Silver Dragon Breath - fantasy writings by Syrobe and members.

    The Shadow stirred.
    Slowly and snakelike it rose up onto its haunches and stared across the bleak and blasted skyline of its dreams, inhaling deeply of the ash laden air with nonexistent lungs.
    Its dreams had been tormented of late, and recently had coalesced into this nightmarish landscape that it could move through as if it were awake, but the visions had never been so clear, had never possessed this clarity before. It was nervous.
    Through the dull grey panorama of this dread world of ash and rock it sighted a hunched figure, clothed in black, huddled upon the plain a short distance away. Curious, the Shadow pawed its way towards the figure, its ponderous limbs leaving no tracks in the unreal ash and settled down behind it, waiting with the patience of one who measures time in centuries for the figure to become aware of it. It did not wait long.
    The figure turned towards the Shadow tentatively, as if afraid. Its flowing robes obscured its body, and a deep hood covered its face with a blackness that seemed to stretch on to infinity, shading its features far more perfectly than any mere hood should allow. The Shadow came to its own conclusions.
    "You are the one who has warped my dreams." It spoke, with a voice as old as civilisation its self. It betrayed no anger in the words, nor did it let its own fear seep through. The Shadow had seen things so terrible that no mortal could look upon them without drowning in insanity, but these dreams were entirely outside of its experience both as a mortal and as one of the Bespoken.
    The figure did not reply, but continued to gaze at it with its invisible stare. The Shadow felt its regard pierce it like a lance, unwavering observation from behind the unending hood.
    "Who are you?" It asked, letting its anger colour its words. "What are you?"
    In an unspoken response, the figure reached up with a gloved hand, and with a sharp yank jerked away its hood.
    Sudden terror, pure and lightning in nature jolted through every nerve ending in its body. It reared up to flee, desperate panic flooding the once disciplined mind like a tidal wave, but the figure reached up, grabbing its neck in a grip as strong as a god.
    The Shadow screamed, a terrible and bestial scream as the fire of the thing's burning eyes consumed it in raw agony.
    Then it knew nothingness.
    The grindstone continued its endless revolution, hungrily crushing the grains that were fed to it. The air stank; it always stank at this time of day.
    Paul had just finished cleaning the pig pens, and now he had to finish this back breaking task before being allowed to retire for the day, perhaps even being given stagnant water to drink and stale bread to eat if Stephen was feeling generous.
    He detected another familiar stink in the air, one that also cropped up a lot at this time of day too; strong ale.
    Through the scrape of stone on grain, he heard a faint crack and tinkle; a bottle breaking. As usual, Stephen had been drinking. His hatred boiled to a peak, and one thought echoed through his mind like a ripple in a pond. Perfect…
    The last war had resulted in the defeat of his hometown and the destruction of his way of life. Times had been hard, and Dwarves and Metamorphs had fled their homelands in their thousands, even a few dragons had been sighted flying westward, many bearing wounds.
    At first all was well with the sudden influx of migrants. Dwarves, despite a reputation as miners were also resourceful farmers and hard workers, and Metamorphs, being shape shifters could alter their form to whatever was required for the task at hand. When food became short the tension had started to rise. A local lord had stirred up the indigenous humans into mistrusting other species, calling them the 'lesser races', and demanding that they be driven out. Some humans argued against that, mostly farmers who had become dependant on their labour, and both sides rallied and took up arms, fortifying their towns. Civil War began, though it was never officially declared by either side.
    It was a conflict that his parents had known that their town could not survive, and so had fled into the wild hills of the north with a few of the surviving refugees, and for a short time had lived happily there.
    But that was before the king's army had caught up with them.
    Some called him the Usurper king, which was true. He was the same lord who had preached the xenophobia that had started the war. The old king died under suspicious circumstances shortly after the outbreak of violence, the new king was simply elected by the ruling mayors but the People were not fooled by this show of democracy. Rumours of bribes and threats to the government circulated until this day.
    With the capture of his farm, his parents were tortured as traitors and murdered in their barn. Entire families had been destroyed in the blaze that had torn through his village, nailed into their own homes by the callous soldiers. Centuries of traditions had burned to ash in a few hours. No one cared, no one even remembered, except the few spared and taken into slavery instead.
    Paul had been one of these. He had been young, and indeed the only memories of his village were the ones of it in flames, but the life of servitude and humiliation he had been forced to live had stoked those flames of his memory into a raging cauldron of hate. He would be a slave no longer.
