lizard snouts, two tusks that curled up
  from their lower jaws, tails much like spiked chains, and manes
  of thick bristles. Despite their mass, they were nimble and
  smart—using one another to feint and trick their quarry. The
  stranger, however, seemed to anticipate their darting move-
  ments, attacking where they would be, moving from where
  they would strike.
  One of the bedu held out her hand and the others stepped
  back. This was not their fight. They would not interfere with
  the outcome. 
  The stranger cut one beast, cleaving its flank open, but
  earned its claws across his arm. He knew the blow was coming,
  but it was necessary to draw blood for blood. He decapitated
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  Once Mradin released the woman’s wrists, the two blades
  lifted from their perch on his collarbone. 
  “Thank you for your offer,” Mradin said, lifting his mask,
  “but I cannot accept.” As he suspected, he was inside the com-
  munal lodge on a wood cot, surrounded by familiar faces.
  “This place is already home.”
  The elderly woman sitting at his side touched his face. Her
  name was Aujmana, and her hair was black, like ravens’ feathers,
  though Mradin didn’t remember her having so many streaks of
  blue; she was certainly older. Her burgundy skin was dark, her
  eyes two stones surrounded by a ripple of wrinkles on her face. 
  “Mradin?” Aujmana asked, caressing his cheek with the back
  of her hand.
  Mradin offered a weak smile in response, then tumbled back
  into the whirlpool of darkness, his strength spent. He blacked
  out, the name Trylith on his breath.
  * * * * *
  Cool water touched his lips and dribbled down his parched
  throat. Mradin awoke, guzzling and choking at once. 
  “Easy,” Aujmana said, seated by his side. She put the water
  bowl at her feet.
  The other bedu gathered nearby, watching. Some struggled
  to remember him, but Mradin knew it would be difficult. He
  had aged some, certainly, but he looked different as well, his
  sanguine face cut in marble and dappled like a butterfly’s wings
  with equal patterns of light red splotches and white freckles.
  “Hello, aunt,” Mradin said.
  “You’ve changed,” Aujmana replied, studying him carefully.
  She glanced to a stooped woman whose age outstripped her
  own by decades. Her name was Vrkassna, the tribal akashic. 
  “As have things here,” Mradin said, ignoring the way
  Vrkassna studied his markings. “Where’s your husband?”
  “Knassro died four summers ago. I lead now.”
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  the second beast with little effort, the sword stroke clean and
  sharp, but the third creature was upon his back, scrabbling with
  its claws for lethal purchase, forcing him down into the sand.
  The blade disappeared from the stranger’s grip, evaporating on
  the wind. The female bedu waited for the creature to bite its
  prey’s neck, to snap the spine or tear out his throat. It was the
  way of all desert cats. 
  Instead, the beast opened its mouth and screamed. Pain,
  like ice-cold daggers, stabbed through the skulls of everyone
  present. They staggered about, the mental wail an anguish
  unlike any they’d ever felt. The stranger, while afflicted, up-
  ended the animal and rolled atop it, a fiery dagger manifest-
  ing in his hand. The stranger struck down, pushing the blade
  into the beast’s chest with both hands before the blade van-
  ished. 
  The bedu regained their footing in time to see the stranger
  fall to the ground, unconscious and wounded.
  * * * * *
  Mradin awoke, sensing someone about to lift his mask. His
  hands shot out and grabbed a pair of wrists. That was met with
  its own response . . . two blades drawn and brought to either
  side of his exposed throat. He didn’t let go, however.
  “You fought well,” a woman said, likely the one whose wrists
  Mradin held. “It’d be a pity to see you die so carelessly. You’re
  the guest of the Bnahzra. By the Codes of the Vrmassat, I wel-
  come you. Does that make you feel better?”
  Mradin hesitated, his senses growing stronger. He smelled
  the hannyha that spiced last night’s meal. He heard the un-
  quenched storm and, beneath that, the quiet breath of many. A
  window opened in his mind, forming shapes like dust motes
  caught in a beam of light. He saw the people around him . . .
  recognized them. They knew him in return, and touched his
  face. He was safe for now.
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  “I—am indentured to someone. His name is Kyrophage. I
  escaped his service.”
  Aujmana raised a thin eyebrow. “You broke your word to this
  Kyrophage?”
  “Yes, but the terms of my service were unfair.”
  “Did you understand those terms before entering into them?”
  Mradin thought about lying, but he he’d taken too long to
  answer by a heartbeat. Anything he said now was suspect. 
  “Yes. I understood them.”
  “Then I am disappointed. You were either foolish for enter-
  ing into this bargain, or untrustworthy for escaping your obli-
  gation. Either way, you were shortsighted.”
  “Aunt, I—”
  “Enough for tonight,” Aujmana said, standing up. “Rest. We
  have a long day tomorrow.”
  “Aunt, wait,” Mradin said, his vision swooning under his
  hurting head. “What of Trylith?”
  “She suffers the Curse.” 
  “May I see her?” 
  “Tomorrow. Your sister needs her rest.”
  Mradin didn’t argue. His head grew heavy and he fell back
  into his cot. His vision wavered, but his faculties remained
  sharp enough. He closed his eyes, aware that Vrkassna studied
  him carefully. Now that he had failed to satisfy their curiosity,
  they would send Vrkassna. As tribal akashic, she could tap into
  the collective memories and emotions of anyone living or once
  alive. Likely, she would also invade his thoughts.
  But he would be ready. 
  * * * * *
  The beast was in pain, the sharp, harrowing ache from his
  bandaged flanks searing him awake. His forked tongue flicked
  out, dancing across his tusks before tasting the air. The acrid
  tang of incense and burning dung greeted his tongue, while
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  T H E  S A N D  V E I L S
  “You’re better off without him,” Mradin said, hoisting him-
  self up on his elbows with a grunt. Pain shot through his body,
  his muscles cramping. He ignored it, though his face told the
  truth in its knots and scowls.
  “So I’ve been told. What are these markings?” she asked, trac-
  ing the contours of his blemishes with her fingers.
  “A story for later,” he said.
  “And those beasts you fought?”
  “They don’t concern you. I dispensed with them. They no
  longer matter.”
  “Mradin,” Aujmana said, withdrawing her touch and leveling
  an even stare. “Are you here as a member of the Bnahzra, or as
  my guest?”
  Mradin hesitated and followed the argument through its natu-
  ral course. As a guest, he would be well treated, but kept at arm’s
  length as an outsider. When he felt better, the bedu would send
  him on his way. As a member of the tribe, however, he belonged
  to a family that respected and followed Aujmana’s leadership. 
  There was a third option that proved more appealing. He
  could challenge Aujmana for tribal leadership. Why not, he
  thought. I am far superior to her. In fact, she should beg me to
  assume leadership. She is old, and they would be lucky to have me! 
  Horrified, Mradin quickly swallowed those last thoughts. They
  were unworthy of him and of what this tribe once meant to him. 
  “I am part of the tribe,” Mradin said, struggling hard with
  that allowance. “And the beasts that attacked me do concern
  you and everyone here for as long as I remain.”
  “What are they?”
  “Drakyn-hounds. They were sent to kill me.”
  “Kill you? What did you do?”
  “Why do you assume the fault is mine?”
  “I did not lay blame, Mradin. But someone chases you.
  Therefore you must have done something, whether it was for
  the right or the wrong reasons.”
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  The woman kept her hand on his flank, steadying him.
  “Why are you after him?”
  “My master, Kyrophage, want him.”
  “For breaking his covenant with your master?”
  “Yes.”
  “Does he want Mradin dead?”
  “No. Return honor to broken handshake.”
  “To honor his word. I see. And do you know the terms of
  that agreement? What kind of man is Kyrophage?”
  “No man,” Skaraph said, almost reverently. “Kyrophage
  walks not upon two legs.”
  “Tell me more,” the woman said.
  * * * * *
  Mradin waited at the bottom of the wide marble stairs.
  Behind him, a building loomed, tall and impressive with its
  spiral quartz columns and walls of engraved onyx. It was the
  sole feature in a blasted, devastated landscape of burnt brush
  and sand-melted glass. A woman appeared, frail by age, but not
  broken by it. 
  “Hello, Vrkassna,” Mradin said to the akashic. “Come to
  probe my memories, have you?”
  Vrkassna looked around, awed by this place. It was obvious
  she’d never seen its like. Mradin smiled and waited.
  “Where are we?” she asked.
  “It is my domain,” Mradin said. “And you can’t imagine the
  worlds I hold within my mind now. Imagine… each thought a
  kingdom. Each memory a new realm to explore.”
  “How?” she asked.
  “Your akashic abilities are an echo of what we once possessed
  as a race.”
  “Your markings,” she said, nodding to his face. “My memo-
  ries speak of our forbearers as Sanguine Butterflies. Are you
  Vnaxian?”
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  T H E  S A N D  V E I L S
  outside the small tent, the winds howled their chorus. The
  beast peered around his sanctuary, his vision adjusting to the
  frail lamp light, but hurting still from the storm. A woman sat
  watching him in the dark corner of the tent. He tried moving,
  to see her better, but the pain was too great. He collapsed again,
  gasping in heavy, shallow breaths.
  “Don’t move. You’ll reopen that wound,” the woman said.
  “It’s only been a couple of days.”
  “You share words with I?” the beast asked, struggling through
  the Common tongue. Speaking scratched his throat like grating
  sand; it felt alien to him.
  “Yes,” the woman replied. “You may not remember, but you
  asked for mercy when I found you. I was curious why a beast
  was capable of speech.”
  “I evolved!” he said proudly.
  She moved closer to check his bandages. He craned his neck
  to see her face, but she pushed his head back down, mindful of
  his sharp bristles.
  “You not fear I teeth?” he asked.
  “You’re too wounded to move, much less kill me and escape
  this storm.”
  The beast grunted. “Yes. Newborn weak. But I not spill
  blood,” he said with a growl. It was hard not to slip into snarls
  and hisses; she wouldn’t understand his words or intentions if
  he did. “I repay your mercy.”
  “Are you so sure it’s mercy?” she asked.
  “No.”
  “What are you called?” she asked.
  “Skaraph.”
  “Skaraph,” she repeated. “You’re a drakyn-hound, yes?”
  “You know I people’s name?” Skaraph asked.
  “Through the man you fought.”
  “Mradin here?” Skaraph asked, trying to rise to his feet. He
  fell instead.
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  “If you wish to ask me such questions, do so in the flesh. You
  are unwelcome in my thoughts, Vrkassna. Leave!” Mradin said.
  He dismissed her with one hand, a gesture that discorporated
  her body into a wash of sand.
  * * * * *
  “What have you done?” Aujmana screamed. She was on the
  lodge floor of hardened dirt and dark rugs, holding the vacant-
  eyed Vrkassna in her arms. The other bedu clustered around the
  pair, uncertain, except for four bedu with scimitars drawn and
  pointed at Mradin. He ignored them, instead exploring his
  thoughts for some recourse. In his mind, he saw arguments and
  a blade fight that ended badly for him. In all of them, however,
  a young girl in the crowd stepped forth in his defense. 
  “She’ll recover momentarily,” Mradin said, “and before you
  blame me, I suggest you question your own actions first. Did
  you not instruct her to search my memories?”
  “We doubted your words.”
  “You know little about me, now, yet you know enough to
  call me a liar? Fine, then. As your guest, I’ll depart.” 
  Mradin extended his hand to the young girl in the crowd,
  the one from his visions. She was in her late teens, with dark-
  wine skin and short white hair. Her left eye had calcified into
  crystal, and her left arm and leg were likewise riddled with ex-
  posed bone spurs of quartz and torqued flesh. Soon, Mradin re-
  alized, the Curse would completely transform her into crystal.
  All verrik suffered the affliction, but for most, it only mani-
  fested as an unease that other races felt around their kind. For
  others, their bodies grew twisted in reflection of their psycho-
  logical quirks. A rare and terrible few, however—like this young
  woman—would crystallize. It was more prevalent within the
  Bnahzra tribe. Soon they would take the girl’s inert body to the
  verrik capital city of Yrterot, where she’d serve as a living
  memory stone for the akashics.
  “Come, Trylith,” Mradin said. “We’re leaving.” 
  “No, brother,” Trylith said, stepping forward. “I’m staying.” 
  There was no pretense to their conversation, no happy em-
  braces. He’d promised to return, and he did. “I came for you,”
  Mradin said, moving to meet her. Two bedu interceded, step-
  ping in his path with drawn blades.
  “As simple as that?” Trylith asked. “You give me no say in my
  own future?”
  “Your destiny, as it stands, provides nothing you could
  want,” Mradin said. “But I offer you something better. If you
  come with me.”
  Trylith hobbled past the guards, her movements slow and
  pained. The crystal growth had overtaken her joints, Mradin re-
  alized, calcifying them and inhibiting her movement. Her left
  foot and shin were fully crystallized, the Curse further along
  than he expected. 
  “Vrkassna?” Trylith asked, shuffling up to Aujmana.
  The old akashic blinked, then stared at Mradin, her eyes
  widening. She muttered and clawed at Aujmana’s lapel. “Vnax-
  ian,” she said. “He’s Vnaxian.”
  * * * * *
  Vnaxians. The verrik’s ancestors who, evolved in the mental
  disciplines, eventually eschewed their flesh in favor of existing
  as pure thought. Vnaxians. The last of their kind to remain
  physical was Xyphon, who ruled the verrik, then cursed them
  when they cast him out. . . .
  Mradin paced inside the lodge under the watchful eyes of
  five bedu guards. The tribe was outside, tending to flocks and
  repairing the storm’s damage. The tribal mothers, however,
  conferred elsewhere, debating Vrkassna’s claims. 
  This is ludicrous, Mradin thought; he’d even told them so
  earlier: I am no more Vnaxian than you are litorian, old
  woman. 
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  168
  
