Dragons' Fall_Tales from the Mirror Worlds Read online

  For one moment the Count woke up, grasped the Duke’s hand and whispered, spitting blood,

  “Take… Sonnai with you…take care of her — promise…”

  A dying man’s wish — Ayaris knew better than to refuse. He nodded. With one last sigh, the Count died. Ayaris closed his eyes and looked around. The Count’s daughter was not among the dead. Above, the dragon readied for another strike. Ayaris stood up, waved his sword again and another lightning bolt pierced the sky. The dragon roared once more, angry and confused. It spat a ball of flame towards the manor and then turned back towards the mountains from where it had come. The Duke dropped to his knees, supporting himself on the sword, breathing heavily. The two spells had drained more of his energy than he had expected.

  From the direction of the burning manor came a young girl dressed in white. In her hands she held tightly a small chest of carved dragon bone.

  There weren’t as many bodies to bury as had been feared. The dragon seemed to have been in a hurry, not precise in its attacks. Most of its victims had only been wounded. None of the native slaves had been harmed; the evarites were a tough race, much more resistant to dragon flame than humans.

  After the funeral rites the Duke came up to the Count’s daughter, who was standing by a tree gazing into the distance. He studied her briefly and understood everything. He knew the symptoms well. The vague stare, the slow, meticulous movements...

  “You Forgot,” he said.

  The girl only now noticed him standing beside her. With some difficulty, she turned her gaze towards the Duke. She opened his eyes wide, as if seeing him for the first time. She smiled a sad smile.

  “Is it so easy to notice?”

  Her words were slow but clear. She had been treated well.

  “The Count found me a few years ago in the mountains, north of here,” she said. “He called me Sonnai — ‘a chest” in the Dragon tongue, because this dragonbone chest was all I had with me.”

  Ayaris took the precious item in his hand. It was carved in strange, abstract patterns, unlike anything he had seen in his travels. It was impossible to tell its age — dragonbone never aged; but he was certain that a mastery of this kind had long been gone from the world.

  “A royal treasure,” he said. His fingers searched for an opening mechanism.

  “Nobody knows how to open it,” said Sonnai, noticing his efforts. “I was found in a cave, wearing a gold-thread dress, clutching this chest as if it was the most precious thing in the world.”

  “How did the Count treat your disease?”

  “He taught me everything from the beginning, like a baby. That’s why I called him my father. I don’t know anything outside this manor, other than from stories. And now — I don’t even have that…”

  She sobbed awkwardly. Ayaris knew it meant she hadn’t yet had a chance to learn how to cry.

  “The Count… asked me to take you with me.”

  She nodded.“There is nothing here left for me. It’s the only home I know, but… there’s so little left. If that’s not too much trouble, of course,” she added hastily, remembering her manners.

  “It is,” said the Duke, waving his hand, “but not for long. When we are back to the League lands I’ll take you to Hollo, to a Sanctuary. They can help you there.”

  Sonnai nodded again.

  The cave was empty. Filled with smoke and hot dragon breath, it seemed as if its owner was just about to return home from a hunt. But the Duke knew better. He felt nothing, and his senses had never failed him before. He swore. The dragon had run away from the island.

  “Pack your things,” he told Sonnai as soon as he got back to the manor, “we’re leaving today.”

  Before entering one of the Count’s carriages alongside Ayaris, the girl gave the keys to what was left of the manor to the old chamberlain.

  “Make sure everyone is paid well,” she said, “I don’t know who will be the next lord of the manor, with the Count dead and me gone… Those who wish to go back to Evar should be given enough money for the journey.”

  It was odd to see her commanding the chamberlain like that. Ayaris had already gotten used to her absent, slow manner, but once in charge of things, Sonnai changed. The servants bowed and listened to her every word. The Duke smiled to himself.

  The captain of the Astrey Breeze welcomed them back on board. He glanced at the Duke and saw no traces of a fight, no trophy in the canvas bag.

  “What happened?”

  “Ran away. You know what to do.”