    The grindstone ceased its monotonous crushing, and a small cloth muffled chink announced the demise of the chain that had held him bound to servitude for so long. Silently, he dropped the rock he had used to break the lock and padded to the cutting board, where he wrenched out the knife buried in the thick wood, where his gaze caught for a moment on his features, mirrored upon the blade.
    He was gaunt, not by nature, but was far too thin and malnourished to be healthy. Long black hair hung in mats from his head and draped down his back from years of neglect. His eyes shone from deep sockets with a smouldering rage and reflected a bestial cunning, not unlike a fox that has been too long captive and ready to bite its tormenters.
    With a violent movement he tore his gaze from his reflection, he would have time to worry about that later perhaps, but for now he had to focus on the task at hand.
    Stephen, his captor and the man who had grown fat from Paul's own labour was drunk. Like many things that happened at this time of day, the man had returned from the ale house where he lived his every spare moment. The man was seated in a rickety wood and flax chair between the fire and the door. It was his habitual position, a kind of mind game between him and Paul. Once he had tried to escape, and Stephen had taken the utmost pleasure in scalding him with the tongs from the fire; a pair of peculiar scars on Paul's shoulder were testament to this. It was to remind him that escape would be punished, and through the smoke thick air, Paul could see the same tongs glowing white hot between the crackling logs. Escape would no longer be enough.
    The knife was hot in his hand as he stood over Stephen's inert form. He had planned this moment carefully for weeks now, watching Stephens's routine, checking times and keeping track of his activities. It's only natural, he had told himself. He has destroyed your life, and now you want to take his from him.
    Despite his anger, he knew he was better treated than many slaves. Girls especially could expect harsh treatment from their masters. Many slaves were simply worked to death, but Stephen relied on Paul so he could live without ever having to work in his own farm, turning his own grindstone. He beat Paul regularly, punching him unconscious. Paul had learned long ago to bear the pain and how to mend broken bones. He could expect this treatment even for simple mistakes, but nothing worse. He needed him fit enough to work and kept him alive and unharmed so long as he did his job properly. For this Paul was perversely thankful, but it would not spare the man his justice.
    In a sudden movement, he pressed the blade of the knife against the man's throat, observing the course of a dark red trickle as it progressed down his neck like a hawk watching the fleeing rabbit, knowing that the creature's fate was sealed.
    Stephen had been a soldier in the Ironhold army, and had been present at the Wheathills massacre. A voice in the back of Paul's mind told him that the man was more than likely the one who killed his parents, the one who took his future away from him. Paul had been his reward; a slave as a gift for loyal service to the empire. All the beatings, all the injustices, they came back to him at that one moment. In the storm of emotion that raged inside, he remembered all the times he had wanted to kill Stephen, all the times he would relish slipping the knife he now held between his ribs. A treacherous voice, the voice of morality who had long been silent through the living hell screamed that the mans was human, as much as he himself was, that killing him in cold blood with no means to defend himself would be cowardly and unjust. The Rage replied that what Stephen himself had done was unjust, that he, Paul should be the one who should dispense that justice, and that all he had to do was press the knife a little harder…
    Emotion exploded inside him, and he flung away the knife, sending it skittering across the cold flags. He fell to his knees, the tears that fell from his eyes mingling with sweat that ran down his forehead. In his mind, Morality gloated in victory, flashing the thought that had crumbled Rage's vast bastions and reduced years of planning to naught. In his mind, he saw Stephen slaughtering his defenceless family as they fled, killing unarmed farmers in their homes. He spat into the fire at disgust at the thing he had almost done, and disgust that he had not had the strength of mind to see it through.
    "I won't do it." He whispered, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I won't become you"

- 1 -

Part 2

    He sat with his head in his hands for an endless moment, considering his options. He could run, but they would set the hounds to him. Staying would be tantamount to death. Despite appearances, Stephen wasn't stupid; he would figure out what happened immediately, and then subject Paul to his 'tender' mercies. Beneath the tongs, the fire crackled eagerly.
    A sharp cough from the doorway caught his attention. Like a feral animal, he rolled and snatched up the fallen knife, turning to face the hunched intruder at the door. Discovered! His blood ran chill at the thought. Punishment for attempting to murder your master was death by the Trial of the Blood Eagle, a horrific torture that ended with the victim's ribcage being opened.
    The figure framed in the doorway stepped out of the blinding light, and the obscuring aura faded, revealing the stooped form of Paul's only true friend; a nameless man called the Hermit, by general consent.