  “And Mradin?”
  “Mradin shatter word. Mradin betray oath to serve with
  honor. Not like I.”
  “And what service was demanded of him?”
  “Matter not. Him bound to Kyrophage by oath.”
  “Did Kyrophage abuse him?”
  “No!” Skaraph growled. “Kyrophage raise only voice in
  anger, never claw. Us precious to Kyrophage. Us children.” 
  “All of you?”
  “All who him touch with seeds.” With that, Skaraph raised
  himself to his feet, and stood on steady legs. He paced around
  the tent, testing and stretching his limbs.
  “You’ve healed quickly,” the woman said, surprised.
  “Blessing of master. Gift from seed. You still unafraid.”
  “Yes,” the woman said. “You promised me mercy. I believe
  you.”
  “Good,” Skaraph said with a barking laugh. “You honor I
  with trust. I leave now, with thanks.” 
  “Can you let Mradin be?”
  “No. I oath bound or I become the thing I hunt.”
  “I understand. Mradin was wrong to break his oath. But
  allow us two days, please.”
  Skaraph considered the matter a moment. “Two days. Yes.
  After, I return.” 
  “Before you leave . . . did Kyrophage elevate Mradin with
  the tenebrian seeds?”
  “Yes. Do you wish the same?”
  “That depends. What did Mradin become?”
  * * * * *
  “I’ve become perfect,” Mradin said, savoring those words.
  The tribe had returned, so that they too could hear his tale.
  Mradin’s chest swelled when he spoke of his own glory. He
  couldn’t help it. 
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  Mradin regretted his sharp tongue and the tone of his voice.
  That sounded far more pointed than he had intended, but it
  was hard to control his temper. The others, including his sister,
  had stared at him in shock. Aujmana, however, looked ready to
  gut him. 
  Mradin sat down on his cot and rubbed his head, sulking. I’m
  sorry, he remembered saying. My temper frequently escapes me.
  But the damage was done.
  The tent flap lifted and Aujmana returned, helping Trylith
  back inside. Aujmana was angry, but Trylith spoke to avert a
  confrontation. 
  “If you’re not Vnaxian, as you claim,” Trylith said, “what are
  you?”
  “Elevated,” he said. “I’m stronger, and my mental disciplines
  are unrivaled by any other verrik.” Again he cringed at his own
  words; it was so easy to treat others as insignificant.
  “Yes, you have changed,” Trylith said, “but not for the better.
  You barely control your anger, and your words are beneath you.”
  “The metamorphosis hasn’t been easy.”
  “Was that the bargain?” Trylith asked. “The service you
  struck with Kyrophage?”
  “Yes,” Mradin said, lowering his head.
  “Explain,” Aujmana said, “before your tongue gets the better
  of you again and I lose my patience. Who is Kyrophage?”
  Mradin sighed. “A dragon. Kyrophage is a dragon.” 
  * * * * *
  “He elevated your species?” the woman asked. 
  Skaraph acknowledged with a grunt. He still had difficulty
  seeing, but his strength was returning quickly. 
  “How?”
  “Tenebrian seeds. Kyrophage masters them. Turned I people
  away from cave floors and gave us words,” Skaraph said proudly.
  “Us no longer beasts. Us evolved. Us serve Kyrophage in thanks.”
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  The thought struck Mradin with thunderous volume. He
  wasn’t perfect; it was just the lie he spoke in moments of arro-
  gance. He was still cursed, his affliction transformed, but . . .
  but at least he could endure this new burden. It wouldn’t alien-
  ate him, or twist his flesh, or slowly calcify him till he was
  nothing but a resonating stone for the akashics.
  “The transformation carries its own price,” Mradin said.
  “I thought you were perfect?” Aujmana asked, a sneer on her
  lips. “Or is this a desperate lie to keep the power for yourself?”
  “The tenebrian evolution carries a darkness, yes, but it is a far
  cry from what the Curse of Xyphon offers its most damned.”
  “And what is this darkness?” Trylith asked. 
  “You’ve seen its touch upon me already,” Mradin said, barely
  maintaining his patience. “You remarked on my temper? My in-
  tolerant and harsh manner? The tenebrian seeds instill a measure
  of arrogance, impatience . . . anger, even. It makes it far easier for
  me to discount you as inferior. And you haven’t seen its full
  extent. But, I will spare you my fury. Just know that my patience,
  my measure of compassion, wilts like a rose in the open desert.”
  “I would take that chance to be free of the Curse,” the old
  bedu with twisted skin said. 
  “As would I,” others said, adding to the chorus.
  Mradin shook his head. “I thought the same as all of you, at
  first, but I was wrong. I didn’t realize how difficult that struggle
  would become. I was a fool, and Kyrophage encouraged this
  well of darkness now consuming me. I fight it in my every
  word, in my every action!”
  “And yet you wish that for me?” Trylith asked.
  “It pales to the agony awaiting you. But not to the benign
  Curse most verrik endure.”
  “I cannot accept Mradin’s gift,” Aujmana said.
  “You are wise, aunt.”
  “Don’t presume you understand my reasons, nephew!” Auj-
  mana snapped. She studied the other bedu. “Have you forgotten
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  “Perfection is fallacy,” an old bedu said, his body gnarled by
  age and his flesh twisted with the spiral knots of the Curse. 
  “Perhaps, but I, too, suffered from the full blossom of
  Xyphon’s Curse. My innards slowly turned to crystal, my very
  bones stabbing me as they grew rampant like a thicket of thorns.
  I even sought the path of the crystal warrior, to master their
  skills, but their crystal weaving abilities could not save me.”
  “You’re free of the Curse?” a young bedu with stringy black
  hair asked, a thousand doubts in his gaze.
  “Yes,” Mradin admitted. “But I’m not Vnaxian.” 
  “Do you know how to perform this ritual?” a bedu shepherd
  asked, stepping forward eagerly.
  “No,” Mradin said. “It is not within my power to perform it.”
  “But you said you could save me from the Curse of
  Xyphon?” Trylith said.
  “I know who to approach. He’ll perform it.”
  “For all of us?” Aujmana asked, her question acrimonious
  enough that she already suspected the answer.
  “All of you? My only concern is my sister. What happens to
  you . . . .” he said with a shrug.
  “We all suffer from the Curse,” a middle-aged mother cried.
  “No,” Mradin said, “you suffer from fear of the Curse. What
  you have is trivial . . . a dispassionate sense of things, an unease
  that others feels in your presence. So what? Few here will
  endure it as my sister and I have. Most of you will never know
  its fullest touch. Am I supposed to grieve over that blessing?”
  “Mradin, please,” Trylith said. “We’re all family. You do for
  all, or you do for none. I cannot accept your offer otherwise.”
  Mradin shook his head. It would’ve been easier stealing her
  in the night as he’d planned a few evenings ago. To save her and
  her alone was an acceptable sacrifice. But for everyone to re-
  ceive the blessing of the tenebrian seeds grated on him in rough
  strokes. 
  Why do they deserve such gifts? They did not earn this!
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  she’s nothing more than a small child stirring the shore waters
  with a twig!”
  “At least she’s not drowning as you are, sweet brother.” 
  “Sharks never drown in the sea, sweet sister.”
  “Enough!’ Aujmana said. “Mradin, you are no longer wel-
  come among the Bnahzra. Leave us immediately and never
  return, upon punishment of—”
  “Spare me, old woman,” Mradin said. “My only concern is
  my sister. Trylith, come!”
  Several bedu drew their blades, ready to attack Mradin for
  his insults. He in turn opened his hand; a wickedly curved
  scimitar of fire and lightning leapt forth from the bone ring on
  his middle finger. Trylith nearly stumbled, interposing herself
  between the tribe and her brother. 
  “No!” she shouted. “No blood will be spilled on my account!”
  Nobody moved, no blade was sheathed. Desperate, Trylith
  turned to her brother, her expression one of profound sadness.
  “Brother, leave,” she said.
  “Not without you.”
  “I won’t go. Aujmana’s right. I will not contribute to your
  shame by sharing your theft.”
  “No, no,” Mradin said. “I know of another dragon who can
  perform the ritual. A rival to Kyrophage.”
  “Another secret earned before you betrayed Kyrophage’s
  trust?” she asked.
  Mradin said nothing.
  “I see. Go, brother. I would prefer to serve the akashic as a
  memory stone than live in shame.”
  “The shame will vanish. You’ll see—”
  “No,” she said. “No, I won’t see.”
  * * * * *
  Skaraph sprinted across the desert, his legs aching and his feet
  hammering the sand faster than his own racing heart. And he felt
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  that he is hunted? That he has stolen his new life from his
  benefactor?”
  “Kyrophage wanted me to kill and steal for him, like a
  common cutthroat.”
  “But you knew this going into the bargain, didn’t you?” Auj-
  mana asked.
  “Yes, but—”
  “Did Kyrophage warn you about this tenebrian curse?”
  Trylith asked.
  Mradin shook his head. He wouldn’t lie to his sister. “Yes.”
  “And he told you about the terms of your service? As assassin
  and thief?” Trylith said, pressing forward.
  Mradin didn’t answer. He remained quiet and let the silence
  speak for him.
  “Then you knew,” Aujmana said. “Going into the bargain,
  you were already planning to break your covenant. You had no
  intention of carrying through with your contract.”
  “No.” Mradin said, drawing to full stature, his chest jutting
  out with a monarch’s bearing, his head raised in imperious fash-
  ion. “I had no intention of fulfilling my part of the bargain. At
  first I felt guilty for my deceit, but I knew that if I was suffer-
  ing, then so was Trylith. And after becoming elevated, those
  feelings of guilt vanished. I now possess clarity. I did what was
  right for me and her.”
  “And was the cost worth it?” Trylith asked, her comment one
  of pity. 
  Mradin, however, would not be deterred. “As an akashic,
  each tattered, dusty memory I once scrounged for is now a
  kingdom that I can explore for years,” he said tapping his head.
  “The knowledge I draw upon is unrivaled, forgotten by all but
  the most ancient of creatures. And the treasures I’ve found . . .
  my Flamebolt sword and dagger discovered in a forgotten crypt
  that only I remember. I once respected Vrkassna’s abilities to
  draw memories from the great oceans of time. But now, I know
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  “How can I watch you die?” Mradin said; he shouldered his
  way through the tent flap. 
  * * * * *
  Mradin stumbled through the sand, nearly upending himself
  and Trylith as they scaled the back of another mammoth dune.
  She said nothing but studied Mradin intently. They were barely
  halfway to the oasis.
  “I know what you’re doing,” he said through labored breaths.
  “You’re limp. You’re making this more difficult.”
  “Leave me, then. I can make my way back.”
  “And I can reach the oasis. I can be just as stubborn as you.”
  Struggling through the sands, Mradin finally reached the
  apex of the dune. Below them, an ocean of static waves spread
  out to meet the dark horizon. Trylith gasped and grabbed her
  brother’s shoulder. He turned in time to see a drakyn-hound
  pack moving up a neighboring dune, away from them.
  “They’re heading for the village!” she said.
  “They won’t find me there,” Mradin replied, making his way
  down the dune’s slope. “And when they track me to the oasis,
  we’ll be far from there, safe.”
  “But the tribe—”
  “I’m past caring for them,” Mradin said.
  Trylith slapped Mradin, hard enough that he fell back into
  the dune’s face with her in his arms. She’d never raised a fist
  against him, even as a child. Trylith escaped his grasp and
  scrambled back up the slope. 
  “Damn you, Mradin,” she said, fleeing. 
  Mradin crawled after her, grabbing her cold, crystal ankle. 
  “This isn’t about you!” she cried. “Are you so blind you can’t
  see that?”
  “I’m trying to save you!” he said and pulled her down harder
  than he’d intended.
  Something cracked, like the sharp whisper of broken glass. 
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  joy, running unbridled till his flanks hurt and his breath skipped
  in shallow beats. He stopped a moment, listening, panting.
  A cold, gentle nudge touched Skaraph’s mind. Skaraph wel-
  comed Kyrophage’s presence as the wyrm coiled and nested inside
  the bowl of his skull, communing with him under Zalavat’s hot
  sun. Off in the distance, more drakyn-hounds approached.
  * * * * *
  The stars were plentiful in the tranquil night, with neither
  cloud nor Serran’s moon to diminish their luster. Mradin
  moved quietly, skirting wide the black tents to approach his sis-
  ter’s home. The sentries were fewer tonight than the nights pre-
  vious. The Bnahzra believed him gone, having tracked him for
  two evenings. When he was certain his escorts had returned
  home, Mradin doubled back.
  He slipped through the tent flap with barely a rustle; Trylith
  was meditating upon a diamond-checkered carpet, cross-legged
  and uncomfortable from stiffening joints. She opened her eyes,
  but Mradin found no surprise in her expression.
  “You knew I’d be back,” Mradin said.
  “The man I remember kept his word.”
  “Perhaps my love for you is the last true thing of me that re-
  mains,” Mradin said, kneeling before her. He stroked her cheek.
  “You cannot ask me to leave,” Trylith said, her eyes cloaked
  in miserable sorrow.
  “I’m no longer asking.”
  “I’ll scream,” she said.
  “They’ll kill me if you do. Or they’ll die trying. Regardless, I
  doubt you want to assume that guilt.”
  “You cannot carry me across the desert.”
  “I don’t have to,” Mradin said, sweeping his sister up into the
  cradle of his arms. “Wild camels still drink from the local oasis,
  do they not?”
  “Please,” she said. “Don’t do this.”
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  them drew them to a skidding stop. The drakyn-hounds
  exchanged glances and returned back the way they had come,
  running low to the ground and outflanking their verrik prey. 
  Mradin, however, stood his ground, his hands extended. He
  held his bone ring between two fingers. 
  “I surrender,” he said. “Take me back to Kyrophage.”
  “Trick!” one of the drakyn-hounds said with a sharp hiss.
  “No,” Mradin said. “I’m tired of running. I’ll return with
  you. No tricks.” With that, he dropped the ring into the sand.
  The drakyn-hounds looked at one another before the pack
  elder snapped its jaws twice. “Walk,” it said. “That way.”
  Mradin nodded and walked away, the drakyn-hounds sur-
  rounding him except for one that scooped up the ring with its
  tongue. Only once did Mradin pause, to look back to the dis-
  tant black tents. Only once did he wonder if the Bnahzra ap-
  preciated what he was doing for them.
  * * * * *
  Aujmana and the other bedu scrambled over the dunes, fol-
  lowing the wind-brushed footsteps and the broken peaks of
  someone’s passage. They moved quickly, for their path took
  them to the oasis where wild camels grazed. From there, track-
  ing Trylith would prove impossible. 
  Over one dune to the next, Aujmana and her trackers were
  surprised when they almost stumbled over Trylith in the shaded
  slope, a drakyn-hound lying next to her.
  “Skaraph,” Aujmana said. “We’re surprised to see you so soon.”
  “You know I?”
  “It was Trylith who convinced us to spare your life. We brought
  you to her tent. Did he fight off Mradin?” Aujmana asked Trylith,
  nodding to the drakyn-hound. “We recognized Mradin’s tracks.”
  “No,” Trylith said. “Mradin departed to right his own mis-
  takes, as it should have been. Skaraph has kept me company
  since he found me a few hours ago.”
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  Trylith cried out, more shock than pain, and Mradin
  backpedaled, horrified by his own brutality . . .
  . . . horrified at the deep cleft across her crystalline ankle.
  “I’m sorry!” he cried. He reached out, but he couldn’t bear to
  touch the wound. “We can heal this. Please, let me try—”
  But Trylith said nothing. She wept heavy tears that turned to
  mud from the sand on her face.
  “I’m sorry,” Mradin whispered, embracing her. He held her,
  gently, her head against his chest. “I’m sorry,” he repeated,
  rocking her gently. It was only in such moments of horrible
  clarity that Mradin realized how much he’d truly changed; how
  much the darkness had consumed his heart. Finally, Trylith
  wiped away the muddy tears and stared at her brother. 
  “I love you, Mradin. Your gift is a wonderful promise,” she
  whispered, “but it is not yours to give. Go, please.”
  “I can’t leave you here, like this.”
  “You must. Aujmana will track me as soon as she realizes I’m
  missing. But, as a favor to me . . . stop the drakyn-hounds from
  attacking the tribe.”
  “I—” Mradin began, still uncertain.
  “If the drakyn-hounds attack the Bnahzra, then Aujmana
  may not find me for days, if she even survives. And I wish to
  return home.” 
  Mradin said nothing at first, and though unable to meet her
  gaze, he nodded. “Stay in the slope of the dune,” he said. “The
  shade will protect you till late morning.”
  “They’ll find me by then,” Trylith said. “Be well, brother.”
  “And you,” Mradin replied, walking over the dune crest. 
  “Remember me kindly.”
  “I’ll try,” she whispered.
  * * * * *
  The drakyn-hounds were within sight of the tents when they
  quickened their thundering pace, but a sharp whistle behind
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  H
  urry!” Daelyn shouted. He held open the door of a
  small, squat building whose moss-covered roof hung
  bare inches above his bushy black hair. “Get in here!
  Get in quickly!”
  The building stood halfway up a grassy hill above a cross-
  roads. Covered in vegetation as it was, you had to look carefully
  to notice that it was more than just an overgrown shack—in
  fact, it was merely the front few feet of a bunker built into the
  side of the hill. The bunker was nearly impossible to spot unless
  you knew what you were looking for. But, like all his neigh-
  bors, Daelyn knew it so well that he could find it blindfolded
  on a moonless night. It was built on land that had belonged to
  Daelyn’s family for generations so, as usual, he was the first to
  arrive. Now he was just waiting to see who else would show up.
  From every direction Daelyn could see men, women, and
  children running toward him. The crimson and orange wisps
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  O U R  B L O O D
  “Return compassion,” Skaraph said.
  “Why are you here, Skaraph?” Aujmana asked. “We know
  your pack was near our village this morning.”
  “Yes. But seek only oath-breaker.”
  “And you?” Aujmana asked. 
  “Kyrophage send I to offer deal. Elevate you and other verrik.
  Save you from Curse.”
  “Mradin spoke of a darkness that afflicts him,” Aujmana said.
  “A malevolent anger and arrogance. Does it affect all elevated?”
  “Yes. But I fight its call.”
  “How?” Trylith asked.
  “Greater trumpet is duty and oath.”
  “Even though that duty may ask you to kill?”
  Skaraph shook his head. “I kill as beast. Not new. You kill as
  warrior. Not new. If duty and oath to your word is stronger
  than personal desire, then you fight Curse.”
  “I’ve heard Kyrophage’s offer,” Trylith said.
  “And?” Aujmana asked.
  “I will undergo the ritual.” 
  “Even after turning away your own brother?” a bedu asked.
  “It’s not the same. It was not Mradin’s place to make the
  choice for me, and he offered me a gift that was not his to
  begin with. But he was right in one thing. It is better I choose
  my fate than suffer under a crueler affliction. And if I am to
  serve Kyrophage, perhaps I can save Mradin as well.” 
  “I respect your decision,” Aujmana said. “Come then,
  Skaraph. Let the members of the tribe hear Kyrophage’s offer
  and let them make their own choices.”
  The other bedu helped Trylith to her feet while Skaraph took
  his place between her and Aujmana.
  “I glad,” Skaraph said. 
  “And perhaps,” Trylith said, “we can offer all verrik the choice.”
  “Yes,” Skaraph said. “Master would like that.”
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  painting the western horizon were all that was left of the day, so
  it was impossible for him to make out details of the approach-
  ing faces. But so few people lived in this region of Thartholan,
  it was easy to identify your neighbors by their gaits alone.
  Paet and Jul were the first to come running up. Somehow,
  even with three young children in tow, they still always man-
  aged to be among the first to arrive at the bunker—or perhaps
  it was because of the children. Nothing puts spring in your step
  like fear for your child’s life.
  “Is Babba Hespyr here yet?” Jul asked. She clutched her infant
  daughter, Sari, to her chest while Paet herded their two young
  boys, Naen and Byrn, through the door and down the stairs.
  “You’re the first ones tonight,” Daelyn said. He peered out
  over the landscape and pointed to the approaching silhouettes
  one by one. “I see Cariss and Fern, and I think that’s Kael, but
  he’s moving funny. Maybe he threw his back out again.”
  “That’s all?” asked Jul. A few strands of straw-colored hair fell
  out from below her white bonnet and stuck to the perspiration
  on her brow.
  “I think so.”
  Jul gazed anxiously to the north, in the direction of Hespyr’s
  farm. “Are you certain?” she asked.
  And even though he was sure, Daelyn shaded his small, brown
  eyes and looked again. Only one shape was moving across the
  fields—the one he’d just identified as Kael—lumbering haltingly
  closer. There was no sign of anyone else.
  “I’m sure,” he said. “Why? What’s wrong?”
  Jul turned her head to look away to the west. Although there
  was nothing to see, a dry, relentless, unearthly chittering sound
  echoed over the hill. It had grown noticeably louder even as
  they stood there talking.
  “Babba Hespyr didn’t sleep a wink last night,” said Jul. She
  held Sari closer and rocked the baby soothingly. However, since
  the little girl had slept soundly despite the panicked race across
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  the fields and the rising cacophony of chittering, the motion
  seemed intended more to soothe the mother than the child.
  “When I checked in on her this afternoon she was pale and
  shaky. I don’t think she can make it here by herself tonight.”
  Daelyn looked to the north again. Maybe she simply hadn’t
  heard the chittering—her hearing was getting worse by the day.
  Even at a dead run it would take ten minutes for him to get to
  Hespyr’s cabin and, presuming he found her alive, fifteen more
  to carry her back. There certainly was no longer enough time
  to let the old woman walk the distance. Daelyn ran a tanned
  hand through his hair. Considering his options, he worked his
  jaw back and forth behind pursed lips.
  “What are you doing?” demanded Cariss. Not a single gray
  hair strayed from under the kerchief tied around her head as she
  marched up the hill at a pace most folk would find difficult to
  maintain over flat land. Cariss was solid as the hills and seemed
  to be built from the same mud and granite, so Daelyn felt it
  when she poked him in the chest with the tip of her walking
  stick. “Shouldn’t you be inside making sure everything’s secure?”
  “Paet is in there,” said Daelyn. “And everything is just the
  way we left it this morning.”
  “Paet!” Cariss spat the name out like it was a curse, either not
  noticing or not caring that Jul was standing right in front of her.
  “He can barely handle those ruffian sons of his. Do you really
  think he is the best choice to secure our only protection against—”
  “Babba Hespyr hasn’t come yet,” said Jul.
  “Sh-she h-hasn’t?” asked Fern as she finally reached the
  bunker. Although twenty years younger, she seemed to have
  only half her mother’s energy. Curly blond hair billowed around
  her face as she approached, her expression a mixture of apology
  for Cariss’ brusqueness and worry over their missing neighbor.
  “Perhaps we should send someone to see if she’s all right?”
  “I don’t think there’s enough time,” said Jul. She had to raise
  her voice to be heard above the building noise.
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  S T A N !
  
  Daelyn was about to start down the hill when Cariss poked
  him in the chest again, this time more forcefully.
  “Kael has her,” she said. “Honestly, don’t you fools have eyes?”
  Daelyn looked down to the crossroads. Kael was just stepping
  off the path and starting to climb the hill. Despite the failing
  light, it was now obvious that he wasn’t hobbling because his
  back was sore, but rather because of what he carried upon it. 
  Babba Hespyr had her arms wrapped around Kael’s neck like
  the collar of a cloak, and he held her legs to provide balance and
  support to them both as he marched across the uneven terrain.
  “At least one person was thinking about someone other than
  himself,” said Cariss. 
  “All right,” Daelyn said, “you’ll have all night to tell us what
  horrible people we are, Cariss. Right now, let’s get inside.”
  While the others ambled through the door and down the
  stairs, Daelyn waited. “I see you brought a date tonight,” he
  called out when Kael was close enough to hear him over the din
  of alien chirping.
  The other man barked a short laugh.
  “Yeah,” he said in a raspy voice as deep as the lines in his
  care-worn face. Kael was only ten years Daelyn’s senior, but he
  looked like he’d lived a lifetime longer. “I have a thing for older
  women, didn’t you know?”
  “Well it’s just your bad luck that I don’t like immature men,”
  said Hespyr. Her voice was so thin that it was almost impossible
  to hear her over the chittering. The two men helped lower her
  to the ground and then down the bunker steps where Jul and
  Fern waited.
  “Damn, they’re louder than ever,” said Kael standing up and
  looking to the west. There still was nothing to see, but the noise
  kept rising and moving closer. “How much worse can it get?”
  “Never ask questions you don’t really want the answers to,”
  replied Daelyn.
  Kael shook his head and cracked a craggy grin. “I suppose
  S T A N !
  you’re right,” he said. “Is everyone here now?”
  “Almost,” said Daelyn. “We still haven’t seen Aevyrt.”
  “That makes what, three days?” asked Kael.
  “Four,” answered Daelyn. “I know he has a cellar at his
  cabin, but we’d better check on him in the morning.”
  “We have to make it through the night first,” said Kael. He
  barked another short laugh as he started down the stairs into
  the bunker. “C’mon, let’s get in and lock up.”
  If you’d asked Daelyn why, he couldn’t have answered, but
  instead of following immediately he stole one more look at the
  western horizon. The last wisps of color were nearly gone from
  the sky, but they still provided enough light to see a pair of sil-
  houettes coming toward the crossroads. They weren’t insectoid
  shapes, skittering and crawling over the land—they were
  human, one about twice as tall as the other, and they were
  walking down the road. No, they were strolling down the road,
  hand in hand, calm as can be.
  “Hey!” Daelyn shouted as loudly as he could. He had to find
  some way to attract their attention over the blaring noise, so he
  jumped up and down waving his hands as he continued to
  shout. “Hey, you two! Up here on the hill! Look!”
  The pair stopped and looked directly at Daelyn, as though
  they had no trouble hearing him.
  He stopped jumping.
  For a very long moment none of them did anything but
  stand stock-still staring at one another. The oddity of the situa-
  tion made the skin prickle on the back of Daelyn’s neck—and,
  living in this valley, that was no mean feat. Were they unaware
  of the danger they were in? Did they have no idea what was
  about to come swarming over the hill? Or were they insane
  enough to simply not be afraid?
  It didn’t matter. Daelyn couldn’t go inside and leave them to
  their grisly fate.
  “Get up here!” he called to them, beckoning with a wave. 
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  184
  
  “In fact, we want to save you from a whole mess of trouble. But
  we’re about to close this door. And once it’s closed we don’t open
  it up for anyone or anything until the sun comes up.”
  The stranger looked at the neighbors huddled in the bunker.
  They were ordinary folk, dressed in plain clothes covered with
  stains from mud, grass, and the sweat of a hard day’s work. He
  took his young companion by the hand, and stepped inside just
  as Daelyn was about to give up. He helped close and secure the
  door. The walls were insulated by enough earth to cut the
  clamor outside to a distant thrum. 
  The stranger turned to stare stoically at the group again. He
  and the boy were dressed in traveling clothes—tunic, breeches,
  cloak, and boots—but rather than simple, sturdy cloth, they were
  fashioned from silks, satins, and velvet dyed in bright shades of
  purple, yellow, and rich royal blue. They might have looked like
  nobility except that they had a coarse, brash, almost defiant air
  about them. Nobles could be arrogant and confrontational, in
  Daelyn’s experience, but always in a refined, sophisticated way.
  “What is ‘the scourge?’” the stranger asked. Despite his gruff
  demeanor, the stranger’s voice was almost musical. To be cer-
  tain, it was deep and commanding as well, but melodic was the
  first word that sprang to Daelyn’s mind—like a tune played on
  the lowest keys of a cathedral’s organ.
  “‘What’s the scourge?’ Is he kiddin’ me?” chuckled Kael.
  “Mister, did you hear that racket out there?”
  “Indeed I did,” said the stranger. “Is that what you call
  kikrikki? ‘The scourge?’”
  “If they have any other name, we’ve never heard it,” Paet said
  from the corner. Naen and Byrn sat in his lap, which in itself
  was unusual. Generally they were crawling all over every inch of
  the bunker, but tonight they were silent as mice. They simply
  sat there and stared at the strangers, especially the younger one.
  But whenever the young stranger looked their way, the boys
  buried their faces in their father’s chest.
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  The taller figure picked up the smaller one in a single arm
  and began walking up the hill. Walking! Daelyn couldn’t believe
  his eyes. “Hurry up!” he yelled. “They’ll be here any minute!”
  The larger figure doubled the length of his strides, but never
  moved quicker than a stately, military march. By the time he was
  close enough for Daelyn to see their faces, the others inside the
  bunker were screaming for him to come in and close the door.
  “Just a second,” he said. “They’re here.”
  They were indeed human—a man in the prime of life and a
  boy on the verge of adolescence. If they were not father and son,
  they were closely related. They had the same dark hair, ruddy
  skin, and narrow sunken eyes, and both their faces bore identical
  stony expressions. They looked at Daelyn calmly but quizzically,
  as if to say, “Yes, good man, why did you call us off the road?”
  Clearly, as impossible as it seemed, they had no clue what
  was about to happen in the valley.
  “You’re lucky I saw you,” Daelyn said as he moved through the
  door and down the half-dozen stairs into the bunker. “Come in.”
  The man set the boy on the ground and the two of them
  stepped up to the threshold, peered in, but did not yet enter
  the bunker. Daelyn stepped aside so that they could see what
  was inside—a single room with three cots, a dozen chairs, two
  tall water barrels, and walls covered with shelves bearing dried
  and preserved food, blankets, and other items one would want
  in times of emergency.
  “For Niashra’s sake, Daelyn,” called Cariss, “shut the door!”
  “Mother!” said Fern. “They’re strangers. You can’t expect
  them to just trust us.”
  “Well, you can’t expect us to stand here with the door open
  until the scourge comes swarming in just because they’re too
  dim to realize we mean them no harm.” 
  “She’s right, y’know,” said Kael. “We gotta close the door.”
  “Mister, no one here’s going to hurt you or your boy,” Daelyn
  said, doing his best to ignore the bickering going on behind him.
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  S T A N !
  
  “No. It happened about a fortnight ago,” said Daelyn. “We
  opened our doors one morning and thought the world had ended.
  Instead of a sunny day, or even a cloudy one, it was dark outside.”
  “Mostly dark,” said Cariss. “Tell the story right.”
  “It was dark,” Daelyn continued, “except that beams of sun-
  light were passing over the land like lights from hooded
  lanterns. We looked up to see—”
  “Dragons,” Jul interrupted. “The sky was filled with dragons
  flying east. They blocked out the sun for the whole day.”
  “It was only for a few hours,” said Cariss.
  “‘Only,’ you say!” added Kael. “‘Only a few hours.’ Do you
  know how many dragons it takes to fill the sky for a few hours?”
  “No I don’t,” said Cariss. “But neither do you.”
  “It’s a lot,” said Jul.
  “A hell of a lot,” said Kael.
  “It was an omen,” said Hespyr, “an omen of change.”
  “You keep saying that,” muttered Cariss, “but it doesn’t mean
  anything. ‘An omen of change.’ What sort of change? Change
  for who? Change of what?”
  “Omens are funny things,” Hespyr answered. “You never can
  tell what they mean exactly until it’s done.”
  “Then what good are they?” asked Kael. “What good does it
  do us to know that something is different if we don’t know what
  it is? We can’t prepare to welcome it. We can’t guard against it.
  We may not even be able to recognize it when it arrives.”
  “Oh, we’ll know when it’s here,” Hespyr assured them.
  “But how, Babba Hespyr?” asked Jul. “How will we know?”
  “It will come out of nowhere and fill the air,” the old woman
  said. “It will be something that no one expects, but everyone must
  accept. It will be like a bolt from the blue or thunder at night.”
  At that exact moment the air was split by a loud series of
  thumps—fists pounding and feet kicking the door so hard that
  it rattled on its hinges. From the hillside beyond came a pan-
  icked voice.
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  “They’ve been coming to the valley since before I was born,”
  Hespyr said in her shaky, frail voice. “We call them ‘the scourge’
  because they destroy whatever is in their way, and when they
  swarm, everything is in their way.”
  “Remember the time they ate the Thousand Year Oak?” said
  Jul. Most of the adults nodded or grunted that they did, but
  she turned to the stranger and continued. “They didn’t just eat
  the leaves and strip the bark, they ate the whole tree. All that
  was left in the morning was the very core of the trunk, gnawed
  on like an old dog’s bone.”
  “And this happens often?” asked the stranger.
  “Nah, not often,” said Kael. “Only once or twice a year. We
  count ourselves lucky it’s just after a harvest rather than just
  before one.”
  “Well, it used to be only once a year,” said Fern. “But it’s
  been happening a lot lately.”
  “But they hadn’t swarmed since last summer,” said Cariss.
  “And I don’t think we saw them at all for two whole years
  before that.”
  “You can’t talk about averages,” Paet said. “That’s meaningless.
  All we really can say is that it’s been happening a lot lately.”
  “But it’s still not as bad as five years ago,” said Hespyr. “That
  was the worst I’ve ever seen in all my years—once before the
  spring harvest and again before the fall harvest. That was a
  long, cold, hungry winter for us all.”
  “Paet’s right,” Daelyn said. “All that matters is how bad off
  the swarms leave us. If this keeps up the way it has since the
  Day of Exodus, this will be the worst year ever. We won’t have
  enough food to get through the autumn, let alone the winter.”
  They all nodded in agreement.
  “What is the Day of Exodus? A local festival?” the stranger
  asked. While the others were speaking he was completely,
  almost unnaturally still. He seemed to even cease breathing so
  he could better hear what they were saying.
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  S T A N !
  