  The Captain nodded and was about to turn back to his crew, when he noticed a beautiful young girl climbing on board.

  “Take her to the best cabin we have,” the Duke said. “I’m sorry if it doesn’t suit your needs,” he spoke to the girl, “I tend to travel alone.”

  With that, he left them and hurried off. The Captain led her to the only guest cabin on board. He never questioned the Duke’s decisions.

  “I’m sorry,” the girl said, “but… where did the Duke go?”

  “He’s Hunting,” the Captain said. “And when he’s Hunting, he mustn’t be disturbed.”

  He sat down at the table of weirwood. The veins of the magic material glinted red, blue and gold. He laid his hands on top of the table; his own veins and tendons lit up, silver.

  The Duke sang a simple melody and his head dropped onto his chest. His spirit left the body. At the speed of thought it travelled north, back to the dragon cave. The Duke saw a myriad of fiery lines — traces of the beast’s comings and goings — and a single silver thread, his own recent journey. At last, he found it — a thick, fresh line shooting straight towards the sea. He followed it.

  For a spirit it seemed to have lasted no more than a few minutes, but when the Duke finally appeared on deck, the early moon already shone brightly in the sky.

  “Magaror. North-east,” he said simply. The Captain jumped at the command and ordered his crew to set sail.

  The journey to Magaror, and then along the long coast of the island — one of the largest in the Archipelago — took many days. Most of the time the Duke and Sonnai saw little of each other, meeting only for meals. Ayaris kept himself to his cabin for the better part of the day, making sure not to lose the trail of the dragon. Sonnai remained on the deck, discovering all the new experiences of sea travel. She suffered no sickness, and refused to go under deck even in the worst of the winds, despite the Captain’s pleadings.

  One day, when the weather was remarkably sunny and warm considering how far north they had sailed, and the Magaror coast moved slowly and lazily on the horizon, the Duke climbed out from his cabin at last and stood next to Sonnai. The girl admired the calm ocean. She brushed golden hair from her forehead in a gesture she had learned from Ayaris and turned towards him.

  “Why do you do it?” she asked.

  The Duke looked at her and then back at the sea.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “We don’t seem to be in a hurry,” she said.

  The boat moved at a very leisurely pace in the soft wind. The sun shone brightly, high in the sky. He sighed.

  “I suppose…”

  His hands grasped the railings; he closed his eyes and breathed deeply before starting his tale.

  THE CHEST OF DUKE AYARIS OF MADAVANT

  I was born an heir to the crown of Madavant on the western coast of the Continent.

  Madavant was never a rich duchy. Sea was our trade; our fields were dry and barren. Savannah and desert pressed on our land from the East and South, our people had been fighting them for generations ever more hopelessly, just like they had fought countless invaders who thought our country was an easy picking due to its poverty. For the last century or so, however, there was finally peace on all borders.

  We owed it to Orgerey, the Dragon of Madavant. I know not where it had come from, nor why it had settled in the cliff caves of our rocky coast. My father’s mages kept in touch with the beast and assured us of its good will. And indeed, it had flown
a few times into battle with the invading armies, destroying them with its flame and magic until all around knew at last that the king of Madavant kept a dragon for a pet. No knight was brave enough to stand against the beast.

  Now I’m not saying that we were not to blame for what happened. We grew idle; our swords rusted, our shields rotted, hung on the dining-hall walls. Once every few months Orgerey flew over our fields, watchful, and people waved at him, cheering him on. We believed peace would last forever.

  And then came the Year of Woe. Plagues fell on Madavant one after another. Drought came from the South, greater than any remembered. We prayed to the Great Dragons, but the Gods” ears were deaf to our pleas. Cattle died, the forests burned, grain wilted away. For the first time in generations there was true famine in Madavant.

  After the drought came the locusts from Gavarey in the east to feed on what remained of our withered crops. This was too much for some people. Always pious and honest, the folk of Madavant started revolting against their rulers and Gods. The great prophet, U-Tarch, came that year to our capital with news that the disasters were a punishment for our sins and lack of devotion — but the only sin our people had on their conscience was the lethargy of a long peace.