    "Put the knife down lad, you might hurt yourself." He said, hobbling into the house on his gnarled walking stick. He shot the inert form of Stephen a detesting glance, and then returned his attention to Paul, fixing him in a gaze of such intensity that Paul could not help but feel that the hawk, in turn, was being watched by an eagle. He opened his mouth to speak, but the Hermit overrode him, talking solemnly.
    "There is no need for words lad, not with me. I know what he's put you through over the years, and what you did just now, it shows a compassion for life like none I've seen for years. A great many people would say you would be fully justified in killing him, but you spared his wretched life, even after all the misery you experienced at his hand. That takes guts." Again, the piercing regard seemed to reach into the very fabric of his mind. The sheer intensity of the gaze made him shiver. "…And for that, I take my hat off to you." The little man continued, then, with a sudden motion, swept his threadbare beret off his head to reveal a mirror shining head with a monk's haircut. Despite the seriousness of his predicament, Paul couldn't help but laugh.
    "Aye, that's better, put a smile on yer miserable mug." The Hermit said, slapping the grubby hat back onto his head, grinning and showing black stumps of teeth. "Laugh it up sonny, you'll be bald one day too."
    The old man stumped over to the fire and warmed himself by its glowing cinders.
    Paul marvelled at him, thrusting the knife into the hem of his tattered breeches. Of all the inhabitants of Ironhold, the Hermit was the only one who had regarded him as human. All the other people had insulted him on the rare occasions Stephen had sent him to deliver a message, kicking him on the way past like a stray dog. No one knew where the mysterious man came from, and his eccentric attitude earned him little friends amongst the locals. Mostly he was regarded as a mad old crank, but Paul thought differently. Many times the old man had saved Paul from starvation during the cold winters, throwing food to him when Stephen tied him to the freezing grindstone and let him starve. In the brief moments he had shared with the Hermit, he had discovered in him a deep sense of logic, and had even been able to interpret some of his eccentric ramblings as scripts from ancient texts. Who ever he was, the Hermit was very well learned, and had passed much of this knowledge to Paul whenever he had the chance.
    "What now?" Paul managed to say, tears running uninhibited down his face. "What will I do now?"
    "You could always try running." The Hermit said, "Running is usually a good place to start. Though I don't think you'll get very far once they set those dogs onto you." The Hermit continued to ponder this, humming under his breath as he rocked to and fro in front of the fire. "Aniseed might be good too, a little spice only ever hurt a dog's nose."
    Taking the hint, Paul scoured the cupboards for a jar of crushed aniseed, but could find only cinnamon that would not mask his scent indefinitely.
    "Nothing, nothing I can use." He reported, slamming a cupboard door in anger. He was surprised to find that the Hermit had materialised behind him, wearing a wide grin that unnerved Paul.
    "Excellent," He said, rubbing his hands like a child up to mischief. "Now I have the perfect excuse, old Sho Hai won't be able to argue this time. And I believe I have the perfect escape route for you" The old man paced and muttered to himself in this fashion. With a sudden movement that sent a candlestick flying, he turned and gave Paul a fierce stare that made him back away, despite the fact that the Hermit only came up to his chest.
    "Are you afraid of heights?" He asked, impaling Paul yet again on the same eagle expression.
    "No, what kind of question is that?" He asked, edging away slightly. It was his experience that men who behaved in this manner tended to foam at the mouth.
    "A one that will have great significance for you at a later point," The old man said, tapping the side of his hooked nose. "Your situation is a difficult one yes, but I believe we can help each other."
    "What are you getting at?" Paul asked. Initial reserve on his part was replaced by curiosity. He had always known that there was more to the old man than his ramblings, simply because no one knew anything about him. The Hermit had always kept a low profile, yet always managed to be in the right place at the right time. Paul strongly suspected that the man had contacts, and the strange rattle of his stick as it hit the ground meant the old man had concealed a sword in the seemingly harmless prop.
    "Nothing… Nothing…" The old man said, waving a hand at him. "But I need you to listen sonny and listen carefully." The Hermit reached up and grabbed the front of Paul's filthy shirt, dragging him down to eyelevel. "Go into the woods due south of here, that's your best bet lad. Look around for a bit and you'll come to a clearing and a cave, but whatever you do, don't go into the cave lad, that would be worse for you than staying here." The Hermit's eyes bored into him again. He realised that as the old gnome of a man had been speaking, his voice had changed, changing from cheery banter to a firm and commanding tone. He realised with a start that the Hermit was not averse to giving orders, and wondered what the man had done all his life. "Wait three days lad. A… person shall we say, who I know will meet you at some point, don't mind him much. He can be stubborn at times and a bit fierce; but it's all hot air. Come back to the gates at dusk on the third day, I'll be waiting."