  “Open the door!” it said.
  For a very long moment no one moved.
  The thumping continued, increasing in savagery.
  “It’s me,” the voice continued. “It’s Aevyrt! For pity’s sake, let
  me in!”
  “Aevyrt, you fool, what are you doing out there?” called out
  Kael, though he stayed a good dozen paces away from the door.
  “Why aren’t you in your cellar at home?”
  “It collapsed last night,” Aevyrt answered. “I thought I was a
  goner for sure, but they couldn’t get to me through the rubble
  before the sun rose. It took me all day to dig my way out of
  there. Now let me in!” All the while he continued to punch and
  kick at the door.
  “You know the rule, Aevyrt,” shouted Paet. “Once the door
  is closed, it doesn’t open until morning.”
  “The hell with the rule!” Aevyrt screamed. “I’m telling you, the
  scourge hasn’t come over the hill yet. Open the damned door!”
  “It’s dark out there,” said Cariss. “He can’t be sure that there
  aren’t any of those damned bugs anywhere nearby.”
  “We can’t just sit here and do nothing, Mother,” Fern said.
  “We most certainly can,” Cariss replied. Her voice was as
  solid and unyielding as the barrier against which Aevyrt was
  pounding. “If we open the door, it won’t take a whole swarm to
  wipe us out—one or two will do.”
  “The rule is there for a reason,” said Kael.
  “Oh sweet Niashra!” cried Aevyrt. “I can see them now.
  They’re just coming over the hill—the whole hill, as far as I can
  see. There’s never been so many. Open the door. They won’t be
  here for a minute yet. In the name of all that’s good and right,
  let me in.” As he spoke his voice faded from a shout down to
  just normal speaking tone, barely enough to be heard over the
  insectoid noises that were now piercing even the thick walls of
  the bunker. The violent pounding lessened to a token few
  thumps. “Please let me in.”
  “Screw the rule,” said Daelyn as he shouldered past the
  others. Before anyone could stop him, he stepped up to the
  door and slid back the bolt. In a swift single motion Daelyn
  pushed the door open only the slightest of cracks, reached out,
  and pulled in a thin, sun-parched man with several days’
  growth of beard that accounted for just about all the hair on his
  head. Aevyrt collapsed on the ground at Daelyn’s feet.
  As the door slammed shut under its own weight, Kael and
  Fern leapt forward to bolt it again. Paet looked as if he wanted
  to, but he was still pinned beneath his unusually calm children.
  “You told me that once the door was closed, you wouldn’t
  open it for any reason,” said the stranger, who had been stand-
  ing still and silent as a statue during all the excitement. “You
  said it was ‘the rule.’”
  “And it is!” bellowed Cariss. “You had no right to do such a
  foolish thing, Daelyn. If one of those things had—”
  “But it didn’t,” Daelyn interrupted. “You know those things
  can’t do anything quietly. There wasn’t anything on the other
  side of the door but a frightened friend of ours.”
  “That’s not the point,” said Kael. “The rule isn’t complicated,
  it’s not hard to interpret. In fact, it’s simple for one reason—so
  that it’s easy to follow. What if you were wrong? What if there
  was just one quiet bug out there?”
  “That’s a chance I was willing to take,” Daelyn said. “I
  couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do everything in my power
  to help a neighbor in need. And if it had been you on the other
  side of the door, you’d be glad I felt that way.”
  “It wouldn’t be me on the other side of the door,” said
  Cariss. She stood, squared her shoulders, and stared down her
  nose at Daelyn. “I’d know better.”
  “That’s all well and good to say,” he answered, stepping up to
  look her dead in the eye. “Perhaps we’ll remind you of that next
  spring when the rains turn the fields to mud and it takes you
  an extra ten minutes to get here, or in the winter when the
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  S T A N !
  190
  
  “It’s the same for all of us,” said Daelyn. “My great-great-
  great-great-grandfather built this bunker because he was tired of
  having to ride around the valley just to be certain that Aevyrt’s
  great-great-great-great-grandmother was all right after every
  time the scourge swarmed. Everyone in this part of Thartholan
  knows everyone else. We have to—our families have been here
  so long, there’s hardly anyone who isn’t a distant cousin or in-
  law of one sort or another.”
  “But no one knows you, stranger,” Cariss added. Rather than
  sitting on a chair or cot, she was leaning against one of the
  water barrels with her arms crossed. She’d been staring at the
  stranger and the boy for most of the time since they came in. 
  “Come on now, Cariss,” said Aevyrt who, having finally gath-
  ered his wits, was getting off the ground and dusting himself off.
  “Just ’cause you’re mad at me, don’t take it out on these folks.”
  “No, that’s not it at all. She’s right,” said Kael. “We don’t know
  anything about these two. Hell, we don’t even know their names.”
  The strangers seemed completely undisturbed—practically
  unaware that they were suddenly the topic of discussion. They
  simply stood where they were, side-by-side about five paces
  away from the stairs, listening intently to the conversation.
  Their eyes darted from face to face, following the conversation,
  but other than that, they hardly moved a muscle. They were so
  quiet and still that at times they seemed not to be there at all—
  quite a trick, in a small room crowded with neighbors.
  Now, though, an uneasy tension was filling the bunker. Even
  Fern, who never had anything but a smile for everyone, cast
  suspicious eyes toward the newcomers. Daelyn could sense,
  even if the strangers couldn’t, the others growing restless and
  shifting into more aggressive postures. As ridiculous as it
  seemed, they somehow felt threatened by the strangers and were
  on the verge of doing something about it.
  “That’s easily solved,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve been
  properly introduced. I’m Daelyn, and this is my place.” He 
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  snow is so deep that you have to snowshoe here without the aid
  of your walking stick.”
  Cariss made no reply, but she did not lower her gaze. The
  two stood there toe to toe, simply glaring at one another.
  “Why do you stay?” said a small voice from the back of the
  room.
  The neighbors all turned at the same time to see that it was
  the stranger’s companion who asked the question.
  “If things are so desperate, why do you stay?” the boy asked
  again. His voice was as musical as the stranger’s, but higher and
  more airy. “Surely there are better places to live. Why don’t you
  move somewhere where there is no scourge?”
  The neighbors all laughed.
  “Leave?” said Kael, his gruff voice softened by the humor of
  the moment. “Why should we leave? The land’s fertile, there’s
  plenty of fresh water, the weather’s mild enough that we can
  farm ten months out of most years, and the giant stewards
  never made it this far west, so they never bother us. We’re free
  to live our lives the way we like.”
  “There’s nothing wrong with the land,” added Jul, “it’s just
  some of the wildlife. And even that isn’t really natural. If we
  ever figured out a way to close down the portal on the western
  ridge, we’d have no problems at all—the scourge’d be stuck 
  forever on the other side, wherever that is.”
  “Besides,” Cariss said, “we can’t let them chase us off our
  land. We were here first.”
  The boy cocked his head and raised an eyebrow—the most
  emotion either of the strangers had shown since they arrived.
  “But the old woman said that the kikrikki have been visiting
  this valley since before she was born.”
  The neighbors laughed again.
  “Son,” Kael said, “eighty-five generations of my family have
  lived on and farmed pieces of this land. We were here before
  the scourge, and we’ll be here long after they’ve been run off.”
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  S T A N !
  
  Naen, Byrn, and Sari all screamed and clutched their parents
  tightly. Paet and Jul did what they could to comfort the children,
  which proved to be very little. Kael, Daelyn, Aevyrt, and Cariss
  threw themselves against the door in hopes of providing the entry
  with even a fraction more stability. Fern ran over to the cot where
  Hespyr sat and threw her arms protectively around the old
  woman who, quite understandably, mistook the gesture for one
  of abject terror and wrapped her arms around the teenager
  saying, “There, there, dear. It will be all right. You’ll see.”
  Only Goedaer and Toi were unfazed by the commotion.
  They continued to stand in the same spots they had since arriv-
  ing. But now they turned their heads curiously this way and
  that, following the panicked activities carefully.
  Another blow struck the door, knocking Daelyn and Kael
  two feet back and sending Aevyrt and Cariss sprawling onto the
  floor. They leapt back to bolster the door again, but no further
  attacks were forthcoming. The creatures hadn’t left; the neigh-
  bors could hear them on the other side of door clicking their
  mandibles and climbing all over themselves in a writhing mass
  of insect fury.
  The cocoon of earth surrounding the bunker no longer pro-
  vided any respite from the inhuman noise the scourge made.
  The horrible sound filled the space, but it was mixed with a
  new sound: a scraping, scrabbling, scratching noise that could
  be felt deep in the bones as much as it could be heard.
  “What the hell is that?” asked Kael. No one could provide an
  answer with any kind of certainty.
  “I’ve never heard anything like it,” said Paet.
  “Is the scourge making that sound,” asked Jul, “or did they
  bring some new kind of bug with them?”
  “A new kind?” Cariss said. “After all this time, why in the
  world would they do that?”
  “An omen of change,” Hespyr called out from the cot. “The
  only thing you can be certain of is that nothing will be the same.”
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  extended an open hand and smiled his best smile first to the
  older stranger and then to the younger one.
  The young boy ignored Daelyn completely, instead turning
  his head to stare up at his companion. The older stranger
  looked down at Daelyn’s hand as though not sure what to make
  of it. His eyes were wide and his mouth was taut.
  Every eye in the room was on them.
  “I am Goedaer,” the stranger said eventually. “My son is Toi.”
  Goedaer did not shake Daelyn’s hand, but he did close his
  eyes and give his host a short, formal bow. Toi did the same.
  Daelyn lowered his hand and smiled.
  “There now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
  The others relaxed—some more than others—and introduced
  themselves. Fern’s warm smile returned, but Cariss’ wary scowl
  remained. Kael began to offer his hand to Goedaer but seemed
  to think better of it at the last moment. Naen and Byrn climbed
  off their father’s lap and stepped up to Toi, staring at him the
  way they did tadpoles in a pond (except that unlike the tadpoles,
  Toi stared right back with an equally curious gaze). 
  Suddenly the chittering sounds that had been a steady but dis-
  tant thrum somewhere beyond the bunker’s walls rose in pitch,
  volume, and proximity. It was as if the size of the scourge swarm
  had doubled, and all of the horrible creatures decided to clamber
  over this hill at the same time. Once again a loud thump re-
  sounded against the door. This time, however, it wasn’t the solid,
  meaty sound of a fist or boot on the wood. This was a much
  more powerful blow, as though the door were being struck by a
  falling tree or a battering ram or a giant insectoid limb.
  The blow was hard enough to rattle not only the bunker’s
  door but also the entire front wall, causing clouds of dust and
  dirt to rain down from the ceiling. This was immediately fol-
  lowed by the sound of dozens, perhaps hundreds, of tiny limbs
  scratching against the wood as though they were trying to tear
  it down one sliver at a time.
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  S T A N !
  
  Goedaer pondered the question before finally replying, “Yes.”
  “Well, what are you doing here?” Cariss asked. “Why in the
  world would a sorcerer and his apprentice come here? No one
  just visits this valley.”
  “Toi is my progeny, not my student,” said Goedaer. “And we
  are not visiting. We have come here to live.”
  For a moment none of the neighbors made a sound—they
  almost seemed to stop breathing. The next moment they all
  burst out laughing.
  “You are crazy,” said Kael.
  “Why would anyone in his right mind bring a child here?”
  said Jul.
  “No one ‘comes to live’ in Thartholan,” said Paet.
  For the first time, Toi actually became physically agitated. He
  put his hands on his hips and cocked his head to the side.
  “What’s so funny?” he said. “You just finished telling us what
  a wonderful place this is and how you would never think about
  living anywhere else.”
  “Yes,” said Daelyn. “But our families have lived here for hun-
  dreds of years. We belong to the land as much as it does to us.
  We can’t help but love this place—it is in our blood. But it’s
  been generations since anyone moved here of their own choice.
  Thartholan just isn’t someplace that you learn to love.”
  “We know,” Goedaer said. “This land is in our blood as well.”
  The assembled neighbors uttered a series of half-formed
  questions and grunts of disbelief.
  “That can’t possibly be,” said Cariss. When Goedaer gave her
  another piercing glare she added, “What I meant to say was, if
  that’s true, then we must have heard of your family.” 
  “Perhaps,” said Goedaer, “but they left a very long time ago,
  when my grandfather was not yet as old as Toi is now. He loved
  this land, and it broke his heart to leave. In all the years that fol-
  lowed, he never forgot. Grandfather was always telling stories
  about the rolling hills and the grassy plains, about the warmth of
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  Goedaer began to chuckle, a deep, reverberating sound nearly as
  alien as the chattering of the scourge. He stopped when it became
  obvious that everyone else in the bunker was staring at him.
  “What the hell was that about?” growled Kael.
  Goedaer looked at him as though he had no idea what the
  man was talking about.
  “What was so funny?” asked Daelyn. “We all really could use
  a good laugh about now.”
  “I thought the old woman was joking,” Goedaer said. “It has
  been my experience that, omens or no, omens, the only thing
  you can ever be certain of is that nothing will remain the same.”
  “Who are you?” Cariss said. “Really, I think we deserve to
  know. Who are you, Goedaer? What sort of man comes wander-
  ing down the western road just at sunset—trailing his son along
  behind him, no less—knowing nothing about the scourge?”
  Goedaer gave her the same neutral look he’d worn in re-
  sponse to nearly everything the neighbors had said.
  “I am a traveler,” he said.
  “A traveler from where?” she demanded. “You couldn’t possi-
  bly have walked from Balatosh in a single day, not with a child.
  But lately the scourge has been swarming every night, so you
  couldn’t have just camped by the roadside. How did you get
  here? What sort of ‘traveler’ are you?”
  For the first time, Goedaer looked slightly perturbed, as
  though he did not like having the truth of his statements ques-
  tioned. He narrowed his eyes and fixed Cariss with a withering
  stare. After a few moments he said, “My son and I are sorcerers
  of a sort. We were able to protect ourselves from the kikrikki. We
  would have done so tonight as well if you had not invited us to
  share your shelter. I must say that we are glad for the company,
  but if you regret allowing us in, we can leave any time you like.”
  “No!” barked Kael. “No one’s opening that door again!”
  “As you wish,” Goedaer said.
  “Are you really sorcerers?” asked Fern.
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  S T A N !
  
  “We’ve all heard that story, Babba Hespyr,” said Cariss. “Let’s
  hear our new friend’s answer. Where was your family from,
  Goedaer? If not Venthal, was it Southsands? Or Redcliff?”
  “Yeah,” Kael chimed in. “We all have friends and relations
  spread out across Thartholan. There’s a good chance one of us
  will know someone from your hometown.”
  While Daelyn was not pleased with the accusatory tone the
  conversation had taken, he had to admit to his own curiosity.
  Why would Goedaer be so effusive about his love for
  Thartholan yet so secretive about his family’s roots?
  The newcomer stood as still and as stoically as ever, yet
  somehow his stance seemed to express resignation.
  “I do not know any of those names,” he said. “In fact,
  Grandfather rarely called any place by name—he said they
  never capture the true essence of the land. But I believe that
  others called his home Drohthal.”
  The silence that followed was made more pronounced by the
  fact that it drew attention to the chirping and scratching noises
  from outside the bunker. Daelyn imagined that they were grow-
  ing louder again, but perhaps they just seemed that way in the
  strained bunker air.
  “The Dragon Hills?” said Paet finally. “Does anyone actually
  live there?”
  “Certainly,” Hespyr said. “There are dozens of tiny villages in
  the woods on those haunted hills. But they live according to
  traditions older than the hills themselves—from before the
  coming of the dramojh—and they don’t welcome strangers.
  Some of them are even said to practice cannibalism.”
  The others gasped and again turned their gazes suspiciously
  on Goedaer and Toi.
  Daelyn was now certain that the sounds from outside had
  grown noticeably louder, particularly the scratching noises—
  they seemed to be coming from every direction at once. No one
  else was paying the least attention, though.
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  the summer breeze and the bitter cold of the winter wind. He said
  that this was the most perfect place the gods ever created, and
  we believed him. Nothing would have pleased him more than to
  return, but his master would not allow it. Still, the longing never
  left his heart, and he passed that devotion on to his son—my
  father—who passed it on to me. And since the day Toi came into
  the world I have been telling him tales of this magical land.”
  Toi looked at his father and rolled his eyes—a normal
  enough expression that somehow looked completely unnatural
  on this strange boy’s face.
  “When the opportunity to return arose, I seized it—seized it
  for me, for my son, and for all the dreams my grandfather
  never surrendered,” Goedaer continued. “This land is in our
  blood. And it touches my heart to see that the people living
  here feel the same way about the land and about each other.”
  “It sounds like your grandfather was a good man,” said
  Daelyn. “I’m sorry that I’ll never get to meet him.”
  “Where did he live?” Hespyr’s frail, wavering voice called out
  from where she sat on the cot.
  “Excuse me?” said Goedaer.
  “Your grandfather,” the old woman said. “Where did he live?
  My father was a traveling merchant, and I spent most of my
  youth riding from town to town in his wagon. Perhaps I knew
  some of your kin.”
  “I think that is unlikely,” Goedaer answered. “From what I
  understand, they lived in an extremely isolated area.”
  Daelyn thought the stranger was being exceptionally careful
  with his words, particularly for such an innocuous subject.
  “I don’t think there’s a corner of Thartholan that I haven’t
  been to,” said Hespyr. “Was it in the Venthal mud flats? That’s
  actually where I met my husband, gods rest his soul. He wan-
  dered out of that desolate waste just to find me, can you believe
  it?” She turned to Fern. “Did I ever tell you that story, dear? It’s
  the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard.”
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  “Mister,” Kael said, “I don’t know if a single word you’ve told
  us is true, but I’m getting real tired of guessing. Give me one
  good reason why we shouldn’t just throw you out the door and
  let the scourge take care of you?”
  Goedaer seemed completely unmoved by the ugliness and 
  violence in the threat.
  “Because it would break the rule,” he said as calmly as ever.
  Daelyn’s eyes opened wide. He raised his hand, finger stick-
  ing straight in the air as if to point to the revelation he was
  about to make. Before he could say a word, though, the bunker
  erupted into bedlam as the scourge renewed its assault. This
  time it was not against the door and front wall. This time the
  bugs threw themselves against the side walls and ceiling.
  “How?” cried Paet, covering Naen and Byrn to protect them
  from the clumps of earth that were raining from the roof.
  “How did they get up there?”
  “They burrowed!” Kael yelled. “The bugs learned a new
  damned trick. They burrowed to get at our soft sides.”
  “It’s worse than that,” said Daelyn shielding his eyes with one
  hand and looking up. The bunker’s roof wasn’t much to speak
  of, just a series of planks to prevent the dirt from collapsing in
  during the rainy season. Sometimes the scourge hit the front
  door hard enough to cause pebbles and dust to sprinkle through
  the cracks—every once in a while they hit it hard enough to
  knock a plank loose. Right now every plank in the roof was
  shaking and dirt was pouring down into the room. Through the
  cracks, Daelyn could see black chitinous limbs, iridescent seg-
  mented eyes, and here and there even a patch of star-speckled
  sky. “They’re digging. They’re digging us out of the earth!”
  For a long moment all the neighbors seemed to be frozen by this
  revelation. They stood there as still as Goedaer and Toi had been.
  Then icy fear and red-hot panic jolted them back into action.
  “Merciful Niashra, what can we do?” cried Jul as she clutched
  the screaming Sari to her chest.
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  “Those were never my grandfather’s ways,” Goedaer said
  calmly. “And they are certainly not mine, nor my son’s. Do we
  look askance at you because your ancestors used to burn strangers
  at the stake for fear that they were demons in disguise?”
  “No one has done that for centuries,” said Cariss. “It’s an-
  cient history.”
  “My point exactly,” replied Goedaer.
  This was the time in most arguments where Daelyn stepped
  in to make sure it didn’t get out of hand. Both sides had had
  their say, and it was becoming more and more likely that
  people were going to say something that they would regret later.
  Yes, this was when Daelyn usually called for cooler heads to
  prevail, but this time he didn’t.
  Part of it was the fact that he himself was uncertain about
  Goedaer and Toi. He had invited them into the bunker, but he
  was no longer sure that had been the correct thing to do. He
  didn’t think they were cannibals, but they could still be dangerous.
  “That’s not the point at all,” said Kael. “We still don’t know a
  damned thing about you. You say your grandfather came from the
  Dragon Hills and that he left at a very young age, but he filled you
  with tales of the plains and the deserts. You say you’ve brought
  your son here to return to your ancestral home, but you’re hun-
  dreds of miles from Drohthal and headed in the wrong direction.”
  “You arrive in the middle of the worst scourge swarm we’ve
  seen in years,” added Cariss, “but you hardly even seem to
  notice or care about the bugs. You say you can protect yourself
  from them, but you huddle here in the bunker alongside the
  rest of us. You claim to be a great sorcerer whose family comes
  from a land of barbaric cannibals.” 
  Another reason Daelyn didn’t step in was that he felt on the
  verge of understanding it all, of figuring out who this newcomer
  was. A grandfather who was forced to leave, love of the land,
  stories passed from father to son, Drohthal, sorcerers—it all fit
  together somehow, and Daelyn could almost see the pattern.
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  S T A N !
  
  Hespyr. Aevyrt and Paet leapt forward and struck the limb as
  hard as they could, but they barely scratched its insectoid armor.
  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said Kael. It was unclear what was
  more shocking, the unprecedented attack or the stranger’s answer.
  “No,” said Goedaer. “In any case, you wouldn’t like it if we used
  that spell here—we couldn’t protect you from the side effects.”
  “We’re about to be eaten by giant bugs!” Kael said. “We’re
  not worried about a few side effects.”
  “How would you feel about being crushed under a four-ton
  weight?”
  “I’ll take my chances with the bugs,” said Kael, then jumped
  in to help Aevyrt and Paet with the slashing limb.
  Goedaer reached down and took Toi by the hand. “It is time
  for us to leave,” he said and walked over to the bunker door.
  “What are you doing?” shrieked Cariss. “Don’t open that door!”
  “Tonight your rule failed to protect you,” said Goedaer.
  “The hell with the rule,” said Cariss as she used her walking
  stick to shore up a plank in the eastern wall that seemed ready
  to snap. “Just listen to them! We might be able to handle a few
  of the scourge coming through the walls, but if you let a thou-
  sand of them in the door, we’re doomed.”
  “None of them will get through the door.”
  “But how can we be sure of that? How can we know you won’t
  just run out, cast some spell to protect you two, and leave us?”
  Goedaer stopped and turned to face her.
  “Would you rather Toi and I wait here until your fate is met
  and then leave?” he asked.
  “No,” said Daelyn. “We trust you. Go do what you need to
  do.” When it looked like Cariss was about to object again, he
  added, “I’ll bolt the door behind you.”
  “Be sure that you do,” said Goedaer. “And no matter what,
  no matter what you hear or what happens in here, this time
  you must stick to your rule. You must not open the door until
  morning light fills the sky.”
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  Fern ran back to Hespyr’s arms, but this time the old woman
  had no soothing words for her.
  “I don’t know about the rest of you,” said Cariss, “but I don’t
  intend to go without a fight.” She clutched her walking stick at
  the short end and waved it around as though it were a spiked
  warclub instead of a simple tree limb.
  Kael reached into the back of one of the shelves and pulled
  out a blanket wrapped around a heavy bundle. With a single
  tug the contents clattered to the ground—three rusted swords,
  a machete with several nicks in the blade, and what looked like
  part of a fence post with a length of chain nailed to one end.
  He gave the makeshift flail to Aevyrt, Paet (who had pushed his
  two boys into his wife’s arms) took the machete, while Kael
  handed a sword to Daelyn and kept one for himself.
  Then Kael turned to Goedaer and offered him the final sword.
  “You would trust me with a weapon?”
  “We can argue about the small stuff later,” Kael said. “Right
  now, I figure we can use all the help we can get, neighbor.”
  Goedaer took the sword, but it was clear from the way he held
  it that he was not skilled in its use. He looked at the blade, at
  Kael, and then at the faces of all the other neighbors. He smiled.
  When Toi saw this he smiled, too. The boy began to wave his
  hands in a strange pattern and mumble words that Daelyn and
  his neighbors couldn’t understand. But Goedaer placed a hand
  on Toi’s shoulder and simply shook his head no.
  “What?” said Kael. “A little magic would be a big help now.”
  Three gargantuan insects smashed against the rear wall, col-
  lapsing the back of the structure. Dirt cascaded into the bunker.
  “We cannot,” said Goedaer. “Not here.”
  “Why not?” cried Daelyn.
  The stranger looked at him calmly.
  “It’s against our rule.”
  An arm ending in a chitinous claw burst through what used
  to be the rear wall and swung wildly, narrowly missing Fern and
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  hear. In fact, the only noise they could discern was an insectoid
  thrum that they found oddly relaxing—the chirping of crickets.
  * * * * *
  When Goedaer reached the point where the road went over
  the western hill, he turned and looked back at the bunker.
  Although the hill all around it had been dug out and shafts of
  lantern light shone through the gaps in the walls and ceiling, it
  looked secure. None of the kikrikki bodies scattered across the
  hillside showed any sign of motion—they were all dead.
  The same could not be said for the half-dozen tremendous
  black insects that came racing over the hill. They skidded to a
  halt when they saw Goedaer, then turned to run in a different
  direction, but their hesitation proved fatal. With a rush of icy
  wind they were suddenly engulfed by a thin fog that smelled of
  ozone. Delicate patterns of frost formed on the kikrikki cara-
  paces. Then the insects began to pop and sizzle as electric arcs
  played across their bodies, frying them from within.
  “Did you see that, Father?” said Toi, wagging his mighty tail as
  he trotted on all fours up to where his father stood. “I got ’em!”
  “That you did, Son, that you did,” said Goedaer. It was
  doubtful that Daelyn or any of the others in the bunker could
  hear them, but even if they could, the conversation would
  sound like a series of reptilian growls. He doubted very much if
  any of these farmers had ever heard the Draconic language, let
  alone studied it. “And I’m proud of the way you waited until
  you had them all grouped together. You should always use your
  breath to its maximum effect.”
  “I know,” Toi answered with only a hint of annoyance. Like
  most children, he desperately wanted to learn everything his
  father knew, but despised taking instruction.
  The two dragons sat on the hilltop and stared across the
  valley. The pale moonlight played across their iridescent scales
  in a cascade of rainbows.
  T H I S  L A N D  I S  I N  O U R  B L O O D
  “I understand,” Daelyn said. Giving his best imitation of the
  bow Goedaer had done earlier, he gave the pair a knowing
  smile and said, “I trust you.”
  “Good,” said Goedaer as he unbolted the door. “That may
  yet be your salvation.” He took Toi’s hand, pushed the door
  open, and ran out into the chittering night.
  Daelyn immediately rebolted the door, then turned to help
  the others fight the encroaching insects. But before he could
  take two steps, the invading limb withdrew of its own volition.
  What’s more, the limbs and mandibles pushing against the roof
  and walls also retreated.
  The bunker was suddenly free of attack. On the other hand,
  the neighbors could now hear the sound of the scourge moving
  down the hill in the direction that Goedaer and Toi had gone.
  “It was them they were after?” said Kael.
  “We should have thrown them out when we had the
  chance,” Cariss muttered.
  “Well, perhaps you’ll be able to tell them that in the morn-
  ing,” said Daelyn.
  “There won’t be enough of them left to bury by the time
  morning comes,” Cariss said. “At least they had the common
  decency not to drag us down with them.”
  Suddenly two violent jolts shook the earth, causing what little
  dirt was left above the bunker to shower down through the roof.
  A deep, menacing growl filled the air, only to be followed by
  a second, nearly identical but less powerful growl. As if in re-
  sponse, the chittering of the scourge spiked in volume.
  Then the air was filled with two sounds that none of the
  neighbors had ever heard before. The first sounded like a winter
  wind mixed with the crackle of a summer thunderstorm. The
  second, which followed immediately, was clearly the scourge
  screaming.
  As the screams echoed into nothingness, the neighbors
  strained their ears to hear more, but there was nothing left to
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  205
  