  Chaos and tumult appeared on the streets of the capital. The statues of the Great Dragons were toppled from the temple stairs. My father tried to stem the tide of the rebellion, selling the royal treasure for grain imported from Secrey at horrendous prices. That way we managed to survive until the autumn rains which, we hoped, would bring respite to the tired people.

  It was a futile hope. Across the muddy plains of the North came soldiers, all dressed in black — a mighty army of Secrey. Their leader was the young prince of Secrey, his dark eyes filled with sadness and hate. I never learned why, for he spoke little, even to his own men.

  A great black dragon soared over this army, but we still trusted in the might of our Orgerey. All able-bodied men stood at the walls of the capital; a throng as numerous as the grains of sand on the beaches of Astrey. As the enemy approached, my father climbed the tallest tower and cried thrice the name of our dragon.

  Nothing happened. Orgerey had betrayed us; it never came. We were alone. Our ranks faltered, our courage waned. The enemy army was as numerous as ours, but better fed and armed, with money taken from the royal treasury of Madavant. Still, we fought, long and hard. The minstrels at Hollo sing the song of the Battle of Madavant. My father perished at the main gate, crushed by the black dragon of Secrey. My mother and all the women and children of the royal household were captured in a raid long before the battle ended. As I was dragged in chains across the battle field, I saw the best knights of my land butchered, all my friends and teachers. I saw the black dragon of Secrey break the walls of the city and then descend on the royal palace to plunder what was left of its riches. And the last thing I saw was the dark shadow of another dragon flying over the battlefield, surveying the destruction. I knew it was Orgerey, the Traitor Beast. It was then and there that I swore to hunt down and destroy all dragons.

  I was still the heir to Madavant’s throne and the law of the League was clear. The Black Prince sent me to Hollo, where all noble-born prisoners had their abode. Little more than a slave, I served the mages at the Academy, studying their art and cultivating my hatred and desire for vengeance. Hollo is the home city of U-Tarch the Prophet, and his followers shun those who hate their fellow humans; they regard bitterness as a great sin that is certain to bring the wrath of the Great Dragons. I learned to hide it well, but it was this hatred that spurred me to greatness.

  From a kitchen servant I grew to a young knight; I graduated from the Academy, where I had studied the long-forgotten skill of dragon-slaying. The Great Prince himself favoured me and took me in to his household. Oh, the repulsive things I had to do to climb the ladder of the decadent high society of Hollo! At long last, the Great Prince granted me my rightful title and throne; all I had to do was to win the land back from Secrey.

  The Black Prince had taken his own life a few years after the war, and without his command the armies of Secrey could not stand against the valiant people of Madavant. After three years of siege, the capital and the throne were mine. But they were not enough. I led my people north, to Secrey. Their black dragon came to meet me in battle on the muddy plain of Orvay. It fought well, but it had never met a real dragon-slayer before. It was beautiful in its death. For a moment I forgot all about my hatred. As I looked into its dying eyes, it was as if I stared into the eyes of all the dragons that had died and yet would die; the entire race gazed at me from those depths. And I understood it was no accident that had led me to this plain; it was my destiny to slay the winged beasts wherever I could find them. The black dragon understood it too.

  It was the first notch on the hilt of my sword. I knew it was an easy fight. The black dragon of Secrey was old, fat and tired. Before leaving for my next quest, I spent five more years studying the beasts — their customs, nature and anatomy, their strong and weak points. I learned what spells to use against which breeds. I constructed the Hunting Table, which tells me where the dragons are. I became a true Dragon Slayer — the only one alive.

  As far as I know, only one warrior in the chronicles had slain more than three of the beasts. I… I had lost count long ago. It is not a boast; I’m not proud of my achievement. The shoemaker does not boast of how many shoes he has made. Slaying dragons is my life.