    Paul was awe struck at the sudden change in character of the man who he thought he had known. As his hindbrain struggled to digest the sudden and unexpected commands his mouth formed the question "What about the dogs?"
    "The dogs?" The old man laughed, cackling with a mirth that escaped Paul's foundering mental capacity. "The hounds wouldn't dare go anywhere near that place. I know it's difficult to understand, but it will come to you in time, I-" Stephen snored loudly and rolled over. His breathing increased in pace and he raised a hand to wipe away the trickle of blood that still dripped down his neck. He was rousing.
    "No time lad," The Hermit hissed through clenched teeth. "Go now! Meet me in three days now run!"
    Deep in the forest, lurking in the cave that the Hermit had instructed Paul to find, an unseen menace puzzled over the days events. Early in the morning it had received a strange perception from the one who had guarded it and occasionally talked to it. It had sensed excitement, excitement at finding something very important and a feeling that the guardian had discovered what he had suspected to be true. The collage of so many thoughts and emotion emanating from its confidant confused it, and now it sensed the vibrations of heavy footsteps coming steadily closer to its cave. Stifling a yawn, it set its head to the bone littered ground to listen.
    Paul broke into a faster run when he heard the bell tower chime its crescendo throughout Ironhold. Despite the squalor that had been his life, slaves were valuable and increasingly hard to come by. The hounds would be on him and minuet, and he could only hope that the Hermit was right about the cave. A bramble tore at his leg, opening a bloody gash but he did not slow his pace.
    This forest, named by the locals the Endless Boughs was easily the deepest one of its kind anywhere north of the Horseshoe Isles. Rumour had it that the dense woods stretched all the way to the far shore of the continent, and to the Agulas Sea. Few people ever entered the forest, and none leaved unchanged. Many went mad, or told tales of monsters howling in the night, lusting for human blood. Amongst the population at Ironhold, and subsequently the Empire "to go beyond the boughs" was a euphemism of death.
    The trees became steadily denser as he ran, and before long he had to dance between the trunks. Where he could, he kept his vision fixed upon a low dark lump on the horizon, called Cold Tor by those who even knew its name.
    Stories about the mountain were uncommon among the villagers, but graphically depicted wild beasts and the gory demise of any foolish enough to wander the lost paths of the forests. There were also tales of fantastic treasure, the last legacy of some ancient elven king who ruled these lands before it was swallowed by the forests. Paul disregarded all such tales as stories to scare children. The forest was a forest, as was the mountain only a mountain. True, wolves lurked in these woods, and bears occasionally raided the towns along its borders, but such were only beasts, not ravening monsters who sought to devour the souls of men. Nettles and twigs whipped at him as he ran, tearing his ragged clothes and skin until he was streaked with blood, dirt and sweat and he could run no longer, collapsing into the undergrowth and straining for breath.
    The dogs must have picked up his trail by now, he mused. He'd hardly been discreet in his exit from Ironhold, sprinting the length of the main street and hurtling through the town's gates before anyone could accost him.
    Now that he thought about it, he had been very stupid in choosing the main street. Anyone could have stopped him, and when he finally roused, Stephen would not have to look far to find witnesses. He kneaded the soft loamy dirt with claw like hands, considering his present situation. Food and water he would need, and shelter too, but he was too tired to seek either. Autumn was just setting in, but if the Hermit was right then he was in for only a short stay. He wondered vaguely about this mysterious character the Hermit had mentioned, and to judge from his tone and description he used, he was a close friend of the old man.