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  M A N I P U L A T O R S
  T
  he wind blew cold through the mountain pass. Maalar
  crouched between two snow-covered boulders, study-
  ing the pile of wares on the blanket before him.
  The human behind the blanket looked miserable. Wrapped
  in furs, with a fur-covered hat over its head, the human looked
  colder than Maalar believed possible. Ice had formed on the
  human’s beard just below its mouth, and its lower jaw trembled. 
  “A fire would be nice,” it said in the Common tongue.
  “A fire would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Maalar replied in the
  same language. “The sooner we finish here, the sooner we can
  return to our hearth and home.”
  The human’s lower jaw trembled even more. “Fifty gold
  pieces. For the lot.”
  Maalar resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Gold pieces.
  Humans had no concept of true wealth. “I’m not sure what
  you’ve presented me is worth any price.”
  “My grandfather was right,” Goedaer said quietly, not want-
  ing to disturb the beauty of the rolling, grass-covered hills
  before them. “This may well be the most beautiful place ever.
  But why did the humans have to call it ‘Thartholan?’”
  “I guess he was right about place names, too,” said Toi.
  “He was right about a great many things,” answered Goedaer.
  They sat for a few moments in silence.
  “Do you think they knew?” Toi asked when he could take
  the quiet no longer.
  “Do I think who knew what?”
  “The people,” Toi said. “Do you think they knew we were
  dragons?”
  His father thought about it for a moment.
  “No,” he said finally. “We’re much too clever for them.”
  Toi considered this answer, then said, “I think they knew.
  Well, I think some of them knew. They’re a lot more clever
  than you think, Father.”
  “Perhaps,” said Goedaer. “But they always look for the simple
  answer.”
  “Yeah, but they’ll know for sure when they come out and see
  us sitting here.”
  “If they do as they’re told,” said Goedaer, “they will not come
  out until morning. By then I’ll be able to cast a spell to transform
  us back into human form, and we won’t have to test your theory.”
  “What if they come out sooner?” Toi asked.
  “We’ll deal with that problem if it arises,” answered Goedaer.
  “I hope we’ll be able to forge strong ties with these humans
  before we are forced to reveal too much. It will make things so
  much easier. This land was in our family’s blood since before
  their kind ever walked the world. But in a strange way, they are
  as much a part of this place as the hills, streams, and fields. We
  could certainly kill them or force them off, but that would
  leach the land of a great deal of its beauty and nobility.”
  “Yeah,” said Toi. “I like them, too.”
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  He lifted his right forepaw and pushed at the skull with his
  claw. The skull rolled against a pile of scales, and knocked them
  all over the blanket.
  “That skull is made of some other kind of bone, put together
  with a kind of glue. It is not a dragon skull.” He let the con-
  tempt he felt fill his voice. “Neither are these things scales, at
  least they are not dragon scales. They are too small, for one,
  and not sharp enough, for another.”
  The human’s eyelashes had snow on the edges. It crouched
  even closer to Maalar, crowding him even though he knew the
  creature was trying to get out of the wind.
  “You promised me gold if I brought you relics,” the human said.
  “So I did,” Maalar said. “But these are trash. Except . . .”
  He paused, let out a small breath, with just enough heat to
  melt some of the snow on the nearby rocks. It wouldn’t be enough
  to help the human, but it would give the poor thing an illusion
  of warmth. While the human moved closer to the rocks, Maalar
  leaned toward the blanket, squinting at one item near the corner.
  The item was large, the size of his own forepaw, and had
  jewel-encrusted claws. It smelled faintly dusty, like a relic that
  had been too long in storage, or a dragon who had mummified
  in his lair. A hint of power floated off of it—old power, power
  that had once lived and was now dead.
  Maalar didn’t want to touch it, but he did, pulling it toward
  him with a single claw. He flipped the thing over and saw ten-
  dons and the hint of bones beneath dried skin, bones so fine
  that they couldn’t be reproduced by the same crude method
  that had produced the skull.
  He sniffed again, feeling hot anger flow through him. He
  clenched his teeth together and didn’t let the anger out.
  “Where did you get this?” he asked the human.
  “I told you.” The human’s entire body was shivering again. It
  looked like a painful jarring, as if the creature wasn’t in control
  of its body at all. Warmbloods. They suffered in weather like
  this, instead of letting their bodies cool to match the air, like
  dragon bodies did.
  “Tell me again,” Maalar said.
  “In Omset,” the human said. “A store there specializes in relics.
  Dragon relics. For religious purposes—and magical ones.”
  Maalar didn’t care about the reasons, only the relics.  He
  knew that unless humans had developed a preservation process
  he didn’t know about, they didn’t have the skill to keep an
  actual dragon forepaw for more than a thousand years. And
  this one hadn’t come from the dramojh. They hadn’t had some
  of those tiny bones in the foreclaw, nor the vanity that would
  make them embed jewels into their own flesh.
  “Where did this Omset get this so-called relic?” Maalar asked.
  “Dragons have hidden in these mountains for centuries.”
  The human rubbed its hands together, its eyelashes fluttering.
  “Even before you came back.”
  “You know this because?”
  “The stories,” the human said. “Omset was once called
  ‘Home of the Dragon Slayers.’”
  * * * * *
  Treyna huddled in the cellar of the closed store. Outside the
  winter wind howled. The store was cold, even this deep under-
  ground, but she didn’t dare start a fire in the hearth.
  She had heard that the dragons had finally come to the
  Bitter Peaks, and it would only be a matter of time before they
  found Omset. Omset and the followers of Dragonslore.
  She had placed a lantern on a nearby table, and farther away,
  she had lit a few candles against the darkness. When her father
  died, she had wanted to close this place, but her mother had
  argued against it. Her mother liked the power that being a small
  part of the religion gave her, but she liked the money more.
  The shop had made the family wealthy, at least by Omset
  standards, and her mother was reluctant to part with even a
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  208
  
  fires dotted the entrances to all the passageways, adding light
  and keeping the cavern warmer than the wintery outdoors. 
  He hated this room, hated this so-called shared lair, and
  could scarcely wait until this group of dragons had its own
  palatial home, as Kooplar had promised.
  Kooplar was the head of this clan, an ancient and extremely
  large male who claimed he had lived in the Land of Dragons
  before, claimed even that he had known Erixalimar, the greatest
  of the dragons.
  No one believed Kooplar, but that didn’t stop anyone from fol-
  lowing him. When he declared that this clan had to move east, no
  one thought of contradicting him, although about half the clan
  found family reasons to remain in Pallembor, their western home.
  Maalar would have stayed as well, if it weren’t for Kooplar’s
  greatest granddaughter, Wolar. Maalar had thought her the
  most beautiful dragon he had ever seen from the moment she
  hatched from her egg. He had found her attractive from their
  childhood on, but as they aged, he realized how stunning she
  was. Stunning and intelligent, the perfect mate.
  He was still too powerless to ask for her. To court her, he
  would need Kooplar’s permission as head of the clan, and
  Kooplar was much too protective of his great-granddaughter.
  Still, this discovery might make all the difference.
  Maalar set the wizened front paw on the flat-topped rock
  that served as the dragons’ meeting stone. He had paid the
  freezing human all the gold the creature had asked for, even
  though it had only brought one relic of worth. That single relic
  was more than Maalar had believed the human capable of.
  Dragons bestirred themselves from all over the cavern. It
  looked, as it had since they had come to this cold and lonely
  land, as if the very boulders themselves were coming to life.
  This clan of dragons seemed greyer than they had in the past,
  less full of the richness of dragon life. Or perhaps it was the
  natural sluggishness brought on by the chill.
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  fraction of that wealth. When word of the dragons’ return to
  the Lands of the Diamond Throne came through the Bitter
  Peaks, brought by travelers through the Ghostwash river valley,
  Treyna’s mother refused to believe the news.
  Not until the priests of the Dragonslore urged believers to
  hide their relics in safe places and not talk of the religion to any
  unbelievers. Business at the store dropped significantly. The
  only items that sold in the last few months were traditional
  ones, things usually found in a witchbag, like tindertwigs and
  gossamer strands of spider webs.
  Then, even that small business quit, as more and more people
  in Omset grew worried about the shop’s reputation. Dragon fear
  had lived in this place for centuries. Now that living, breathing
  dragons were so close, it seemed only natural for that fear to grow.
  Treyna blew on her chilled fingers. She packed glass beads
  into pouches, careful not to place those used in divining spells
  next to those used for cursing. Most of the magical items
  worked. The Dragonslore pieces, so far as Treyna could tell,
  were sold to the gullible for their make-believe religion.
  But her mother wouldn’t let her simply close the shop and be
  done with it. No. Instead, the inventory had to be packed and
  housed in special storage places until the dragon threat passed.
  As if it would pass. The dragons had returned, and no matter
  how much Mother wanted to deny it, they wouldn’t leave again.
  * * * * *
  The cavern was deep and wide, hidden in the bowels of the
  Bitter Peaks. Stalactites dripped lime from overhead. Lumps that
  were too small to be blessed with the name stalagmite looked
  like human-sized chairs on the cavern floor. A stream ran
  through this place, filling the air with droplets of moisture and
  giving it a mildewy smell that Maalar found exotic. Passageways
  branched off this main cavern in all directions, many of them
  too narrow for even a young dragon like Maalar. Dragon-laid
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  K R I S T I N E  K A T H R Y N  R U S C H
  
  As Maalar spoke, Kooplar picked up the paw and examined
  it. He passed it to his henchmen, who then passed it from
  family head to family head, so that the entire clan could view it.
  “Disturbing,” Kooplar said when Maalar was finished. “You
  are right that this is dragon and it is not old enough to come
  from a dragon that existed before we left for the West. It is not
  young enough to come from a dragon recently returned.”
  Maalar hadn’t even thought of that. His chilled blood cooled
  even more as he realized how foolish he would have looked if
  the forepaw had come from a recent kill.
  “And,” Kooplar said, “there is truth to the human’s story. The
  forepaw was severed at the bone, using one of those smooth
  blades the humans fashioned from metal and fire. At best, there
  is a dragon living in these mountains without a front paw. At
  worst, the humans have become powerful enough to slay us
  with little more than meager weapons, which we used to scoff
  at thousands of years ago.”
  “Only one dragon?” Wolar’s soft voice echoed through the
  cavern. Technically, she had no right to speak, since she was not
  the head of a family, but her great-grandfather indulged her.
  The heads of the families turned toward her; they appreci-
  ated her mighty intelligence. She still crouched near the stream,
  her wingtips in the icy water. The chill made her seem even
  more silver than usual, and the green that occasionally laced her
  scales was missing.
  “If one stayed behind,” she said, “why not many?”
  “Very few stayed,” Kooplar said. “Staying violated the treaty.”
  “But our clan travels in family units. Perhaps others lived
  that way in the past.” Wolar sounded sure of herself.
  Kooplar shook his head. The weight of his body made the
  ground rock. “We would have known. Entire families missing?
  Erixalimar wouldn’t have allowed it. He made an agreement to
  rid the land of dramojh. Erixalimar kept his word.”
  “Surely some escaped it,” Wolar said. “Families—”
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  M A N I P U L A T O R S
  “You have no right to call a meeting,” Kooplar said as he
  picked his way across the stream. He hadn’t flown since the trip
  to the Bitter Peaks. His wings looked thin, as if he had worn
  them into nothingness.
  Maalar did not answer. Any dragon had the right to call a
  meeting in an emergency. And if the humans were strong
  enough to take on dragons, this clan needed to know of it.
  Wolar extended her wings. She yawned, revealing perfect
  teeth. Maalar liked their brown sharpness better than the white-
  ness he had seen in other families or the jewel-encrusted vani-
  ties of the southern clans.
  Then he glanced at the jewel-encrusted claws before him, and
  wondered if the tradition of pressing wealth into the scales had
  come from this land instead of the one in which he had been
  raised.
  “What is that?” Kooplar said, nodding toward the mummi-
  fied forepaw. “It reeks.”
  It did have a stronger smell in here, now that the wind wasn’t
  blowing the stench all over the mountain pass. 
  “This,” Maalar said, “if we are not careful, could be our
  doom.”
  He hadn’t meant to be so dramatic, but his words caught
  Wolar’s attention. Her green eyes met his across the cavern
  floor. She raised her lids ever so slightly in a sign of surprise.
  “Doom?” Kooplar sat in front of the table. His three hench-
  men filled the remaining space so that the dozen other dragons,
  heads of their families all, couldn’t see the relic.
  “I got this from a human,” Maalar said. “It claims this came
  from a dragon killed after our people left. I have examined it.
  It’s not dramojh. Nor is it fake. He brought me many other
  fake relics. This is the only one that’s real.”
  Now he had his clan’s attention. Kooplar let him speak, and
  Maalar told the story, down to the city of dragon slayers in a
  valley just outside the Peaks.
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  K R I S T I N E  K A T H R Y N  R U S C H
  
  “Families could not have, “ Kooplar said. “An individual or
  two, perhaps. Families, no.”
  And even if Wolar’s suppositions were true, Kooplar would
  not allow the speculation. Which, of course, closed down much
  of Maalar’s argument as well.
  “We must find the truth of this matter,” Kooplar said. “We
  must learn if the humans are in any way threatening to us. You
  say they have used dragon parts for magic? Has this magic
  given them more power than they had in the past?”
  The last dragon placed the claw back on the meeting stone.
  “I don’t know,” Maalar said. “I brought this to the clan the
  moment I left the human.”
  “Why did it come to you?” Kooplar asked.
  “Because I promised it payment.” Maalar could not resist a
  dig at his leader. 
  Kooplar did not answer that. Instead he stared at the mummi-
  fied claw. Then he pushed it, as Maalar had when he first saw it.
  The claw rolled on the stone, the jewels clinking on the surface.
  “We must find the truth behind this.” Kooplar’s voice was un-
  usually quiet. “Our first mission is to find the dragon. He is clearly
  male—no females decorate their claws like this, not even in the
  Rroaresh clan—but I cannot tell you how old. The heads of the
  families will spread out and search. You will look for a dragon
  who no longer knows how to be social, or the body of one.”
  “If it hasn’t been cut up for parts,” Wolar mumbled. Her
  words carried.
  Her great-grandfather turned to her, his lips raised in disap-
  proval, his time-flattened teeth lacking the menace they once had.
  “You speak of horrors you don’t understand.”
  She raised her wings enough to bring the tips, dripping, out
  of the stream. “And you expect a reasonable search. The
  humans have already showed you that they are not reasonable.
  If they have taken a claw and made fake items, as Maalar said,
  then they will take a true tail tip or a wing or even a snout.”
  214
  Maalar dipped his head slightly, pleased she had said his
  name. He also wanted to keep his gaze away from Kooplar’s.
  “Perhaps you should let those who are interested look,” Wolar
  said. “After all, it was not the heads of the families who brought
  this to you. It was Maalar, and he did so out of goodness and
  concern for our people, not because rules guide him to do so.”
  The entire clan looked at him. Dragon eyes glittered in the
  flickering light. Maalar had never before caught the attention of
  every one of his family and friends.
  “I would like to go,” said Epsila, one of Wolar’s close friends.
  “And I,” said Salotar, who usually did not deign to speak to
  Maalar.
  “Me, too,” said Ugusta. Her wings wrapped around her front
  in a self-satisfied hug. “Like Maalar, I speak the local languages.
  Perhaps I could find out what we need to know by talking with
  the humans, just like he has.”
  “I will not send our entire breeding stock out of the moun-
  tains.” Kooplar glared at Maalar, as if Maalar had started this
  revolt, not Wolar, then shook his head again. “But I will allow
  two from each family to search. It is up to the heads as to
  which two. I will not argue it.”
  Wolar tilted her head, her eyes sparkling as they found
  Maalar’s. He did not tilt his head in return. He didn’t want her
  to leave the lair, and he knew she would.
  Her great-grandfather would not stop her. No one could
  when she put her mind to something. No one, not even the
  dragons she loved.
  * * * * *
  The crowd inside her mother’s great room was a motley one.
  Treyna noticed the stench of bear grease and unwashed bodies
  the moment she entered.
  Trappers and traders circled the hearthstone fireplace, their
  hair braided and tumbling down their backs, their clothing 
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  K R I S T I N E  K A T H R Y N  R U S C H
  
  “See?” Treyna’s mother said. “Frozen.”
  Treyna crossed her arms, uncertain why this crowd had come.
  “He was off the path, and he was alone,” one of the men said.
  “He had been left for wolves.” The implication was that he had
  been murdered and left so that no one would recover the body.
  “Nonsense,” Treyna’s mother said. “If he’d been left for
  wolves, you never would have found him. The wolves aren’t
  starving this season. They don’t prey close to the paths.”
  The man shook his head. “I know Nyret would never have
  gone alone into the mountains. He had to have had a traveling
  companion, and that companion left him for dead. There is no
  other explanation.”
  Treyna sighed. Her mother repeated herself a third time. This
  was why her mother did not lead, why the villagers had stopped
  coming here except for medical knowledge and in search of
  items to help with their potions. Her mother lacked the skills
  to influence others, and that was what was needed now.
  Trappers could get violent. They were loners, but they valued
  each other. They felt the villagers hated them, and they blamed
  every human-based problem on the village, not on themselves.
  The interesting thing was that Nyret was not a trapper. He
  was a rebel from the First Family of Omset, the nominal lead-
  ers of the village, and as such, a distant relation of hers. Nyret
  had tried to make it on his own, but his travels and battles had
  not worked for him. Instead, he had come home and done his
  best to disrupt the First Family, finding ways to pull at their
  power without adding to his own.
  “Was he alone where you found him?” Treyna asked.
  Her mother winced, obviously not wanting Treyna involved.
  The others looked at her as if they hadn’t realized she was there.
  One man tossed a bundle in front of her. “He had this.”
  The bundle looked light. Treyna crouched, grabbed the
  leather string, and pulled. The blanket fell open, letting loose a
  wisp of mold and ancient dust.
  M A N I P U L A T O R S
  unchanged since the winter began. None had shed their fur
  cloaks since coming inside, and their fur-covered boots left
  mud-tracks along the usually clean stone floor.
  Treyna couldn’t see her mother, but she heard her voice, mut-
  tering some sort of spell.
  Treyna pushed past a group of men she recognized only from
  the market. She shuddered as her shoulders brushed against
  cloth so filthy the dirt tumbled onto the floor behind her.
  Finally she got to the front of the group.  A man lay before
  the fire, his face blackened, his nose nearly gone, his beard drip-
  ping with wet. He wore the same costume as the others, but
  someone had opened it, revealing white flesh the color of fish
  bellies. His right hand, blackened at the fingertips, was
  clenched into an impossibly tight fist.
  Treyna’s mother shook her head. She was a slight, grey-haired
  woman who claimed to have the gifts of a minor akashic. Her
  gaze met Treyna’s, but her mother didn’t acknowledge her. In-
  stead, her mother wiped her hands on her robes and looked up
  at the dozen or more people surrounding her.
  “He’s been dead too long,” she said. “We cannot revive him,
  even if one of us had the skill.”
  “But we need to find what killed him,” a woman across from
  Treyna’s mother said. The woman was tall and broad, her fea-
  tures cut from bones as sharp as knives.
  “You know what killed him.” Treyna’s mother used her calm-
  ing voice. “He is still frozen. No human survives the winds of
  the peaks, not wearing the thin layers that he has.”
  “He wasn’t a fool!” The woman looked at the rest of the
  people around her.
  “No one says that he was,” Treyna’s mother said. 
  “But only fools go into the mountains dressed for valley
  weather.” The woman’s voice broke. Then she fell to her knees
  beside the body and touched the bare skin. Her hands pulled
  away as if she had been burned.
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  K R I S T I N E  K A T H R Y N  R U S C H
  217
  
  The surprise was that he had stolen these items before the
  shop closed. She had noticed that stock was missing weeks ago,
  changed the policy toward allowing customers to examine the
  merchandise, and made certain that either she or her mother
  was in the relic room at all times.
  She hadn’t really cared that these cheap items had gone missing.
  But one valuable item had disappeared as well: a jewel-encrusted
  claw that had been in the shop as long as she could remember.
  It looked so real that she was loath to touch it, and yet the
  jewels always winked at her as if they were sharing a secret.
  “What’s in his hand?” Treyna asked.
  Her mother shook her head slightly.
  “We need to know, Mother. What’s in his hand?”
  “It’s not thawed yet—”
  “Of course it is,” Treyna said. “It’s closest to the fire.”
  Treyna’s mother didn’t move, but one of the men stepped
  across the body, grabbed the arm, and forced the fingers open.
  Gold pieces tumbled onto the stone, making everyone gasp.
  Including Treyna. She hadn’t seen gold like that since she was
  a child, and then only because a trader from Verdune had
  found a buried pile of treasure that he swore had been in the
  lands near the Unknown West for millennia. 
  The gold coins came from a time when humans roamed the
  lands freely, before the dramojh became a scourge, killing
  everything. Ancient money, a missing dragon’s claw.
  Treyna shivered despite the heat of the fire.
  “What is it, child?” her mother whispered.
  But Treyna didn’t answer. She had never told her mother the
  story of the ancient gold nor of her fear of the dragon’s claw. She
  had revealed her belief that Dragonslore was a false religion.
  She kept everything to herself.
  But she now knew that this couldn’t keep. Nor could she
  speak of her suspicions in front of every trader and trapper who
  worked this part of the foothills.
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  M A N I P U L A T O R S
  Relics clanked against the stone floor. A dragon’s shattered skull,
  a collection of scales, and a dragon’s tail tip—so sharp a customer
  had once cut his fingers on it—were the first things she noticed.
  She ran her fingers through the wares.  All of the items were
  relics for Dragonslore. She did not believe in the religion, but
  her mother did. So did most people in Omset.
  Treyna looked over at her mother. Her mother’s face looked
  as bloodless as Nyret’s belly. 
  “I did not sell these to him,” her mother whispered, a sound
  meant only for Treyna. “He does not practice.”
  If the shop were still open, Treyna would have ground the
  skull into powder for prayer enhancement. She still had vials,
  all stored in a safe place, of dragon’s breath, dragon smoke, and
  ashes from a dragon-caused fire. She had purchased most of the
  items before her, thinking them all junk. 
  In those days, no one had ever seen a dragon, although
  Omset was supposed to be the home of dragon slayers. That
  was how the Dragonslore religion had started; a group of cham-
  pions had come here, the legend said, to slay the dragons re-
  maining in these mountains.
  Over time, champion after champion died here. An akashic
  named Daagown, trained in the old ways, found dragon bits in
  travel all over the mountains. Dragon parts, and dragon scales,
  dragon scent all had mystical powers, or so Daagown had said.
  Other akashics Treyna had met in her short lifetime claimed these
  items had no such powers: They were scams for the easily fooled.
  Treyna had never seen the magic of Dragonslore work. Nei-
  ther had anyone else. Yet most everyone in town believed in it.
  She had no idea why.
  She did not believe. She never had.
  She also had never expected the stock to appear before her
  like this, scattered and ruined. If her mother hadn’t sold it, and
  Treyna hadn’t either, then Nyret had stolen it. Not a surprise,
  given how he had conducted his life these last few years.
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  K R I S T I N E  K A T H R Y N  R U S C H
  