  They know this. They can sense my coming. They try to run away, until I hunt them down to where they cannot run any more and then they try to strike first, surprise me in my sleep, like the one that killed your father. The early ones fought well — each has left a scar on my body — but now they are too scared of my name to put up a real fight. And perhaps they too know there’s no point fighting their destiny.

  This one is the last. The last on the Archipelago and the Continent. I don’t know if there are any still alive on Maichaev on the other side of the Swirling Sea, and I doubt I’ll ever get to reach the Dragon North... Once this one is dead, my life and my destiny will be fulfilled.

  THE LAST OF THE FEMALES

  The small ship sailed into a crescent-shaped cove, surrounded with steep hills. Ayaris was in a hurry. Tense, like a hound that caught a fresh scent, the Duke paced the deck back and forth until they were close enough to make a landing.

  “It’s here,” he said, “I can feel it. It’s here, and it’s ready to die.”

  He boarded a small boat. Sonnai wanted to join him, but the Duke just shook his head. She stood at the railings, clutching the dragonbone chest tightly, her eyes following the little boat as it reached a narrow sandy beach. The Duke climbed out and stood proudly at the mouth of a gully carved in the rocky cliffs by a small, swift river.

  He cried no challenge, just stood there, calm like a statue. At last, a mighty roar echoed through the gully, reverberating from the rocks and pouring out onto the waters of the cove. The waters of the river burned crimson and gold; steam hissed, and a great wind rose on the beach.

  The crew of the Astrey Breeze hid under the deck, well aware of what to expect. The Captain tried to coerce Sonnai to do the same, but she refused stubbornly again and he waved a hand in resignation before joining the rest of his men.

  The dragon came like a thunderbolt. Ayaris raised his left hand; a silver shield appeared in the air, reflecting the flame. He leapt aside, rolling from under the dragon’s foot. He jumped and, leaping from scale to rock, climbed on top of a tall boulder overhanging the dragon’s head. He drew the sword, its blade glinting in the sun. The dragon was young and inexperienced, wasting its flame on the well protected enemy instead of trying to attack him with tooth and claw. It was right where the Duke wanted it to be. Ayaris leapt one last time and landed straight down onto its back; he grasped the sword with both hands and pierced the dragon’s neck between two loose scales. Dropping the weapon he jumped down and rolled aside. The dragon roared and tried to fly away, but the violent beating of
its wings only pushed the sword further towards its spine. At last the dragon dropped back to the ground in spasms. The Duke, hidden behind the rocks, started weaving a final spell, a magic coup-de-grace.

  The dragon calmed down. It stared, not at the Duke, but beyond the beach towards the sea and the ship. It spoke in its ancient, harsh tongue.

  “Dragon Slayer… Thou art wrong. I am not the last.”

  Ayaris unravelled the spell in surprise. The dragon closed its eyes and breathed its last breath.

  There were screams and loud screeching coming from the direction of the ship. The Duke turned towards it and saw, standing uneasily on the shattered remnants of the slowly sinking ship, a slender golden-scaled female dragon. Ayaris tensed, preparing his magic, but the dragon leapt into the air, burying the small ship into the bottom of the sea with the impact of her launch and flew off.

  Even without his table it was easy to track her. The trail was still fresh. It was harder to find a harbour and a captain willing to sail so far into the dangerous northern seas. He was still in Astvar, the capital city of Magaror, when a messenger found him. The man was dressed in the red and gold robes of the League.

  “U-Tarch the Prophet wants to see you, Ayaris of Madavant,” he said.

  “I don’t have time to go back to Hollo,” the Duke replied brusquely, even though refusing the Great Prophet’s invitation was unheard.

  “He is not in Hollo.”

  “U-Tarch is here? On Magaror?”

  “You will find him in the castle, in the audience hall. Do not make him wait,” the messenger said. He bowed and walked away at the hurried pace of a busy man.

  Ayaris climbed the castle hill and the long, winding stairs to the audience hall. The guards let him in without a word. The long hall was empty, but for a throne carved out of serpents and dragons that stood at the far end.