  * * * * *
  Treyna wrapped a cloak around her, a scarf across her nose
  and mouth. The winter winds seemed even colder than usual.
  Ice hung off the buildings like daggers, and the ground was
  slick with fresh snow. 
  The streets were empty. The traders remained in her mother’s
  house, arguing over the body, the dragon’s gold, the relics. No
  one else shared Treyna’s fears.
  No one else seemed to understand what they all faced. 
  Summer travelers through the Ghostwash river valley claimed
  they’d seen more than a hundred dragons in the skies, circling,
  looking for places to live. The story made her argue with her
  mother to close the shop.
  Now Treyna checked the sky repeatedly as she hurried
  through the village streets. The clouds hung low. They were
  dark grey, pregnant with more storms, waiting to unleash them
  at the worst possible moment for the villagers below.
  The First Family’s compound stood at what had once been
  the center of the village. The First Family had a dozen build-
  ings, all ancient, all stone, and in the middle of them, where
  the village square used to be, they had built a tower that over-
  looked all of Omset.
  At the western edge of the village, where the foothills started
  to grow into impassable, craggy peaks, she pushed open the
  door of a massive stone home. The home had been added to,
  month after month, year after year, decade after decade. Most in
  Omset had no idea where the home began and where it ended,
  and how much of the surrounding stone crags it consumed.
  As usual, the interior was dark and smelled of decay. She
  used a tindertwig to light a nearby candle. She did not call out
  as she walked, instead ducking as she went through doorway
  after doorway, past decades of discarded clothing and blankets
  and gifts.
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  M A N I P U L A T O R S
  Her silence, however, was worthless. The man next to her
  picked up one of the coins, bit it, then studied it as if he hadn’t
  seen anything like it before.
  “By Malleus’ Beard,” he said, his face filled with awe.
  “Dragon’s gold.”
  The words “dragon’s gold” were repeated in whispers
  throughout the room. One by one, the believers among the
  traders fell to their knees and covered their faces with their
  hands. A few remained standing, looking stunned.
  Treyna’s mother looked stunned as well. “We’re rich.”
  “No,” Treyna said softly. “We’re doomed.”
  * * * * *
  Maalar had flown these mountain passes before. He liked the
  way the chill winds created currents that seemed like eddies in a
  powerful stream. He sometimes played here, alone and
  unwatched, searching for a hideaway of his own, one he could
  make into the perfect lair, a place to bring Wolar if he ever
  achieved wings-match with her.
  The other dragons were searching through caves he had al-
  ready visited in his drive to explore this place. All of those caves
  he knew to be empty: no dragons, no dragon bones, no hint of
  a previous lair. The searchers hadn’t listened to him, though—
  not even Wolar, who had left with her female friends despite
  her great-grandfather’s objections.
  In fact, all of the searchers through the passes were young
  dragons. Which made Maalar suspicious. The old ones were up
  to something. He wanted to see what.
  So when the column of dragons appeared in the skies long
  after the searchers had left, he was not surprised. He kept his
  distance, hiding among the mountain peaks as the heads of the
  families flew toward the east.
  Toward the east and the humans. Toward the east, and the
  place where the relic makers dwelled.
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  K R I S T I N E  K A T H R Y N  R U S C H
  
  “I need to know if it’s real.”
  He stopped. He set down the wood and the knife, and
  stood. His body seemed as thin as the knife’s blade, but he still
  had an imposing height, one that made his head brush the
  stone ceiling.
  “We don’t talk of these things.” He no longer spoke in his
  old man voice. This was the voice of the man who had started
  the shop, the man who had run his family with an iron will
  until an obsessiveness trapped him here, in the only home he
  had ever known. “If the priests find out—”
  “The priests are the least of our worries, Grandfather. The
  dragons have returned.”
  He stared at her, his eyes clear. It was as if he heard her for
  the first time. “You believe this.”
  “I know this. I’ve seen them flying in the skies above. If you left
  this building, you would know it too. The dragons have returned
  to the Lands of the Diamond Throne. They want to reclaim it.”
  He glanced at the corner of the room, in a place he called “his
  stash,” a place he let no one else near, let no one else touch.
  “What of the priests?” he asked.
  “The priests are worthless, Grandfather. They have believed
  this nonsense for so long that, when they learned the dragons
  had returned, you’d think they thought something horrible had
  arrived. The priests believe that a vial of dragon’s breath gives
  them enough power to rule their followers for half a year. By
  that token, imagine the power the dragons themselves wield—
  large, intact creatures, filled with breath.”
  He sank into his chair. “So that is why you have not come.”
  She had been there since the dragons returned, but she did
  not contradict him. “I’ve closed the shop, hidden the wares, and
  destroyed many of them. I never wanted word to reach the
  dragon lairs of what they could find if they approached Omset.”
  He closed his eyes, and rocked back and forth. Then he seemed
  to gather himself again. “You came here to ask me a question.”
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  M A N I P U L A T O R S
  The decaying smell grew the farther she went, until she
  reached a central room located deep inside the neighboring hill-
  side. The air was humid and warm here.
  The man in the middle of that room did not look up as she
  entered. He kept his head bent over a small bit of wood, which
  he was shaving clean so that it looked worn by time and weather.
  “Grandfather,” she said, “tell me the truth about something.”
  He looked up, startled, his blue eyes the only live things in a
  face that had fallen in on itself. His white hair looked as though
  it hadn’t been combed in a year; if mice had nested within it,
  no one would be able to tell.
  “I have a pile of goods,” he said, swinging his knife-hand
  toward a knapsack near the door. “You haven’t come in days.”
  She had no idea how he would know how many days had
  passed, since his windows were covered and he never ventured
  outside. If it weren’t for his network of friends, all of whom
  were as eccentric as he was, he probably wouldn’t have known
  what year it was.
  “I told you,” she said. “We closed the shop.”
  “The priests still need their wares. Religion does not quit be-
  cause you do, girl.”
  “It does when the dragons return.” 
  His eyes twinkled. “You have told me that story before.”
  “It’s not a story. It’s true.”
  He looked at the wood in his hand, then began to whittle
  again. “What is so urgent you arrive without a gift?”
  She hadn’t brought food or payment for the work he had
  done. His mind seemed to wander often, but it never wandered
  from money.
  “You have to tell me where you got the claw,” she said.
  “I have told you.” He smiled at the wood, as if it were his
  granddaughter. “Time and again. You were a child then. You
  liked to sit at my feet and listen to stories. Then you weren’t so
  judgmental. Then you believed—”
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  K R I S T I N E  K A T H R Y N  R U S C H
  
  She nodded, trying to hang onto her patience. “I need to
  know if the dragon’s claw is real.”
  His withered face was sad as he said, “It’s real, child.”
  “I always thought so.”
  “I always told you so.”
  “You always told me everything was real, even when I watched
  you glue skulls together from bits of a dozen different creatures.”
  That was why she had never believed. Dragonslore claimed
  to draw its power from relics, and yet her grandfather made the
  relics. The religion was false, and she knew it as clearly as if she
  had invented it herself.
  Her grandfather smiled a little, then shrugged. “You sell
  better when you believe.”
  “I have never believed, not in Dragonslore, not in anything.
  But I have stayed here because this is my home, and now I
  need to know, old man, where you got that claw.”
  “It was on my last hunt—”
  “The truth,” she snapped. She didn’t want to hear the old
  story again. She hadn’t believed it when she was tiny, and she
  didn’t believe it now. “I need the truth.”
  He closed his eyes and whispered, “From the last room in the
  back, as far into the darkness as you can go.”
  It took her a moment to understand exactly what he meant.
  * * * * *
  They circled the village, their big dragon bodies blocking
  what remained of the light. They looked huge as they flew over
  the tiny buildings, like things that had fallen out of the clouds.
  Maalar was too far away to see the villagers. He hovered over the
  last foothill, ready to duck behind it if the leaders looked in his di-
  rection. But, oh, his people were magnificent: powerful and un-
  yielding, they swooped around the village as if it belonged to them.
  One by one, they landed, extended their wings, and touched
  the tips, a maneuver he had been taught but had never used.
  K R I S T I N E  K A T H R Y N  R U S C H
  The maneuver blocked fleeing prey, blocked it on all sides. He
  slid between two of the elders, who looked at him in shock.
  One of them winked, and he was accepted.
  The dragons waited. The winds whipped around them, the
  snow picked up, but they knew the villagers saw only them.
  * * * * *
  She saw the drawings first, etched onto wood that lined up
  against the stone walls, as if someone were trying to get details
  right. She recognized the style as that of her grandfather, his use
  of charcoal and ash to create thin lines. Some of the drawings
  were simple things—a claw, a tooth—but most were of the
  creature itself, mighty, terrifying, and stuck back into the cor-
  ner like discarded laundry.
  She couldn’t believe such a great thing hid in the back of her
  grandfather’s house. Finally, she gathered her courage, and
  pushed open an iron-framed wooden door.
  The smell came first, that stench of decay that had always
  belonged to this house, as long as she could remember. With-
  out lighting the torch that her grandfather claimed he kept
  beside the door, she knew that the creature inside was dead.
  She used her candle to light the torch. Bit by bit, as the flames
  extended around the torch’s top, the room revealed itself. Not a
  room, exactly. A cave, hollowed out by time and water, and
  crumbling stone. The ceiling looked like it still crumbled some-
  times; the water, however, was long gone from this chamber.
  She set the candle on a holder carved into the wall. She took
  the torch off its peg and moved closer to the large frame in the
  back. There was no corner, only a hollowed-out shape that was
  the end of the cave.
  It had come there to die. She could tell just from its pos-
  ture, hunched and defensive. Even if it weren’t missing its
  front paws, cut neatly by a blade, it would seem defenseless.
  Its teeth were ground almost to powder, its eye sockets black
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  M A N I P U L A T O R S
  224
  
  Even the tales of the dragonslayers were false. She shook her
  head slightly. Her grandfather had helped to create a religion,
  using its relics to bilk the people of Omset.
  And she had helped him from the time she could stand upright.
  He was watching her. She wondered if he had been truly lucid
  these last years and hiding it, as he had hidden everything else.
  “But?” she asked.
  “But I could not leave the creature,” he said quietly. “Its
  essence had crept into me. I am part dragon now, and I must
  hide here, lest the priests carve me up. So I sell fake parts and
  protect myself, just as you should do.”
  No, he wasn’t lucid. But she had heard truth in all of his
  words. She thanked him, vowed to bring him food soon, and
  left, feeling shaken to her very core.
  * * * * *
  The villagers lined up dozens deep. They wrapped themselves
  in furs and blankets and stared at the dragons. Maalar felt the
  wind beneath his scales, slowing his blood and making him
  even more sluggish than he had been. When the whispers came
  from behind, he almost didn’t hear them.
  He turned his head and saw Wolar.
  “How did you know about this?” she asked, and there was
  awe in her voice. Many of the other young scattered behind her,
  watching. Obviously they had seen the gathering from the sky.
  “I figured there was a reason they had sent us away. They don’t
  want the young ones harmed. We’re the future,” Maalar said.
  “Apparently, my great-grandfather is frightened there will be
  no future,” Wolar said. “He wants Ugusta to speak to the
  humans, but your Common tongue is so much better than
  hers. I think you should talk to them.”
  “No,” Maalar said.
  “I made Ugusta fly back to the lair. You’ll have to.” Wolar
  was as wily as her great-grandfather. 
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  M A N I P U L A T O R S
  and frightened holes, its hoary spine a mere shadow of its ter-
  rifying self.
  But the real problem was the wings. They were shattered as if
  the dragon had fallen on them and crushed their fragile bones.
  That was why she never got anything but wing-tips from her
  grandfather. He did not know the real structure of the wings.
  He could only guess.
  The rest, she understood completely. Her grandfather had used
  the dragon as a model, building replicas of its frame and form,
  using them to make a fortune off the believers in Dragonslore—
  believers who, for decades, still thought they had power even
  when the “magical” items they used had none.
  The wily old man had fooled everyone, including her. He
  had made a mockery of everything on which this village was
  based, everything that it stood for. 
  She eased out of the room, put out the torch, and replaced it.
  She was happy to leave the stench; it had lingered long after the
  decay that caused it had ended. Most of the dragon had mum-
  mified. What was left seemed like a shadow of its former self.
  When she reached her grandfather, she asked, “Was it alive
  when you found it?”
  He shook his head. “I don’t even know how it got in there. I
  built the hallways you used. When I found the dragon, I crawled
  through passages smaller than you are, tracking down the stink.”
  “Did you know what was there?”
  “I thought it was a bear. A dead one. I planned to sell its
  parts to the people south of here.”
  “Were you surprised?”
  He nodded. “Until I found the wider opening that led into
  the Bitter Peaks. I blocked that off, so no one else could find
  the body. Then I brought out the first paw. It was good enough
  to convince the Dragonslore priests that I had slain a dragon.
  The second paw was mine. I had once hoped to sell those
  jewels and leave here, but . . .”
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  K R I S T I N E  K A T H R Y N  R U S C H
  
  Treyna emerged from the home into chaos. People ran past
  her, their faces filled with terror. Others ran in the opposite
  direction, clutching blankets against their chests or vials she
  recognized, vials of air she had labeled dragon’s breath.
  She was buffeted by bodies until she saw what had caused
  the panic: dragons, large and alive, their wings spread, sur-
  rounding the outside edges of the village itself.
  For a moment, she simply stared. They were such magnifi-
  cent creatures, their scales reflecting the light of a hundred can-
  dles held by people who couldn’t move, people who watched
  the dragons like the dragons watched them.
  She recognized those people as well—all of them believers,
  all of them petrified by the power of the creatures before them.
  Even the First Family watched, from their place inside their
  tower. She could see silhouettes against the lighted windows,
  the protectors of Omset letting their subjects protect them.
  “Cowards,” she whispered.
  More people ran around her, slamming into her, pushing her
  back and forth. The snow trickled down, as if it couldn’t decide
  whether to storm or not.
  She grabbed the arm of a passing man and yanked him
  toward her. “What’s going on?”
  “They’re going to destroy us if they don’t get the relics. They
  want the relics.”
  Because they had seen the claw. Because they knew there was
  a dead dragon somewhere near Omset. Because they believed
  the humans had killed it.
  A chill ran through her. She realized then that she had let go
  of her furs, that her coat was open, and she was shivering from
  both fear and the chill.
  She glanced back toward her grandfather’s home, but it was
  lost in the running bodies, the dim light, and the trickle of
  snow. Her grandfather wouldn’t come out, not even if she
  begged him. He hadn’t come out in two dozen years.
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  M A N I P U L A T O R S
  “You’ll have to tell him.”
  “I know the messages. I’ll speak for him. He’s occupied.”
  Suspicious, Maalar looked around and saw that Kooplar was
  intent on studying the gathered humans. Somehow the young
  dragon felt this was a trap. But it was a lovely trap, the first
  time he’d ever really been the object of Wolar’s trust.
  “All right,” he said cautiously.
  “Tell them to bring all of their dragon relics to us. We won’t
  destroy the village if they cooperate.”
  Maalar grimaced. “If they can defeat us, threatening them
  will make them angry. They will attack.”
  Wolar nodded. “That is my great-grandfather’s plan. He be-
  lieves they can kill one dragon at a time, but not dozens.”
  “He gambles on our lives.”
  “He did so when he brought us here.” Her eyes glinted in that
  familiar way. “That’s why he leads us, because his gambles work.”
  Maalar took a deep breath, felt the fire in his belly warming
  him like an eternal flame. The warmth helped; he was alone
  here. He could say whatever he wanted and the other dragons
  wouldn’t know.
  Not even Wolar.
  But he would do as she said. He wanted her to trust him.
  “People of the village!” Maalar said in Common. “Listen to
  me!”
  Several humans crowded forward. He repeated Wolar’s
  words. The humans made a squeaking sound, and several of
  them ran toward the buildings.
  The warmth in his belly faded. Had they misunderstood?
  Were they going to attack?
  He glanced at Wolar, and her face reflected his uncertainty.
  He didn’t dare look at Kooplar, across the way. He didn’t dare
  see the disapproval in Kooplar’s eyes.
  * * * * *
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  K R I S T I N E  K A T H R Y N  R U S C H
  
  Other dragons made noise as well, and she realized then that
  they were considering what she said.
  “Are these passages wide?” the dragon asked her.
  “Not wide enough for you,” she said.
  Its wings collapsed against its body. They were intricate, and
  beautiful. No wonder that poor creature in the cave hadn’t
  flown. It hadn’t been able to.
  “Show me,” the dragon said. “Show me or die.”
  * * * * *
  Maalar did not believe he would fit inside the human
  dwelling, but somehow he did. And he knew from the moment
  that he stepped into the tiny place that a dragon had died here.
  He recognized the smell, the smell of ancient death. The
  dragon had done as dragons were trained to do, find the far-
  thest, most secret hiding place, and wait for the wounds to
  heal. Only this dragon’s wounds hadn’t healed.
  The human had explained what it knew of the dragon as it
  brought Maalar to the dwelling. The human had also apolo-
  gized for creating false relics, saying as a justification that its
  grandfather had done so to prevent more destruction of the
  dead dragon.
  Maalar saw the grandfather only briefly. It looked like all
  other humans, only wizened. It took one look at him and col-
  lapsed, as if all of its bones had broken all at once.
  The other human squeaked, and ran to the grandfather.
  Maalar followed the stench on his own.
  His wings pressed against his body, and he would have
  known, even if the human hadn’t told him, that the other
  dragon had not come this way. He would later discover the
  other passage, and use it to show his people this place of death.
  But he found the door made of wood and iron, as the
  human had told him. The stench was eye-dripping here. He lit
  a little flame, saw the corpse of a long-dead cousin, one whose
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  M A N I P U L A T O R S
  She swallowed. She hadn’t let go of the man’s arm. He stared
  at her like he expected her to give him instructions.
  “How do we know what the dragons want?” she asked.
  “One of them speaks Common!” He sounded like a man
  who had just discovered that his gods not only existed, but that
  they were angry and bent on destruction.
  “Which one?”
  He pointed. 
  She let him go and walked in the direction he pointed. Per-
  haps her gait kept others away from her. Perhaps her determina-
  tion. Or perhaps it was the way she had set her face, willing it
  to show no fear.
  Finally she stopped at the edge of the building, before one of
  the smaller dragons, its eyes an amazing emerald green.
  “You are the leader?” she asked.
  “I am the speaker,” it said.
  “You want to know where the claw came from.”
  A hush fell around her. People stopped running. Everyone
  stared at her as if she were as crazy as her grandfather.
  “We want to know how you slew our brethren. We want
  their bodies returned, not defiled in your unholy rites.”
  She swallowed again, only this time there was no moisture in
  her mouth. The swallowing hurt. “There is only one. We didn’t
  slay it. Its wings were crushed. It died, alone, in a cave that my
  grandfather has hidden.”
  Gasps around her, and not from the dragons. Someone whis-
  pered, “Blasphemer,” and someone else moved toward her, only
  to be stopped by yet a third person’s hand.
  “Show us,” the dragon said.
  “I’m not sure I can,” Treyna said. “My grandfather blocked
  the passages.”
  The dragon made a guttural sound, and the tip of a flame
  emerged from its mouth. Its teeth were different from the rem-
  nants in her grandfather’s house, large and brown and very sharp. 
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  K R I S T I N E  K A T H R Y N  R U S C H
  
  Surely they had meant no harm.
  After a while, her revived grandfather joined her. He sat
  beside her and said, with an awe she had never heard in his
  voice, “They are so much more magnificent than I had ever
  imagined.”
  “Yeah,” she said softly. “They are.”
  They were. They truly were.
  * * * * *
  Kooplar reserved the right to burn the body, destroying it
  according to the clan’s custom and ritual. But he did so as his
  last act as leader.
  The heads of the families had chosen Maalar to guide them
  through this strange new world they found themselves in, a world
  that looked nothing like the place they had left millennia ago.
  His first act was to order them all to learn the Common
  tongue. His second was to ask Wolar to match her wings to his.
  For a breathless moment, he thought she wouldn’t accept.
  Then her eyes glinted.
  “Of course,” she said, loud enough for all to hear, and then
  her gaze met his again, a gaze filled with warmth and laughter,
  and maybe—he dared hope—love.
  Months later, Kooplar claimed in a moment of weakness that
  he had never ordered anyone to speak to the villagers. Wolar
  denied to the entire clan that it was her idea and swore that
  Kooplar had issued the order.
  Maalar stayed out of the dispute. He already knew what had
  happened. He had known from the moment she crawled from
  her egg that his mate was strong enough to manipulate an
  entire clan.
  He was profoundly stunned and grateful that the first time
  she had used her powers, she had done so to be with him.
  He would do his best to be worthy of her. 
  He would do his best to be worthy of them all.
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  M A N I P U L A T O R S
  wings had been crushed, just as the human said, and he in-
  toned a poem of mourning.
  He would have burned the corpse, but he felt it best not to,
  not yet. He needed to show Kooplar and the others, to prevent
  them from destroying this desolate place.
  Maalar wasn’t sure why he wanted to keep these human crea-
  tures alive. He didn’t like them. He hated the way they had des-
  ecrated this helpless dragon before them, even if the dragon’s
  life force was long gone. But he had learned, in his travels from
  the Unknown West, that he was not fond of random killings.
  He believed more in life than he did in death.
  He let the trickle of flame build into a small stream, and
  touched it to the wall beside him. It glowed red, and in the edges
  of the stone, he saw the faint outlines of a blocked passage. 
  It took only a moment to pull the stones aside. Air poured
  into the room, taking with it some of the decaying stench.
  He followed the tunnel out, the tunnel last used by the long-
  dead dragon, saw the markings the dragon had used to record his
  final journey, and knew the truth would be revealed soon enough.
  * * * * *
  When the dragon did not return, Treyna left her grandfather
  and walked through the silent hallway. Scales littered the
  ground like gemstones, and her grandfather’s drawings were
  shattered—not intentionally, but by the dragon’s body as it
  squeezed through the narrow corridor.
  Even before she reached the door, she knew what had hap-
  pened. She felt the chill wind. 
  The dragon had found the sealed passageway and opened it.
  She went inside the room, near a wall still glowing with heat,
  and waited. When the other dragons came, she would explain
  that, while her people were stupid, they were not malicious.
  They had only learned superstition from radical priests and had
  meant no harm.
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  K
  atay pushed windblown strands of her short red hair
  back under her hat. Her green eyes were blurring from
  tears caused by the stinging cold. She flicked the water
  away, returned her chilled hands back under her armpits, and
  glared back down at the mojh village at the base of the cliff.
  “Nothing. No movement for hours,” she muttered. “Everyone’s
  inside, out of the cold. Everyone but us spies.”
  “Somehow I thought spying on a village of dragon worship-
  pers would be more interesting. Or at least not as dull as watch-
  ing you stare at broken pottery for hours,” Manda chirped.
  Katay gave a little snort in response to the spryte’s comment.
  She wished she were back at the Silver Creek akashic node, star-
  ing at pieces of broken pottery instead of freezing her fingers
  off on this Bitter Peaks mountainside at the behest of the au-
  thorities in Gahanis. “Damned giants, always getting us little
  people involved in their problems,” she groused.
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  K A T E  N O VA K
  L O R E S I G H T
  L E G A T I O N
  “Little!” Manda giggled. Her blue eyes sparkled in the sun-
  shine, and she fluttered her gossamer wings forward and back-
  ward about her slender body. She shook her ponytail of
  silver-streaked black hair so that she seemed to glitter when she
  laughed. Katay, who was shorter and wirier than most humans,
  still stood nearly four times the spryte’s height and was twenty-
  five times the spryte’s weight. Sometimes Katay felt like a grace-
  less cow beside the tiny creature.
  “Anyway,” the spryte said, “you’re not here because the stew-
  ard of Gahanis wants to know about this dragon,” she chided.
  “You’re here because of that ring.”
  Katay reached her hand into her pocket and fingered the
  turquoise ring that had compelled her to seek out the mojh of this
  village. A skilled hand had carved the blue stone into the shape of
  two circling flicker fish each about to swallow the tail of the other.
  The fish’s eyes glinted with tiny ruby chips. It was hardly a thing
  of beauty, but it held a lot of meaning for ten akashic students.
  “Akashic knowledge is like the flicker fish,” Master Beile always
  said. “You must know where to look, then bring it in with a net.”
  Save for being just a little larger, the ring was identical to the
  one Katay wore on her right hand. Master Beile had gifted them
  to his last class of students the spring before he’d been mauled
  to death by an akashic seeker. There had been ten students that
  year. Katay had left Gouby at Silver Creek wearing his ring just
  two weeks ago. Doravi had been buried west of the Bitter Peaks
  beneath an avalanche of scree three years back. Katay hadn’t seen
  the remaining seven since the night after Master Beile’s funeral.
  Which one of them had lost their ring? she fretted. How had
  it come to be hanging from a platinum chain around the neck
  of a kobold? And who killed the kobold and dumped its corpse
  in a miner’s cave near Gahanis?
  Katay squeezed her eyes shut as if she could block out her
  memories. She recalled the faces of the miners, pale with fear
  that the kobold’s battered, decaying body would bring them
  L O R E S I G H T  L E G A T I O N
  235
  
  “The dragon is still in the air,” Katay replied. “These are
  dracha. Warrior servants to the dragon.”
  “You are correct, lady,” the blue dracha answered. “I am
  M’kald’r. First warrior of Lord Hardolis.”
  Katay bowed her head politely. “Katay Bracken, akashic
  scholar. My companion is Manda Lightsword, my bodyguard.”
  Manda launched herself from Katay’s shoulder and landed just
  in front of the akashic.
  The dracha behind them made a sort of wheezing sound that
  Katay assumed was laughter. Manda bowed to M’kald’r, point-
  edly ignoring the pair of smaller dracha who obviously under-
  estimated her prowess.
  “Lord Hardolis would know your business in his lands,”
  M’kald’r said.
  “I’m here to see a mojh about a kobold,” Katay explained.
  “You missed the trail to the village,” M’kald’r noted.
  “I noticed that,” Katay replied smoothly. “I was just going to
  suggest that Manda scout out where I went wrong.”
  “We will guide you down,” M’kald’r said.
  A statement, not an offer, Katay realized. “Thank you,” she
  replied.
  So they followed M’kald’r back to the trail they had left
  behind to spy on the camp, with the smaller dracha herding
  them from behind. It would have taken the dracha and Manda
  all of a minute to glide down to the village. Escorting Katay
  down the steep trail took an hour, a delay full of agonizing an-
  ticipation. Katay was just grateful that none of the dracha had
  suggested they pick her up and fly her down.
  The akashic kept her attention focused on the bigger dracha,
  quizzing him on his own background. He’d adventured with
  the other two warriors throughout the western land of Pallem-
  bor, discovering many riches, but left that life behind when,
  paying them great honor, Lord Hardolis had bid them enter 
  his service. They’d been here a year, keeping the tiny mojh
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  L O R E S I G H T  L E G A T I O N
  bad luck. She remembered how the city steward’s giant hands
  clenched with anger that a creature so tiny had been harmed in
  his territory. Worst of all, she could not bury the vision that her
  loresight had revealed—how the creature had been tortured to
  death. That was the problem with akashic training. It made it
  impossible to forget.
  “Katay!” Manda whispered in an alarmed tone. “What’s that?”
  Katay’s eyes flew open. Manda’s tiny finger swung wildly,
  pointing out a fast-moving shadow that raced over the vista
  below, then circled around and moved back in their direction.
  “Not good,” Katay growled, squinting up into the sun at
  whatever had cast the shadow. “It’s really big, but I can’t make
  out any detail.”
  Something big hit the mountainside with a thud somewhere
  uphill from them, then another something crashed beside it,
  sending loose dirt and rock skittering around Katay’s feet. Manda
  took to the air with a squeak. Katay turned about, sighing.
  Two large reptilian creatures stood blocking the trail leading
  up. They stood upright, each just a little taller than Katay, the
  scales of their hides a blue-green. Their great batlike wings bore
  scales just a shade paler than those covering their body. They
  glared at the intruders with glinting red eyes that reminded
  Katay of the ruby eyes of her turquoise flicker fish rings.
  The shadow of the creature in the air swept over them. With-
  out looking up, Katay counted the moments it took to pass by.
  Manda landed on Katay’s pack.
  Behind them, someone cleared his throat politely.
  Katay turned back in the direction of the village. A third rep-
  tile creature stood at the cliff’s edge. This one had a darker blue
  hide, though, with black eyes. He was taller than his fellows,
  with an even greater wingspan. He was probably a more grace-
  ful flyer, too, Katay thought. He’d landed so softly she hadn’t
  even heard his arrival.
  Manda whispered, “Aren’t they kind of small to be dragons?”
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  M’kald’r led them along a passage with numerous side halls,
  excavated by nature and smoothed out with tools or magic.
  They could fit an army in here, the akashic realized.
  They climbed a long set of stairs, five hundred thirty-one
  steps by Katay’s count. As they climbed, the air grew noticeably
  warmer. Then two things assailed her senses at once: the stench
  and the node. All the vast knowledge of a long dead, but once
  thriving community tangled and clotted in this place, creating
  a mystical akashic node of great strength. Katay’s gift was the
  power to sense that knowledge, so she recognized the smell
  almost immediately. In the ancient past, the people who had
  lived here had dwelled alongside a dragon, and they all knew
  the dragon’s scent. For the long dead it was the scent of home,
  but for Katay it was not so reassuring a smell.
  The stairs opened on a vast cavern. Manda’s glowglobe was
  completely incapable of illuminating the walls or ceiling. The
  spryte flew excitedly into the expanse, taking the light with her,
  leaving Katay to stand in the dark with the dracha. Then sud-
  denly the light was extinguished.
  “Hey! Who did that?” Manda demanded. “I can’t see where
  I’m going. No! Let me go!” the spryte squeaked.
  M’kald’r called out, “My lord Hardolis, I present the akashic
  Katay Bracken and her bodyguard, Manda Lightsword.”
  A few feet away a brazier blazed up, then another, and an-
  other, until a path of twenty lights showed the way into the
  cavern. Katay moved along the path to the last brazier.
  Manda came rolling like a ball across the floor into the pool
  of the braziers’ light. Katay reached down and steadied her.
  Manda, glaring into the darkness, stood and took a defensive
  posture in front of Katay. Lord Hardolis apparently was not about
  to reveal his greatness to them. Katay knew better than to ask.
  As Katay’s eyes adjusted, she saw they were surrounded by
  mojh, twenty of them. They were all taller than Katay, and, like
  all mojh, possessed gangly limbs and prominent fangs. Their
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  L O R E S I G H T  L E G A T I O N
  community secure at the behest of his lordship. Lord Hardolis
  had rewarded M’kald’r by enhancing his physique in a cere-
  mony involving something called a tenebrian seed. That ex-
  plained not only his greater size, Katay realized, but also his
  more graceful landing.
  M’kald’r’s polished manners were, the akashic concluded, the
  result of his supreme confidence. He had a stillness at his core
  completely impervious to fear or doubt. Which meant he was
  unlikely to harm them—unless Lord Hardolis ordered it.
  At the base of the cliff they passed through the mojh village,
  about fifteen small cottages and a community hall. Mojh
  almost always lived apart from the other races, even humans,
  the race they were born into before they underwent the mojh
  transformation. Not, Katay knew, that most humans would
  welcome them. Most people found the idea of mojh metamor-
  phosis uncomfortable, even treacherous.
  The community hall abutted the cliff face. Farther up the
  cliff was a great cave opening, which they would have never
  been able to see from the top of the cliff. The dragon and the
  dracha must have issued forth from this exit just before dawn
  and been spying on the spies ever since.
  The dracha led them inside the hall, which was curiously
  empty, and then Katay realized why they’d seen no sign of life
  since breakfast. The back of the hall opened into a second
  portal into the cliff face, this one considerably smaller. All the
  mojh were in the mountain all morning, just under her feet.
  M’kald’r stepped into the cave. Katay hesitated, her eyes
  unable to pierce the darkness beyond.
  “Excuse me,” M’kald’r said. “I had forgotten you would need
  light.”
  “That’s okay,” Manda replied. “I’m never without.” She
  chirped the Faen word for starlight, and a glowglobe as big as her
  head appeared by her belly. With a gesture from the spryte, the
  ball of light began hopping along the cave floor like a lost frog.
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  was Rickest,” she said, revealing another bit of loresight knowl-
  edge she’d gleaned.
  Phenilac nodded.
  “A mojh tortured Rickest until it died,” she whispered, chok-
  ing back tears from some newly realized bitterness. “It lived for
  hours until it knew the peace of death.”
  An angry murmur rippled round the circle of mojh.
  “You are lying,” another mojh declared.
  “No,” Phenilac snapped. “She is not.” The mojh who once
  was Jeddina straightened and strode out of the pool of light,
  into the darkness. Katay could hear its claws clicking against
  the stone floor as it tried to flee from this evil news.
  The other mojh backed into the darkness.
  M’kald’r stepped into the light. “My lord bids you spend the
  night as his guest, while he considers your news more care-
  fully,” the dracha said.
  Katay shrugged. Ordinarily the invitation to spend the night
  in a dragon’s lair would be disconcerting, but at the moment
  she was too stunned to summon any emotion.
  M’kald’r led them through another corridor to a room lit
  with more braziers and left them alone. Two nestlike pallets
  covered with the hides of wolves lay in the corner. Beside the
  brazier sat a low table of ebony black wood inlaid with a
  mother-of-pearl design of clouds and flying dragons. Katay
  knelt on the sheepskin rug laid out on the floor by the table
  and ran her hands along the pattern. The table was as old as
  the culture that birthed this akashic node. Perfectly preserved,
  undoubtedly, with some enchantment.
  Manda buzzed about the room, as she always did in a new
  place, searching for exits and hidey-holes. When the spryte
  began to flit about the ceiling like an unhappy fly, Katay real-
  ized the only exit from the room was the door M’kald’r had
  closed behind him.
  “Manda, please, settle,” the akashic said.
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  L O R E S I G H T  L E G A T I O N
  scaly hides glittered in the brazier light, and their tails twitched
  curiously as they stared at the nonmojh. The two smaller
  dracha stood to either side of Katay. M’kald’r had disappeared
  into the darkness, no doubt to stand beside Lord Hardolis.
  “My people,” a booming voice rumbled in the darkness,
  “these outsiders have come to discuss a kobold.”
  There was a shift in the circle of mojh. One mojh pressed
  forward, the others moving aside for it. “I am Phenilac,” the
  mojh whispered. “Tell me of this kobold.”
  Katay bowed politely. “Ne-Chardath, steward of Gahanis,
  asked me to bear this sad news to your people. The corpse of a
  kobold was discovered two weeks ago in a mine near his town.”
  There was a shudder among the mojh, and the one called
  Phenilac lowered its head.
  “My loresight revealed that the creature came from your vil-
  lage,” Katay explained. “It wore a token about its neck. Perhaps
  you can tell me its origin.” The akashic pulled the ring on the
  chain from her pocket and held it out to the mojh.
  Phenilac’s shoulders slumped; the creature shook visibly as it
  reached for the ring.
  Katay closed her hand about the ring. “Please, first tell me
  how this ring came to the kobold,” she insisted.
  “The kobold was my own. I gave the ring to it as a charm to
  hunt for fish,” Phenilac explained.
  “And how came you to this ring?” Katay demanded.
  “Master Beile gave it to me when I was the girl you knew as
  Jeddina,” the mojh replied.
  Katay stepped back as if she’d been slapped. Stunned, she let
  the ring drop into the mojh’s hand. Jeddina. Beautiful, brilliant
  Jeddina. She could not be this creature.
  Phenilac placed a hand on Katay’s shoulder. “Please, Katay,
  tell me what happened to my mojhborn.”
  Katay looked up into the mojh’s green eyes. Jeddina’s eyes,
  with the same speckles of brown. “Rickest, the kobold’s name
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  K A T E  N O V A K
  
  The spryte circled around the room one last time before she
  thudded into the table and skidded across the surface into
  Katay’s lap. She scrambled back up onto the table and sat down
  on a mother-of-pearl cloud.
  “You’re as graceful as those two dracha on the hill,” Katay
  said dryly. “You really need to practice more. You’ve had those
  wings over a year now.”
  Like Jeddina, Manda had also transformed from the shape
  she’d been born with. When Katay first met the mage blade,
  she was a quickling faen, a creature nearly twice as big as a
  spryte, but without the wings. Then one day Manda an-
  nounced she wanted to fly, walked into the wood and came out
  a week later transformed. Am I the only person in this place
  satisfied with the way I was born? Katay wondered. No, she re-
  alized, Lord Hardolis was probably glad to be a dragon.
  A kobold brought them roasted flesh of some large bird that
  Manda declared was good eats, but Katay could not stomach
  the thought of food.
  “This is wrong,” she muttered. “I should be with Jeddina.
  She just lost her child.”
  “It,” Manda corrected. “Your friend isn’t a ‘she’ anymore.
  That kobold wasn’t really a child, either—they kind of bud out
  of the side of the mojh. It’s really kind of interesting.”
  “Not a ‘she’ anymore—that’s ridiculous. How can she just
  not be what she was? Jeddina was always doing crazy things
  trying to find the meaning to life. When she wasn’t in a deep
  despair because she hadn’t found it.”
  “You knew mojh didn’t come from cabbage patches,” Manda
  said. “Sometimes humans start worshipping dragons and
  become mojh.”
  Katay rolled her eyes at Manda’s oversimplification. Humans
  had to perform a complex magical ritual to become mojh.
  “You weren’t bothered when I became a spryte,” Manda
  pointed out.
  242
  “You wanted to fly,” Katay retorted.
  “Maybe Jeddina wanted scales,” Manda said.
  “Why would anyone want scales?” Katay hissed.
  “Or to live longer. Mojh live longer,” Manda reminded her.
  She yawned. “I think I’ll take a nap.” She flitted over to one of
  the round pallets, and snuggled into the fur with her wings
  wrapped around her, leaving Katay alone with her thoughts.
  Katay found herself wondering if the mojh transformation
  was something Jeddina had done in one of those frenzied mo-
  ments when she was sure she was about to unlock the secrets of
  the universe. At those times, her fellow akashic had seemed
  almost luminous—ideas flowed from her like a geyser. Jeddina’s
  link with the akashic memory was stronger than anyone’s
  around her. She was full of energy and joy. Then there were 
  the dark times, when Jeddina couldn’t concentrate even in an
  akashic node, when all her thoughts encompassed some unseen
  misery. Sometimes the misery grew so strong that Jeddina
  seemed like a mortally sickened animal, unwilling to eat or
  comb her hair or change her clothes. It was just as likely, Katay
  realized, that Jeddina had performed the ritual in one of her
  dark moods, hoping to lift herself from despair before she lost
  her mind, a fear that constantly haunted her at those times.
  When her anxiety grew so great thinking about Jeddina that
  her pulse began to race, Katay knew she needed to distract her
  thoughts. She began with a still meditation to empty her mind,
  then the ritual moving meditations. Beside her Manda gave a
  chirping snore.
  Knowing that she was still within the akashic node, Katay
  concentrated a long while on Lord Hardolis, the dragon who
  lounged in the darkness with a court of mojh and dracha.
  Hardolis had promised his current servants greatness, but they
  knew very little about him. It was easier to tap into the long-
  dead knowledge of the people who used to live in what was
  now his lair.
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  K A T E  N O V A K
  
  “How did you know that?” M’kald’r asked.
  “It’s how she always said she would,” Katay explained.
  “Drumflower seed. It’s supposed to be completely painless. First
  you fall asleep, then your brain stops, then you don’t breathe,
  and then your heart stops.”
  M’kald’r nodded. “So Phenilac had these dark moods as a
  human, too?” he asked.
  “Never so dark that she went through with it,” Katay said.
  “She should never have joined the mojh. I can’t believe she
  thought that might help her.”
  “You cannot think that it did harm,” M’kald’r stated coolly.
  “She wouldn’t have been living with mojh, one of whom
  murdered her mojhborn,” Katay snapped.
  “And human women never despair when their children are
  harmed by other humans,” the dracha replied sarcastically.
  “This doesn’t make any sense,” Manda interrupted. “It just
  found out someone killed its mojhborn. Phenilac should be
  looking for the killer. Why commit suicide?”
  M’kald’r bowed his head in the spryte’s direction. “You have
  posed the question that my lord Hardolis asked,” he stated.
  Katay pressed her fingers against her temples. What was the
  point? Even if Jeddina hadn’t done it because she was crazy,
  whatever the answer was, it would never bring her friend back.
  “We are blessed with a surfeit of magic, but Phenilac was the
  only one in our community with the skills of an akashic,” M’kald’r
  explained. “My lord Hardolis requests that you use your loresight
  as you did with Rickest and bring to light whatever you learn.”
  Bring to light. An odd choice of words for a dragon who ponders
  in the darkness, Katay thought, but she nodded her consent.
  M’kald’r lit a torch at the brazier and, by its light, led them
  from the room and down the corridor. He stopped before the
  very next door. Katay tensed with anger at how physically near
  her friend had been to her when she had died. Why hadn’t she
  come to talk to her, seeking solace or strength?
  L O R E S I G H T  L E G A T I O N
  A vast community, thousands of years old, had thrived here, co-
  existing with a dragon named Tallispan. They were renowned for
  their skill at crafting jewelry and enchanting it with great powers.
  The dragon lit huge bonfires to celebrate their weddings and cre-
  mate their dead. The caves echoed with their music day and night. 
  Katay let the little motes of knowledge drift through her
  mind, giving her a sense of an ancient culture that had ab-
  solutely nothing to do with her current worries.
  The grueling three-day climb into the mountains and the
  constant exposure to the bitter cold finally took its toll. Katay
  stumbled over to the other sleeping pallet and was soon fast
  asleep, granting her mind a respite from the stress of wondering
  how long they would remain “guests” of the dragon, and her
  heart refuge from the grief of her friend’s loss.
  She awoke feeling confused and anxious. In the cave complex
  it was impossible to tell night from day, so she had no idea how
  long she’d slept. Her anxiety over Jeddina-now-Phenilac came
  immediately to her mind, like a painful tooth.
  “What’s wrong?” she heard Manda ask, and realized as she
  climbed into consciousness that Manda was asking someone
  else that question.
  M’kald’r stood in the doorway. Even Katay could see the
  reason for Manda’s question. The dracha’s wings slumped, and
  his expression was grim. The akashic wondered briefly if Lord
  Hardolis had decided to eat them and the dracha felt bad about
  it. She sat upright, waiting. Manda stood by her side.
  “It is I who must bring you bad news now,” M’kald’r said.
  Instantly Katay sensed what he would say before he said it.
  She closed her eyes as if she could shut out his words.
  “Phenilac took its own life last night,” the dracha whispered.
  Manda gasped. “Why?”
  “We do not know. It left no note. It locked itself into one of
  the rooms within the akashic node—”
  “She swallowed poison,” Katay stated.
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  K A T E  N O V A K
  245
  
  crushed drumflower seeds. But the vial had not belonged to
  her. It had been left in this room. Phenilac had discovered it.
  The mojh’s death was a suicide of opportunity. Who had pro-
  vided the opportunity? Katay stroked the cool chin. The mojh’s
  sense of determination to take its life struck Katay like a blow.
  If someone had not provided the vial of poison, Phenilac might
  have found another way, painful or not.
  * * * * *
  Outside in the corridor, Manda stood in the darkness. There
  was something about that room that made her wings twitch. It
  wasn’t the corpse. She’d seen plenty of those. Made several people
  into corpses, for that matter. Really, though, there was no reason
  she couldn’t bodyguard Katay just outside the room. Rather than
  create light and call attention to herself, she unsheathed her
  athame, her two-handed sword that Katay often described as a
  shiv. Focusing on the athame, the spryte summoned up magical
  darkvision. There was a ledge across the corridor about eight feet
  up. She flew up and perched on the edge, keeping watch.
  * * * * *
  In the room, Katay leaned against the wall, trying to stop the
  sobs that wracked her body. Reaching deeper with the loresight
  on the mojh’s corpse was more emotionally difficult than
  uncovering the truth of the kobold’s death. Jeddina’s affection
  for Katay had not dimmed upon her transformation, yet before
  death, the mojh felt Katay’s absence as a betrayal. Jeddina had
  often felt betrayed by everyone around her, for no reason, when
  she was in her darkest moods. It was part of her affliction.
  Despite this knowledge, Katay could not overcome a futile
  sense of guilt that she had not been part of Jeddina’s life. The
  human woman felt as if a vise was crushing her heart. She
  might have kept Jeddina from transforming to a mojh. If not,
  she might have been there to help protect the kobold. At the
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  L O R E S I G H T  L E G A T I O N
  Manda hung back from the door, which was unusual since
  she was almost always first into any room offered her. “I’ll
  guard here,” the spryte announced, taking up a stance to the
  side of the door.
  Katay followed the dracha into the room. Phenilac’s body
  was laid out on a low bier fashioned from sheep hides stretched
  over a frame of cedar limbs. M’kald’r set the torch in a wall
  sconce. The only furnishing in the room was a low desk hold-
  ing a journal. A small kneeling rug lay before the desk. Katay
  guessed the room lay in the center of the akashic node, which
  would explain the sparseness of the furnishings. The living and
  their daily hubbub weakened the strength of a node. A well-
  trained akashic left a node as undisturbed as possible and dis-
  couraged the clutter that made a room livable.
  “This is where Jeddina—Phenilac studied?” she asked M’kald’r.
  The dracha nodded.
  “I’d like to be alone with—” Katay could not bring herself to
  verbalize the word “it.” “With my friend’s body,” she said,
  moving to stand beside the bier.
  M’kald’r nodded. “I will return in an hour,” he said, and,
  closing the door behind her, he left her alone in the room.
  Katay reached out and fingered the soft wool of the hide be-
  neath the mojh corpse, trying to remember the feel of the
  thick, dark hair that had covered Jeddina’s head before she had
  transformed into this creature.
  Katay peered down at the journal on the desk. It was covered
  in Jeddina’s precise, flowing handwriting, but the mojh
  recorded its thoughts in Draconic. Katay flipped through the
  last few pages. They contained her friend’s account of what she
  had learned meditating on the ancient people of this node, but
  nothing describing her despair.
  She reached out and stroked the scales on the mojh’s brow. If
  she had harbored any doubts, they fled with the certainty of her
  loresight. Her friend had swallowed a vial of oil seasoned with
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  K A T E  N O V A K
  
  very least she should have insisted on following Phenilac yester-
  day and stayed with her through the night.
  * * * * *
  Up on her ledge, Manda could hear Katay’s sobs. The spryte
  was just screwing up the courage to brave the disturbing feeling
  the room gave her in order to comfort the human woman when
  a mojh came around the corner. The creature paused at the very
  door Manda was guarding and reached down for the door han-
  dle, muttering something in Draconic that Manda could not
  understand. She clenched her fists about the hilt of her athame,
  but a moment later the mojh moved on without opening the
  door. Manda might not have given the creature a second
  thought, but there was something about it that made her wings
  twitch, just as the darkness in the room behind the door had.
  Not a coincidence, she decided, and launched herself from the
  ledge to fly after the mojh.
  * * * * *
  Katay, barely composed, reached out to touch the mojh’s corpse
  one last time. She drew in a deep breath and touched its eyelids.
  The last person her friend had spoken with was another mojh.
  Not surprising, but with her loresight Katay instantly recognized
  this mojh as the same one who had tortured and murdered the
  kobold. Katay had failed to discover the murderer’s name the first
  time. The kobold had not known it, but Phenilac had—Brenner
  the magister. Brenner had come to Phenilac last night before the
  akashic mojh could discover the magister’s secrets.
  Katay pressed her eyes closed to hold the vision, stretch it out
  through time, bring to light all Brenner’s secrets.
  “You killed my Rickest for your dark magic,” Phenilac accused.
  “Your kobold was a useless thing until it brought me power over the
  Dark,” Brenner declared, setting a vial down on Phenilac’s journal. 
  “The dracha forbade you to follow that path,” Phenilac whispered.
  K A T E  N O V A K
  “The dracha are cowardly fools, jealous of the mojh’s magic.
  They forbade it because they knew I would win Lord Hardolis’
  favor with such acts. We cannot come to the greatness the dragon
  has promised us without sacrifice and daring.” 
  “My sacrifice and your daring,” Phenilac hissed, raking her
  claws across Brenner’s chest. Brenner fell back with a snarl.
  Even before transforming into a mojh, Jeddina could use her
  akashic ability to call upon the knowledge of great warriors. She
  was a deadly foe in combat. Katay expected Phenilac to press
  the attack. She hoped her vision would show her Brenner’s death,
  too.
  But Brenner uttered the word, “Feed,” and darkness poured
  down from the walls like a waterfall and pooled at Phenilac’s feet.
  Phenilac gasped and fell to the ground, grasping her arms
  around herself as if to keep warm. The darkness lapped at the
  akashic’s body like an incoming tide.
  Katay’s eyes snapped open. Just as in her vision, darkness was
  pouring down from the walls and pooling at her feet. In an-
  other moment the flowing darkness extinguished the torch that
  M’kald’r had left for her. She stood in utter blackness. Her
  memory of the space remained accurate, however, and she
  paced the number of steps back to the door. The handle would
  not turn. Katay shouted for Manda.
  * * * * *
  Following the strange mojh, Manda had just reached the
  dragon’s lair. To her delight she heard voices, including the
  dragon’s booming one. Then, annoyed, she realized they were
  speaking Draconic. How rude, she thought. She spat on her
  athame to make the ancient tongue comprehensible.
  “It would appear so, my lord,” M’kald’r replied to something
  the dragon had just asked him. “Yes, what is it, Brenner?” the
  dracha asked the strange mojh who had just entered the cham-
  ber.
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  L O R E S I G H T  L E G A T I O N
  248
  
  Would the undead mojh be as deadly as she could be as a
  living akashic? It hardly seemed to matter. Katay was no fighter.
  That was Manda’s job. Dealing with a foe in the dark was bad
  enough, but the thought of stabbing at the corpse of her friend,
  even transformed, revolted Katay.
  A chill breeze stirred up from the floor, numbing her feet and
  legs. This mission was doomed from the start, Katay thought with
  resignation. She would join her friend in death, though her death
  would be nowhere near as painless as the mojh’s suicide had been.
  * * * * *
  Manda gave a screech as she rounded the corner of the corri-
  dor, banging her elbow in her haste. Katay was right; she really
  needed more practice flying. She flew right past her goal. She
  landed on the floor in a tumble and turned to go back. Every
  muscle in her body twitched now, as if to warn her away from
  the room behind the door.
  “Katay, what have you gotten yourself into?” the spryte mut-
  tered. She focused a spell and smacked her athame against the
  iron bolt securing the door. The bolt slid back and the door
  creaked open four inches. Thank the gods, Manda thought. Bren-
  ner didn’t use some annoying magister spell to hold the door closed.
  An icy chill poured from the room. Manda took a deep breath
  and plunged across the threshold. The room was filled with an
  unnatural darkness that Manda’s darkvision could not penetrate.
  “Katay!” the spryte shouted. “Where are you?”
  The room seemed to echo with the sound of claws clacking
  on the stone floor. Manda set her athame out before her. The
  tiny sword shone ever so slightly; then Manda realized the
  darkness was moving away from her blade. In a way that was
  good, but in a way it was bad. Her athame was a Greenblade,
  infused with the power of life; any darkness it cut away was not
  simply magical darkness, but an evil, life-devouring Darkness.
  Only one thing to do, the spryte thought with a sigh. Have at it.
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  L O R E S I G H T  L E G A T I O N
  “I thought you should know, I looked into the room where
  Phenilac is laid out. The nonmojh is in there performing a cere-
  mony upon the body,” the mojh Brenner said.
  “She is using her loresight as Lord Hardolis requested,” the
  dracha replied.
  “No. She is using oils and words of magic to animate the dead,”
  Brenner declared. “I recognized the spellcraft. I took the precau-
  tion of locking her in so she could bring no further harm to us.”
  Without thinking Manda blurted out, “You big liar!”
  The mojh and the dracha whirled about, startled by the
  spryte’s outburst as well as her presence.
  “There’re no dead bodies being animated in that room. Not
  unless—” Suddenly Manda remembered that when Brenner
  had paused at the door, the mojh had muttered something
  before it locked Katay in. Perhaps it had summoned something
  undead. Which meant Katay was in danger.
  “Grab her! Grab the spy before she escapes!” Brenner ordered
  the dracha, but Manda was already speeding back to Katay as
  fast as her wings could beat.
  * * * * *
  Katay stopped hollering for Manda. She took a deep breath
  to steady her nerves. Normally she was not afraid of the dark,
  but there was something unnatural about this darkness. It was
  what had eaten away at Jeddina’s spirit until she had swallowed
  the poison in the vial.
  She needed to keep calm and wait for Manda. Wherever the
  spryte had gone, she would return and open the door. From the
  center of the room came the sound of claws clacking on the
  stone floor. The bier stood in the center of the room. With a
  jolt of horror Katay realized the mojh corpse was moving
  toward her. Something had animated the corpse. Katay had
  heard tales that black streams of negative energy could do that
  in the places where they pooled.
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  K A T E  N O V A K
  
  “Goddess of people who need a closet to hide in.”
  “Right,” Katay replied, pushing herself to her feet, and draw-
  ing upright with as much dignity as she could muster.
  M’kald’r entered the room. Katay had not heard his approach.
  “Are you all right?” he inquired politely.
  The akashic nodded. She looked down at the mojh’s corpse.
  “This is Brenner’s work. Phenilac realized Brenner was using
  darkbond magic. Torturing Rickest to death was part of Bren-
  ner’s ceremony to draw the Darkness. There’s a phenomenon
  called black streams, negative energy of the Dark. I don’t know
  if the streams pool naturally in this room or if Brenner found a
  way to bring them forth, but that’s what he used to overwhelm
  Phenilac. The Dark drove her to her death. The black stream
  pooled back in here while I was using my loresight. That’s what
  animated her—the corpse.”
  M’kald’r nodded thoughtfully. He bent over and picked up
  Phenilac’s corpse and laid the mojh’s body back on the bier.
  Then he turned back to Katay and bowed. “My lord Hardolis
  is grateful for your services. I will report your findings to him.”
  “What’s going to happen to Brenner?” Manda asked.
  “My lord Hardolis will judge the magister and deal with it
  accordingly,” M’kald’r replied.
  “We want to leave now,” Katay insisted.
  “As you wish,” M’kald’r replied with a nod.
  Katay reached out one last time and stroked the scales on the
  back of the mojh’s hand. Then she turned and left.
  * * * * *
  Once they’d collected their gear, M’kald’r escorted the
  human and the spryte out of the mountain, to the edge of the
  mojh’s village. The sun was still climbing toward its zenith.
  “Farewell, Katay Bracken and Manda Lightsword,” the
  dracha bade them. His wings spread out with a whoosh, and he
  sprang into the air.
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  L O R E S I G H T  L E G A T I O N
  With a yell that would have done a banshee proud, the mage
  blade launched herself into the air and flew directly toward the
  sound of the clacking claws.
  Her sword sliced through the black and thrust into some-
  thing solid. The Darkness settled lower to the ground, uncover-
  ing the torch M’kald’r had placed in the sconce on the wall.
  Now Manda could see the creature she’d struck. It was Pheni-
  lac’s dead body, walking around as it ought not to be.
  Phenilac’s corpse took a swing at the spryte, batting the tiny
  creature aside. Momentarily stunned but unwounded, Manda
  flew to the ceiling and spied out the battlefield. Katay was
  nowhere to be seen. She might be lying beneath the Dark that
  still pooled near the floor.
  The spryte made another dive on the walking dead mojh. She
  struck the creature’s arm, but she had little practice with aerial
  combat and fell to the floor after her blow into the icy Dark.
  The Darkness swirled away from the spryte as if repulsed.
  Manda picked herself up and took a defensive posture. Some
  instinct prompted her to speak to the Dark, not the undead.
  “Might as well leave now. I have lots of stamina. I can stab at
  you all day with the power of the Green,” she threatened.
  The Dark grew still. Then, like a receding tide, it pulled
  away from one side of the room. As it withdrew from Phenilac’s
  dead body, the mojh corpse collapsed to the ground. 
  Manda stepped up and poked her athame at the pool that
  remained. “Beat it,” she snapped.
  The Dark drained away into the floor, leaving no trace.
  Katay was still nowhere to be seen.
  Then the spryte spotted the other door. She flew over and
  yanked on the handle. Beyond was a very small closet; Katay
  was curled on the floor.
  “Katay, have you thanked Sigornee?” the spryte teased.
  Katay looked up at Manda. Her face was splotched and cov-
  ered with tears. “Who’s Sigornee?” she snuffled.
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  255
  M O N T E  C O O K  
  M E M O R I E S  A N D
  G H O S T S
  W
  hen Re-Magul found the master dragonstone, he sat
  down upon it. After a while, he stood again, drew
  thu-terris from its sheath, and resumed his position
  with the bared blade lying across his lap. The stone was red, al-
  though patches of a dark lichen grew on its surface. Its top rose
  up from the ground about five feet and was about seven feet long.
  He waited.
  When Re-Magul’s jaw began to hurt from being clenched in
  anger, he stood and performed an ancient giantish ceremony,
  taught to him by his father, designed to calm the spirit. While
  the rite did not grant him serenity, at least it gave him some-
  thing that some might call patience. Others would say that “pa-
  tience” is too gentle a word. “Grim determination,” they would
  say, or perhaps just “tenacity.”
  On the third day, a rainstorm rolled in over the Bitter Peaks
  and drenched the area surrounding the hill where he sat, a
  They watched him soar upward until he disappeared into the
  cave set in the cliff over the mojh village.
  “Well, that’s the end of Brenner,” the spryte said, brushing
  imaginary dirt off her palms. “Your friend’s spirit can float
  down the Ghostwash in peace.”
  “I hope so,” Katay whispered.
  “Why wouldn’t it?” Manda asked.
  “The dracha did not approve of Brenner using the Dark, that
  I saw with my loresight. Brenner, though, believed the dragon
  might not disapprove.”
  “M’kald’r seemed like a fine fellow,” Manda pointed out.
  “The servant is not the master,” Katay reminded her.
  “That’s silly. Why would the dragon let us go if Brenner were
  right?” Manda demanded.
  “Because he knows we will take that news back to the stew-
  ard of Gahanis.”
  “You don’t really believe that, do you?” the spryte insisted.
  “I don’t know what to believe,” Katay replied. “Unless you
  want to volunteer to go back and twist the dragon’s arm for me
  until he reveals the truth.”
  “Not part of my bodyguard duties,” Manda replied. “You
  wouldn’t be so suspicious if you weren’t just depressed by your
  friend’s death and because you took a bath in the Dark.”
  “I hope so,” Katay whispered again.
  “Race you back to Gahanis,” Manda offered and began trip-
  ping down the mountain trail.
  Katay followed in the spryte’s wake with less enthusiasm. She
  had come to the mountains determined to discover all about
  Jeddina’s ring, with no concern for the steward of Gahanis’ in-
  terest in the dragon. Now, she realized, it might have been
  better had she learned less about Jeddina’s life and death, and
  more about the dragon.
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  K A T E  N O V A K
  
  place the locals called Draconhill—although none of those Re-
  Magul had spoken with knew why. The giant warmain appreci-
  ated the rainwater, which replenished his own dwindling
  supply. He caught the big, heavy drops in his helmet to refill
  his leather waterskins.
  When the rain ended, he waited some more.
  * * * * *
  Nithogar had departed from the host three weeks ago. He
  had not needed to give them a reason why, but he did mutter
  something to the elders about checking some of the ancient
  sites. Which, of course, was the truth. 
  “A useful tool, the truth can be,” he had once told his lair-
  mate, Jelissican, “but that is all it is—a tool. Not an ethic. Not
  a goal unto itself.”
  She never liked it when he spoke that way, so he learned to
  avoid doing so. Of course, that was lifetimes ago. Dragon life-
  times. When Nithogar had lived in the Land of the Dragons.
  When he—and the other elders of the Conclave—had ruled it. 
  His survey of the ancient sites had borne no fruit. He felt de-
  spondent at the sight of so many places his people had once
  revered and used now fallen into ruin. In fact, “ruin” was not a
  word that performed its job adequately in this case. The ancient
  dragon sites were no longer sites at all. They were nothing. An
  anonymous spot in the woods here, an unnoticed end of a
  ravine there. Even the topography had changed in the time the
  dragons had been gone. Rivers had carved new courses, moun-
  tains had toppled, and even the coastline had taken a different
  curve here and there, like the face of a long-lost love, now held
  tightly in the talons of age.
  Nithogar was a stranger to age. The sight of even the land
  itself changing upset him greatly. He had dwelled upon the
  world for more centuries than had passed here before his birth.
  Yet, he had spent most of that time away from this, his ancestral
  home. There was a crime in that—and, worse, those of his kind
  who still lived no longer remembered this place. To them, the
  Land of the Dragons was a tale told in the hatchling dens and
  dreamed of in monthslong slumbers deep in subterranean caves
  and high in floating castles. And Nithogar knew he was to
  blame. But truth was not a goal unto itself, and thus dwelling
  upon it served no purpose. Guilt was an emotion for lesser
  beings, a pitfall to be avoided by those with the power and in-
  telligence to reach for the stars.
  There were still great deeds to be done, and only those with
  the will to persevere could accomplish them. He had been
  granted—no, he had earned—immortality, or something very
  close. It was not something to squander in regret or remorse. The
  threat of future regrets was no barrier to stop one such as he.
  It had indeed been dragon lifetimes since he had been to this
  realm. Jelissican’s lifetime, to be sure. Thoughts of her urged
  him onward.
  Nithogar drew upon the power of the land around him. It
  felt warm and familiar as its essence flowed into his out-
  stretched wings. After a savoring moment, he channeled that
  power into his tired muscles to grant himself speed. There was
  one more site to visit. It was perhaps the most vital, and thus
  the most dangerous.
  * * * * *
  At first, it was just a black spot in the sky. Re-Magul had no
  doubt as to what it was. He kept his seat upon the reddish
  stone atop the hill. His shaggy black hair showed tufts of grey,
  both on his head and in his beard. His helmet lay on the
  ground next to the rock, but the rest of his towering form was
  shod in articulated armored plates—except for his hands. He
  eschewed gauntlets so he could hold thu-terris with his bare
  flesh. That was the way he had entered battle since landing at
  Khorl, some five hundred years ago.
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  M O N T E  C O O K
  256
  
  knuckles showed white. He arched his back so that he stood at his
  full eighteen-foot height, stiff bones crunching loudly in his back
  as he did. His massive chest, like the prow of a mighty ship,
  thrust toward the dragon. “I am Re-Magul, warmain in the serv-
  ice of Lady Protector Ia-Thordani; oldest of the Hu-Charad;
  slayer of the dramojh fangmaster Villithiss at the Battle of the
  Serpent’s Heart; commander of the Knights of Diamond; and
  wielder of the Blade of the East: thu-terris, the sword-that-severs-
  with-icy-flame-as-it-dances.”
  Nithogar stared at him in silence, without the twitch of a
  draconic muscle. Eventually, he spoke. “I have no quarrel with
  you, giant. Remember what your grandfathers must have told
  you of the ancient pacts, of which their own grandfathers must
  have spoken before them.”
  “I have no wish to speak with you of pacts,” Re-Magul said,
  still gritting his teeth.
  “I would think not. Those ancient pacts made between your
  people and my own lord Erixalimar, the dragon king, forbade
  you from even coming to this land. Yet here you stand.”
  Now Re-Magul only stared, his eyes narrowing.
  “And it is my understanding that you have been here for
  some time.”
  “We came here,” Re-Magul took a breath, then continued,
  “because this land was in peril. A peril you had wrought, then
  fled from.”
  The muscles around the left side of Nithogar’s wide mouth
  twitched.
  “You said,” the dragon said, raising its head higher, “that you
  knew who I was.”
  “Oh yes. Perhaps you thought that such lore had been lost,
  but the akashics have made sure your crimes would always be
  remembered. I know who you are, Nithogar the Wicked.
  Nithogar the Hated. Nithogar the Despoiler.”
  “These are epithets I must have earned after I left.”
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  M E M O R I E S  A N D  G H O S T S
  His steely eyes focused on the ever-growing shape as it ap-
  proached. Its form grew steadily more distinct, but its color re-
  mained black. Wide, sweeping wings were visible propelling the
  thing at great speeds. Soon, its long serpentine neck and terrible
  reptilian head became clear.
  A dragon.
  Re-Magul resisted the urge to stand. This was what he had
  been waiting for.
  The dragon flew directly toward him, or, perhaps more accu-
  rately, toward the master dragonstone upon which he sat.
  The huge creature circled Draconhill in a wide arc, its head
  turned inward as it rounded him, studying the giant. Its shud-
  dering black wings and back, covered in black scales tipped with
  red, glistened with rainwater. It made the dragon’s scales gleam
  as if they were metal, a dark reddish bronze. It kept its four mas-
  sive legs tucked loosely under its massive torso as it flew, its belly
  scales showing more red than black, though its claws were ebon.
  Of its entire body, easily one hundred feet from nose to tail tip,
  only its pale teeth and fiery eyes—the color of the hungry desert
  sun—were something other than black or red.
  Finally, the dragon descended, landing quietly in the grass on
  the side of the hill that the giant warmain faced. It folded its
  huge wings and took a few steps forward with its head low—
  right at Re-Magul’s eye level, in fact.
  “I know who you are, worm.” Re-Magul said through teeth
  clenched so hard that his jaw again ached, but the pain helped
  him focus his anger. His deep voice sounded weak from
  disuse.
  The dragon cocked its head slightly. “I have no idea who you
  are, giant,” it—or rather he—replied with a gravelly voice that,
  while soft, betrayed its ability to become louder. Much louder.
  It was as though he were speaking to a child.
  Re-Magul could not resist the urge to stand in the face of the
  creature’s obvious contempt. He gripped thu-terris so that his
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  M O N T E  C O O K
  
  the dragon’s demeanor was an intensity of color growing behind
  his narrow eyes. 
  The dragon’s words were not without their own truth, Re-Magul
  knew. This was once the Land of the Dragons, and the creatures
  held a mystical tie to it that even today sages wondered at.
  But that was no excuse for their crimes, particularly not this
  dragon’s crimes.
  Nithogar spoke again. “You came here because we had gone,
  and you assumed we would not return. You saw a chance to rule
  yet another land, under the guise of your vaunted stewardship.”
  “Lies!”
  “You serve the land. You protect all who live in it—as long as
  they submit to giant rule, is that not so? You are the guardians of
  all, as long as they obey the will of your sacred Diamond Throne!”
  “I’ll kill you where you stand!”
  “You think you can do what time itself cannot?”
  This gave Re-Magul pause. He raised thu-terris so that its
  point—a full twelve feet from its pommel—pointed at the
  dragon’s neck. “Why are you still alive, worm? Even dragons grow
  old and die. Why have you not? Are you so base, so vile, that you
  have given into the Dark? Have you succumbed to undeath?”
  “There are secrets to magic that you cannot comprehend, giant.”
  Oh, how he hated dragons. Re-Magul had always felt so, for
  as long as he had been aware of their existence. Dragons were
  arrogant, self-serving monsters with no concern for how they
  might affect the land around them. So powerful and yet so care-
  less with that power. How could he not despise them and all
  they had wrought?
  Especially what they had wrought. Especially what this
  dragon had wrought.
  “Like the secrets of magic that allowed you to give birth to
  the dramojh? That’s a secret I don’t want to comprehend, mon-
  ster. That’s a secret that resulted in the deaths of thousands and
  the enslavement of many more. Your actions brought this land
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  M E M O R I E S  A N D  G H O S T S
  “Then how about this one, dragon: Nithogar, creator of the
  dramojh.” Out of habit, Re-Magul spat as he said both
  “dragon” and “dramojh.”
  Nithogar flexed his wings. “You know nothing of it, Hu-
  Charad.”
  “Nothing?” Re-Magul’s eyes flared. “You are ancient, it is
  true, but I am no mere youth. I was there when the stone ships
  arrived on these shores, one of the first off the boats. I remem-
  ber the battles with the dramojh—the so-called ‘dragon scions.’
  I battled their dark sorcery and demonic powers. I saw friends
  and relatives die in their claws and teeth. They scuttled out of
  the shadows and they raped this land like nothing before them
  or—thank all the singers in the Houses of the Eternal—since.”
  “So your kind dealt with the dramojh. I am aware of that.
  And you were some kind of leader in your campaign against
  them. What do you want from me? Gratitude? So be it. Thanks
  to you, giant, and to all your kind.”
  And with a sneer, he added quickly: “Now be on your way.”
  Re-Magul recoiled. No one had ever spoken to him like that
  regarding the hated dramojh.
  The dragon pointed to the east with a long, sharp claw.
  “Your ancestral home lies in that direction.” He lowered his
  talon and added, “I trust your vaunted sailing craft still work.”
  “I know where my homeland lies, beast! I left everything and
  everyone there to come here to deal with the chaos you left.”
  “Really, giant. Is that so? And what made the dramojh your
  problem? I recognize that they were an abomination, but why
  do you, hailing from across the boundless sea, care about such
  matters?”
  “We are the wardens of the land!”
  “We are the land!”
  The shouted words of both giant and dragon echoed dully
  across the landscape. Each could feel the fevered breath of the
  other. Re-Magul trembled with anger, while the only change in
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  M O N T E  C O O K
  
  arcane power seething within the sword as easily as he could see
  that it was made of finely tempered steel. The sword had all the
  markings of something giant-made and ancient. Probably some-
  thing the giantish armies brought with them from their own
  homeland across the Great Eastern Sea. Maybe something
  brought by Re-Magul himself. He claimed to be that old, but
  Nithogar had not known that giants were so long-lived. There
  was much he did not know about giantkind. Why would he?
  For so long, they had simply been the folk of distant lands, of
  little concern to him and his kind after the pact wrought by
  Erixalimar ensured that they would never come to these shores.
  But now they were here, entrenched in the ancestral home-
  land of all dragonkind. They had broken the pact. Perhaps they
  had done it in the name of what they saw as a good cause, but
  that was irrelevant—particularly now. 
  “You have threatened me with death twice now, giant,”
  Nithogar said softly but without a mote of gentleness. “I can
  look at you and tell that you are prepared to stand behind your
  words. You want to slay me with every fiber of your being. So
  why address me at all? Why not await me here with an army to
  sling stones and arrows into the sky at my approach, with a pha-
  lanx of your so-called warmains ready to charge when I land?”
  How much could he know? The folk of the realm seemed to
  have forgotten the ancient sites of dragon power, each centered
  around one of the magical, reddish dragonstones. Perhaps not
  all had been forgotten. But did he know the significance of this
  site above all the others?
  As if he had read Nithogar’s mind, Re-Magul responded,
  “Before you die, I want to know why your kind have returned.”
  He took a step backward and pointed his sword at the dragon-
  stone. “Does it have something to do with this?”
  Nithogar could not help betraying his dismay with a gasp.
  “It’s of obvious value to you, dragon. But is it why you have
  returned?”
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  M E M O R I E S  A N D  G H O S T S
  to its knees. And yet you claim ties to it. If that’s so, why were
  you not ravaged as it was?”
  “Impudent giant. Do you really think the failure of the
  dramojh did not harm us? We left our homeland because of them! ”
  “You fled in fear of your own creation. You took no responsi-
  bility for your actions. You— ”
  “Enough!” The dragon’s roar, issued from his upraised head far
  above the giant’s own, shook Re-Magul’s very bones, but he
  fought not to show it. It resonated through the silence that fol-
  lowed, drifting amid the stones that littered the surrounding hills.
  Nithogar’s gaze fell upon the red master dragonstone behind
  the giant.
  “How . . .” he began, lowering his head. “How did you know
  I would be here?”
  Re-Magul smiled mirthlessly. “Perhaps there are secrets to
  magic that you do not comprehend, dragon. Do not think that
  your scaly kind has a monopoly on arcane lore and magic
  spells. Your coming was foreseen by our magisters, and your
  presence by those who have bonded with the Green. True, not
  many had the power and insight to see it, but some did, and
  when I learned of it, my path was clear.”
  “Your path?”
  “I am here to kill you, Nithogar. Thu-terris does not leave her
  sheath lightly.”
  * * * * *
  Nithogar studied the giant standing before him. It had been
  centuries since the dragon had engaged in physical combat.
  And even then, he was used to fighting creatures far smaller
  than this giant. True, in the past, there had been reason for
  dragon to struggle against dragon, but those days were long
  gone and better forgotten. Re-Magul was large, even for a giant.
  The sturdy warrior held his blade in a way that suggested not
  just skill, but intimate familiarity. And Nithogar could see the
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  M O N T E  C O O K
  
  “No. War is not inevitable. I do not speak for all giantkind. I do
  not even speak for the Lady Protector in this instance. You are the
  progenitor of the dramojh, Nithogar. I cannot abide you in the
  land I struggled and bled for. I came here, alone, of my own will
  and no other’s. You are the root of virtually all this land’s shadows.
  I could perhaps permit the dragons to return. But not you.”
  “Permit?” Nithogar spat. “I called you impudent before, but
  I was wrong. That is arrogance. Misplaced arrogance. We are
  dragons. This is our land. You permit or deny us nothing.”
  “Things have changed, dragon. This was your land, but you
  abandoned it. We are its stewards now. Were it not for us, it would
  be a wasteland: barren of life and broken forever from the Green.”
  Nithogar raised a massive claw, blocking the rays of the set-
  ting sun as it sank to tops of the distant Bitter Peaks. Re-Magul
  was cast in shadow. The giant responded by raising his sword
  with both hands above his head.
  With a roar that shook both the warmain and the hill upon
  which he stood, Nithogar brought his talon down upon the
  giant. Re-Magul called upon the power within thu-terris, and it
  flared with blue flame. With a mighty swing, he deflected the
  dragon’s strike and cut into the scaly flesh of the claw.
  Nithogar did not utter a sound with the wound, but he did
  rear his head back in surprise. 
  The giant stood his ground and gripped his sword tightly,
  holding it low to the ground in a hunched, defensive stance.
  “I wondered how long it would be before you came to
  blows,” a voice said.
  Both dragon and giant turned toward the sound. Standing
  on the north end of the hill was a reptilian creature covered in
  scales: yellow-gold on its back and brownish-copper on its belly
  and limbs. It was not as large as Nithogar, but it was thick and
  broad where he was thin and snakelike. And the new creature
  bore no wings on its back.
  Another dragon.
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  M E M O R I E S  A N D  G H O S T S
  Nithogar regained his composure, reminding himself that
  surely the giant’s blade could do no harm to the magical stone.
  “You don’t realize it, giant, but you ask two questions, not one.”
  Re-Magul stared back at the dragon without a change to his
  angry countenance.
  “You ask why my kind has come back, and the answer is
  simple. This is our land. Our time of self-imposed exile has
  reached its end. The Dragon Conclave is composed of different
  dragons now—except for me. Those who led us out of this land
  are gone and, in fact, even their children are gone. Time has a
  way of . . .” Nithogar readjusted his wings uncomfortably,
  “changing things.
  “But,” the dragon continued, “you also ask about the stone,
  and why I have come back. That is a very different question
  with a very different answer.”
  Nithogar examined Re-Magul for any sign that might betray
  what he knew about this particular site, then said, “And it is an
  answer I have no intention of granting you, if for no other
  reason than you threaten me with your paltry weapon.”
  The insult seemed to shake Re-Magul, but he clearly possessed
  more self-control than the dragon had given him credit for. 
  “You asked me why I did not bring an army with me,” the
  giant said. “I could ask the same of you. Where is the draconic
  host that, I have heard, darkens the sky with its numbers? Why
  are you here alone? Is it because this place—this rock—has
  something to do with the creation of the dramojh?”
  Was he really asking, or did he already know? Nithogar mused.
  The dragon sighed. “I wonder,” he said, “will every dragon
  find a giant with a sword wherever he goes in this land? Must
  there be war?”
  “Answer my question, dragon.”
  “Perhaps, after you answer mine. Why are you here alone?”
  Re-Magul ran a hand through his beard, letting the tip of his
  sword almost touch the ground. He worked his jaw slightly.
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  M O N T E  C O O K
  
  “And what,” Nithogar said, “is your business here? Have you
  come for the stone?”
  “I have had millennia to access this stone. Why would I
  come for it now?”
  “So you have come here because of one of us,” Nithogar
  stated, cocking his head to one side ever so slightly.
  Re-Magul stood tall and held his sword before him in a new
  but still fully defensible stance. 
  “Both of you, actually,” Cohalisaram replied.
  “Explain,” was all Re-Magul could manage. He reflected
  back to his ceremony of calming to keep his rage in check. His
  hatred for dragons made it difficult to concentrate on their
  words. And he had not come here to talk.
  Cohalisaram took a few steps closer. “I suppose, in the tales of
  old from the Denotholan, I would be the threat that provides a
  reason for you two enemies to work together. That, however, is not
  my intent. I have no desire to enter combat with either of you.
  Frankly, I have no doubt that either of you could best me. I have
  spent eons perfecting ways of avoiding fights, not winning them.”
  Re-Magul shook his head with distrust.
  Cohalisaram turned his attention to the giant. “You knew
  Nithogar was coming, and you knew who he was, but do you
  know his purpose here? Do you know the stone’s significance?”
  Nithogar gave a low growl. 
  “This specific stone?” Cohalisaram asked.
  The answer was no, but the giant did not care. His mind was
  focused only on slaying the dragon he had come here to slay
  and avenging the dead he had come here to avenge. 
  Cohalisaram did not explain further. Instead, he turned his
  wide head back toward Nithogar. “And do you know who Re-
  Magul is? Even I, cloistered away, know of this hero and his 
  position as the eldest of the giants.”
  Nithogar spat something like a laugh. “Like that means any-
  thing to me, the eldest of the dragons—”
  M E M O R I E S  A N D  G H O S T S
  * * * * *
  Re-Magul was ready to fight one dragon, but two? His hopes
  for surviving until nightfall diminished to nil. Still, he stood firm.
  “Afraid to face me alone, Nithogar?” Re-Magul taunted. His
  mind raced for some strategy. Perhaps angering the dragon fur-
  ther might buy him some time.
  The black dragon ignored him, however, and spoke to the new-
  comer in Draconic. Re-Magul had studied the ancient language
  of dragons, however, and understood the words: “Who are you?”
  The yellow and brown dragon’s voice was gruff, sounding
  almost like stones rattling around in an iron bucket. “You don’t
  remember me, I’m sure. I was very young when you left. My
  name is Cohalisaram, or . . . it was. No one has had cause to use
  that name in five thousand years or more. Yes, Nithogar, I am one
  of those you left behind, and I still live. There are a couple of us
  still here, and a few children and grandchildren of those who
  stayed when the dragon host left. I may not have the power of the
  tenebrian seeds to give me long life, but there are other means.”
  Then Cohalisaram turned to Re-Magul and spoke in Giantish.
  “Greetings, Hu-Charad. I have taken great pains never to meet
  one of your kind in person, until today of course.”
  “How—” Nithogar began.
  “—did I approach you,” Cohalisaram interrupted, “without
  your seeing or hearing me?” The dragon gave a gruff laugh. “I’d
  like to say it was because the two of you were too busy postur-
  ing for one another’s benefit, but the truth is that—like those
  few others of our kind who remained in this realm—I have
  adapted to a life of secrecy. I have learned to step between the
  moments. I hide within time itself.”
  Re-Magul had no idea what that meant, but it was none-
  theless true that a dragon like Cohalisaram, who must weigh at
  least one hundred tons, should not have been able to approach
  this hill undetected without the aid of some kind of magic.
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  M O N T E  C O O K
  267
  
  “That cannot be,” Re-Magul said softly, more to himself than
  to the dragons. “They are all dead or driven from the world.
  We saw to it. We were thorough.”
  “Indeed,” Cohalisaram agreed, his manner betraying a respect
  for the giants that Nithogar did not share.
  “Calm yourself,” Nithogar said. “The dramojh are all gone. If
  there is a dramojh within the stone, it is dead.”
  Re-Magul’s brow furrowed in confusion and perhaps distrust.
  Cohalisaram looked at Nithogar expectantly.
  Nithogar sighed and glanced around distractedly before speak-
  ing. “I put a spell on a number of dragonstones and sent them to
  sites important to us. The spell was a contingency, so that if ever
  the dramojh were destroyed, some of their essence would remain
  preserved within them. Time has worn away the enchantment on
  the other stones. This is the last one, but it is the most powerful.”
  “And here,” Cohalisaram said, “the spell remained and per-
  formed its function.”
  Before Nithogar could ask the other dragon how he knew this,
  Re-Magul shook his head, his eyes wide. “Why? By all that is
  holy, why?”
  Lies filled Nithogar’s head, but his anger wouldn’t allow him
  to speak them. “Because I wasn’t done with them, giant! There
  was still work to be done!”
  “Work? Those . . . demonic things . . .” Re-Magul sputtered.
  As the giant and dragon faced off in rage once again, Cohal-
  isaram opened his mouth wide and, from deep within his
  throat, a thin stream of silver and green energy poured forth. It
  did not move in a straight line, nor was it necessarily quick. It
  danced and meandered through the air. Re-Magul cried out
  and lifted his sword defensively. Nithogar just stared.
  The energy worked its way around the giant and instead struck
  the dragonstone. The rock glowed silently with the stream’s silvery-
  green essence. The surrounding hills had grown as noiseless as the
  three of them standing there, looking at the stone.
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  M E M O R I E S  A N D  G H O S T S
  “You forget yourself, ancient one. I may not be as old as you,
  but I am old enough to remember great Erixalimar, who still lives.”
  Nithogar shook his head at the mention of the name, as if
  shooing away a buzzing insect.
  “So an old giant and an old dragon meet . . .” Re-Magul
  said, rubbing his beard.
  “Two old dragons,” Cohalisaram added with a lilt to his
  voice that seemed strange coming from the massive creature.
  Re-Magul smiled in spite of himself. “Either way,” the giant
  said, “it sounds like the beginning of a joke a faen would tell.”
  Cohalisaram laughed loudly and long, showing teeth that
  looked like sharp stones.
  “Very well,” Nithogar said when the other dragon had fin-
  ished. “Evening comes, and with it more rain, most likely. You
  have stopped our battle before it really started, which is fine with
  me. Why don’t the two of you move along somewhere else now?”
  “Oh no, Nithogar,” Cohalisaram said. “We haven’t even told
  the giant about the dramojh within the rock.”
  * * * * *
  Re-Magul stared at the master dragonstone, then back at
  Nithogar. He once again gripped his weapon in both hands, as
  though readying an attack.
  Nithogar wondered at the other dragon’s motives for causing
  him this trouble. He had no problem slaying the giant if he must,
  but Nithogar did not have the stomach for fighting another
  dragon this night—particularly one that seemed to have honed
  his draconic nature in new and unknown ways.
  As the sky darkened, Re-Magul finally broke the uneasy si-
  lence. “Dramojh? In the rock?” He prodded the stone with his
  sword. “Impossible.”
  “Once again,” Nithogar replied, “we find your knowledge of
  the possible to be sorely lacking.” The dragon tensed, raising his
  head high. “What my . . . brother, here, says is true.”
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  M O N T E  C O O K
  
  but this was different. There was no other voice in his head.
  The ghost spoke to him with his own mental voice.
  Left us alone. Left us to die.
  “We had to leave,” Nithogar whispered.
  Fearful. Distrustful. Incapable of dealing with the consequences.
  “No,” the dragon shook his head ever so slightly. “I was going to
  come back. Sooner. Much sooner. But the West. It held . . . things
  . . . unknown to the Conclave. Things became very complicated.”
  Nithogar seemed to shrink. 
  We are forsaken. We are gone.
  “Damn right!” Re-Magul said, pointing the tip of his sword
  at the creature.
  The shadow turned toward the giant, looking him in the eye
  for the first time. Slaughterer. Murderer.
  “Of horrors like you? Yes!” Re-Magul launched himself at the
  ghostly dramojh and swung thu-terris in a wide arc. This must
  end. The shadow had already contaminated the world too long
  with its unexpected presence. 
  The warmain’s magical blade flamed through the shadow,
  tearing at it like a hand splashing through greasy, thick oil.
  And, like oil, the blade slicing through it did not seem to affect
  it at all, except to cause its surface to ripple slightly.
  Worse, thu-terris clouded over with a darkness that oozed
  into its blade like blood into water. Without warning or threat,
  thu-terris, the Blade of the East, died in Re-Magul’s hands.
  * * * * *
  Nithogar saw the light fade from the giant’s sword like a candle
  snuffed. He watched as the shadow dramojh focused its dark
  abhorrence toward the giant, and imagined that, hundreds of
  years ago, such a scene would have been commonplace in the land
  where they now stood. The dragon wondered at his creation.
  Even as he watched, he could not help but remember his last
  experience with his scions. His plans to wrest control of the
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  M E M O R I E S  A N D  G H O S T S
  A creature stepped forth from the glow. It was dark but glis-
  tening, like the web of a spider, and translucent. Nithogar had
  seen such a creature before. “A ghost . . .” It had a body like a
  scale-covered mockery of a spider, too many legs splayed out
  from a twisted form. It had a long, serpentine neck and a de-
  monic face that seemed to be all teeth and eyes. Fluttering,
  nervous wings like those of a bat curled on its back. The thing
  did not move, it seeped, as if it were oil and the air a sieve. 
  It was a dramojh.
  * * * * *
  “No,” Re-Magul said, “it can’t be real.” He looked to Cohal-
  isaram for some kind of explanation, but somehow the dragon
  was gone. Just gone.
  The dramojh was a liquid shadow. Each second that passed
  seemed to cause a ripple to move along its surface. It looked
  around, as if attempting to gain its bearings. 
  Every nightmare that had ever haunted Re-Magul’s sleep or
  shook his waking thoughts had suddenly come true. Like so many
  of his brethren, the giant had sworn to never rest, never allow
  himself to exit the Wardance, never stop hating, until the demon-
  dragons were gone. Now, one stood in front of him, dripping
  darkness like a festering cancer. His soul cried in anguish at the
  sight of it, but his determination fought to keep his mind clear.
  This thing was a dramojh, but it was different, too. Ephemeral.
  Ethereal. Like the dragon had said, a dead dramojh. This was not
  one of the creatures Re-Magul had struggled for so long to de-
  stroy. It was the shadow of one of them, preserved by perverse
  magic—a crime against the land, to say the least.
  The shadow of the dramojh focused its gaze on Nithogar,
  ignoring the giant.
  Father/Betrayer. Kin-Abandoner. Maker/Forsaker. Scion-Slayer. The
  shadow’s thoughts were Re-Magul’s thoughts—and Nithogar’s as
  well, presumably. Re-Magul had experienced telepathy before,
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  M O N T E  C O O K
  
  survivors squirming into deep holes in the Bitter Peaks. But
  Nithogar was long gone, fled to the West. 
  He could not speak for the dragons who came with him, but
  he knew that with every beat of his wings he fled from himself.
  He fled from what he had wrought.
  And now, after millennia, he stood before his progeny again.
  * * * * *
  Hate. Revulsion. Disgust. Contempt. Loathing.
  With a taloned claw, the dramojh reached for Re-Magul. Thu-
  terris was cold and dead in the giant’s hands, and he could not
  move it to block the strike. The shadow’s hand seeped through
  his armor as effortlessly as it seeped through the air, and the giant
  felt a coldness—felt a darkness—enter him. He cried out. 
  “After all these centuries,” Nithogar whispered. “Guilt is an
  emotion for lesser beings.” His voice grew louder, but he spoke
  as if reciting a mantra. “Truth is not a goal unto itself.”
  The dramojh shadow continued its attack upon Re-Magul.
  The giant quivered, helpless to act, engulfed by the cold and
  darkness only a dead demon could wield.
  “I was wrong,” Nithogar said.
  The shadow ignored him.
  “I should have known, then, as I watched her last moments.
  Passion served nothing, I thought. Revenge, guilt, anger—these
  could not serve me, I said. I only had to forget. I had thought I
  could exorcise these feelings through absence, but I was wrong.
  After so long, I know now that I must remember.”
  Nithogar rose to his full height. He seemed to draw power
  from the hill itself and fill himself with it. 
  “You were a mistake!” Nithogar’s front claws came crashing
  down upon the specter, shimmering with a power all their own.
  Out of the corner of his eye, Re-Magul saw the shimmering
  fire, and recognized its color and texture. He had seen it before,
  in the pattern deep within the rune of every runechild and the
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  M E M O R I E S  A N D  G H O S T S
  Conclave from those dragons who opposed him had reached its
  fruition. Dramojh by the tens of thousands swarmed over their
  mountain palace. Dragon fought against dragon, but the
  sudden appearance of the squirming horde of the dramojh
  made the outcome of this final battle a foregone conclusion.
  Scales were torn from dragon flesh, and flesh was rent from
  dragon bone. Dark, thick blood, rich with power, flowed down
  the mountainside in grisly torrents. But even as victory be-
  longed to Nithogar, he saw his creations turn against him and
  his allies. Like an infection, the dramojh suddenly had no cause
  to discriminate—they swarmed over all dragons.
  Nithogar surveyed this scene, even now calmly monitoring
  the unplanned contingency, wondering how to control the new
  situation, or at least turn it to his benefit. But then he saw her.
  Jelissican.
  The dramojh, born of a fusion of his own essence and the
  dark but potent magic of the tenebrian seeds, the result of his
  matchless intellect and dauntless pursuit of power, swarmed like
  hungry locusts over his lair-mate. In his mind’s eye she fought
  valiantly—Jelissican’s physical power matched or exceeded his
  own—but the dramojh were numberless. For every five that fell
  with a sweep of her rending claws, ten more took their place.
  For every dozen consumed in the fiery blasts of her breath, two
  dozen more swarmed over their remains to renew their sorcer-
  ous attacks.
  Nithogar did not see Jelissican die. Her green and golden
  form was buried in black dramojh bodies, spreading over her
  like the darkness spreading into Re-Magul’s sword. 
  There was no way to turn this situation to Nithogar’s advan-
  tage. Somehow, just as all his plans had reached fruition, every-
  thing that mattered died. 
  He had heard much later that the day ended with Erixali-
  mar’s arrival on the scene with a host of celestial beings who,
  together, eradicated the dramojh horde and sent the last few
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  M O N T E  C O O K
  
  dramojh—seems to have sustained me as clearly as Nithogar’s
  magic sustained him.”
  Cohalisaram snorted. “And I by my fear. My need to hide.
  “But now,” he continued, “I believe that need must pass. Per-
  haps I should no longer hide between the moments, but
  become a part of them. It is time I came forward, like today.”
  Re-Magul studied the dragon. “Are you saying we must change?
  Adapt to the present . . . or the future?” The giant sheathed his
  dead sword on his back. “I think I am too old to change.”
  Cohalisaram laughed. “My friend! Have you paid no atten-
  tion at all? You may be the oldest of your kind, but did you not
  watch, as I just did, one of the oldest beings of all recognize his
  mistake and decide to change?”
  “And it killed him.” Re-Magul gestured at the empty air.
  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Cohalisaram said. “From the
  tales I’ve heard, it might take a lot more than that to kill a
  dragon like Nithogar. Whether he is gone or not, I am heart-
  ened by what I saw.”
  “And you think a giant can learn from a dragon?” 
  Cohalisaram raised a claw as if to mirror the giant’s gesture.
  “Two dragons.”
  Now it was Re-Magul’s turn to laugh, something he had not
  done for a long time.
  “Perhaps you are right,” Re-Magul said, still laughing. “Per-
  haps I have it in me to change.”
  “I have it,” Cohalisaram said, his monstrous visage brightening.
  “A dragon and a giant meet on a hill. A dragon and a giant leave
  a hill. But it’s not the same dragon—and it’s not the same giant.”
  “I’m no faen, but that’s not very funny.”
  “Perhaps it’s more of a proverb then a joke, then. You giants
  like those, don’t you?”
  “Dragons teaching giants proverbs,” Re-Magul said, laughing
  again. “What could possibly come next?”
  “I, for one, will be interested to see,” the dragon said.
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  M E M O R I E S  A N D  G H O S T S
  heart of every spell. It was the power of the land itself, and it
  tore through the shadowy demon, spattering darkness and de-
  filement across the hill and across Re-Magul. 
  The ghost wavered and drew away from the giant, whirling
  like a vortex of black water to face Nithogar rather than Re-
  Magul. It hissed within his mind incoherently.
  Re-Magul lay in the grass, blackened and charred from the
  dramojh’s eldritch power. His sword had been torn from his grasp.
  He fought to remain conscious, his heart and lungs so cold that
  he could not breathe; his blood had almost stilled within his veins.
  Dragon and dramojh clashed in mid-air, like a moth crashing
  into a flame. But which was which? Re-Magul shielded his eyes
  from the brilliant blaze of power and darkness—a conflagration
  that both lit up and dimmed the twilight upon the hill.
  And then he was alone.
  Nithogar and the spirit had vanished. The dragonstone was
  sundered into two halves, although Re-Magul was unsure how
  it had happened.
  But no, he was not alone.
  Cohalisaram once again stood on the hill, also gazing at the
  stone. His massive form looked almost like part of the hill.
  Re-Magul said nothing. He walked to where he had dropped
  thu-terris. A dark streak still cut across the silver of the blade, but it
  had stopped spreading. The sword still felt cold and heavy. Lifeless.
  The giant felt likewise.
  “I’d like to hear the ending of that faen joke,” Cohalisaram
  said, lowering his body to the ground, resting his head on his
  folded forelimbs. 
  “I am a very old giant,” he said quietly. “And still I have
  never taken the time to learn the art of jokes.”
  The giant continued to stare at his sword, and Cohalisaram
  did not reply. The hilltop was silent for a time.
  “I have been sustained by anger and hatred,” Re-Magul said
  finally. “A need for revenge. My hatred for dragons—for
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  M O N T E  C O O K
  
  M A R Y  H .  H E R B E R T
  Author of the Dark Horse novel series, six Dragonlance books, and several
  short stories, Mary Herbert lives in Atlanta with her husband, two teenage
  children, and assorted pets. She loves to read, write, garden, and be with her
  family. She does not like housecleaning, cockroaches, or Georgia's heat.
  W I L L  M C D E R M O T T
  Depending on who you ask, Will McDermott is best known as the author of
  the Magic: The Gathering® novels Judgment and Moons of Mirrodin,
  editor of Duelist® and TopDeck® magazines, or simply “Dad.” Will lives in
  Hamburg, New York, with his wife, three young ruffians, and one insane dog.
  K A T E  N O V A K
  Kate Novak has co-authored several fantasy novels with husband Jeff Grubb. In
  recent years she’s worked as a tax preparer, min-maxing IRS rules for the game
  of paying taxes. She’s an avid reader, gardener, roleplayer, cook, and hiker.
  K R I S T I N E  K A T H R Y N  R U S C H
  Kristine Kathryn Rusch has won the Hugo, World Fantasy Award, John W.
  Campbell Award, and the Asimov’s Readers’ Choice Award. Although she’s
  published more than seventy novels, her first love is short fiction. In 2004 her
  short stories appeared in all four Dell magazines and two “year’s best” collec-
  tions. She lives on the Oregon coast with her husband and too many cats.
  L U C I E N  S O U L B A N
  Lucien Soulban has contributed to seven fiction anthologies and over ninety
  roleplaying products, in addition to developing White Wolf’s Orpheus®
  game. Lucien lives in beautiful Montreal, Canada, and is scriptwriting for
  video games like Relic Entertainment’s Warhammer 40K: Dawn of War.
  S T A N !
  Stan!, the creative vice president of The Game Mechanics, Inc., has been
  writing and illustrating professionally since 1982. He lives in Renton,
  Washington, where he eats nothing but meat and cheese. Visit him online 
  at <www.stannex.com>.
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  A B O U T  T H E  A U T H O R S
  W O L F G A N G  B A U R
  Wolfgang Baur is a game designer and editor who has written more than one
  hundred game books and articles, including Beyond Countless Doorways and
  Frostburn. This is his second short story for Malhavoc Press. He lives in Seattle.
  R I C H A R D  L E E  B Y E R S
  Richard Lee Byers is the author of more than twenty novels, including The
  Shattered Mask, The Black Bouquet, The Dead God Trilogy, The Vampire’s
  Apprentice, Dead Time, and the bestseller Dissolution. His short fiction has
  appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. A resident of the Tampa
  Bay area, he spends his leisure time fencing, playing poker, and shooting pool.
  M O N T E  C O O K
  Monte Cook has written more than one hundred roleplaying game products,
  including coauthoring the 3rd Edition of the Dungeons & Dragons® game.
  A graduate of the Clarion West writer’s workshop, he has also published vari-
  ous short stories and two novels: The Glass Prison and Of Aged Angels.
  B R U C E  R .  C O R D E L L
  Bruce R. Cordell is known in the roleplaying game community for his many
  adventures and rulebooks, and lately his novels, including the Oath of
  Nerull, Lady of Poison, and the upcoming Darkvision, as well as the short
  story "Hollows of the Heart" in Children of the Rune.
  E D  G R E E N W O O D
  Ed Greenwood lives in a farmhouse in rural Ontario, Canada, with about
  80,000 books—but his mind dwells in the world he created, the Forgotten
  Realms®. Not content with playing in one imaginary world, he's since created
  several others and is happy to visit the Lands of the Diamond Throne, too.
  J E F F  G R U B B
  Jeff has written fourteen novels, over twenty short stories, and more game
  products than you can shake a stick at. A founder of both Forgotten Realms
  and Dragonlance®, he often vacations in other domains. Jeff lives in Seattle
  with his wife and coconspirator, Kate Novak, and his cat, Emily.
  276
  A B O U T  T H E  A U T H O R S
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Sword & Sorcery/WW16147 Arcana Evolved - The Dragons Return.pdf