    Recovering his breath a little, he pushed himself to his feet, scanning the forest canopy for any breaches in the thick sheet of green that would mark a patch of rock necessary for a cave where trees could not grow. Spotting a likely gap, he pressed onwards through the ferns and brambles, wincing occasionally. In his panic to reach cover, pain had been a distant prospect and now that the immediate danger was over it flooded back, bringing a gasp from his chapped lips and raising a grimace. The seemingly impenetrable forest thinned and the ground became damp. As the trees and foliage thinned away entirely, the gap he had spotted in the canopy revealed it's self to be a wide, shallow stream. With a gasp, he threw himself down at the bank of the stream, cupping the precious water in his hands and drowning his growing thirst. It seemed to him that he had never tasted water so sweet, which was probably true; water at Ironhold was often tainted from mining operations and farming that occurred near the town. Around the banks of the stream he also spotted thin snaking paths in the underbrush, worn smooth by creatures as they came to drink from this stream. A closer examination of the paths revealed them to be runs made by wild pigs and rabbits, to judge by the tracks that plastered the banks. Two problems solved, now for the cave, he thought, hardly believing his luck.
    Spurred by his initial success, he hunted for the cave with renewed vigour, but several hours of checking every single gap in the canopy left him non the wiser as to its location. He began to wonder if the Hermit had finally slipped fully into his madness. As darkness began to set in, the final clearing he had sighted was unmasked from behind the obscuring trees. In the waning light, very little was visible of the clearing, but the ground was soft underfoot and nothing grew within its confines. If he had stopped to think about this, then the notion that it was unnatural would have driven him away perhaps, but his mind was sleep fogged and fatigue had taken its toll on his body and spirit. Seeking the sparse shelter of a rocky bluff at the far end of the clearing, he settled down, and was asleep before his eyes were fully closed.

- 2 -

Part 3

    Concealed by the shroud of darkness, the creature snaked its head from the cave mouth, cursing the fate that had led the human here. All day it had been tracking the movement of the intruder, hearing and occasionally smelling the lone human as it progressed through the forest. It had hoped that the human would miss its cave, having been as careful as it had been to preserve the trees that had grown upon the bluff, but the insufferable creature had found it anyway!
    Stretching its head a little further, it sniffed tentatively at the human. It was young, no older than its own age of seventeen years. It smelled blood and sweat; not all of it from the trek through the forest, and dirt too. The creature wrinkled its nose at the stink, examining it with its keen night vision. It doubted that the human knew of its existence; what little it knew of their kind it knew that they feared its kin, even sought to wipe them out. It considered killing the human, flexing its claws into the ground, but decided against the action. The only visitor it ever had was the old man who told it stories, and the man-child might yet prove to be entertaining.
    With a silken sound, it drew its head back into the blackness.
    Paul stood before the abyss that yawned before him, scratching his head in puzzlement. He had spent an entire day looking for it, and had nearly slept inside it!
    Twisted roots hung down from the bluff, neatly disguising its mouth and moss covered most of the rock face. Trees had taken root in the top of the bluff, sprouting from depressions in the rock that had been filled with soil by years of decaying leaves. Though the cave looked just like any ordinary fissure in the rock face, a strong smell of rotting meat emanated from it, along with a sense of uneasiness. Paul tried to convince himself that the smell was just a wild beast that had slipped down an opening in the bluff and met its demise, yet the hypothesis would not fit. Wolves could not scale the sheer rock face and bears would be living inside the cave. Such a strong stench could not be caused by the carcass of any smaller animal.
    What confounded his mind most however was the fact that the soft ground of the clearing was in fact a layer of ash.
    Whatever foliage had grown here had been burned by a fierce blaze, a blaze that seemed to be very selective about its victims. A near semicircle had been burned around the mouth of the cave, and no tree had grown there in a long time, something very unusual in a forest.
    Shaking his head as if to clear it of doubt, he focused on his practical needs; food and shelter. Neither would be much of a problem, but he did not relish the prospect of spending three days in the clearing. Kicking at the ash, he unearthed a large stone and weighed it. Pocketing the stone, he retraced his steps back to the river he had discovered last night.
    It was early morning, and the rabbits were just appearing from their burrows. Wild pigs foraged in the night, and rabbits would be on their menu should the two encounter. The creatures were wary, their ears pricking at every snap of a twig and every rustle of a leaf. Paul nearly scared them away several times with a misplaced step or a curse uttered in response to pain from his gashed shins. When he was finally in position, he cocked back his arm, clutching the stone and picked a target, throwing the rock at his prey. Twice he missed and three times he caught the creatures a glancing blow. The rabbits held no fear of man however, and returned to their feeding after hiding a short while. His sixth and seventh attempts landed him with a pair of fat young rabbits, after which the creatures retreated underground and did not resurface.
    The activity of skinning, gutting and cleaning the hapless creatures took up the rest of the day, and by the time the rabbits were mounted on a spit and cooking over a fire, darkness was already setting in. Shelter, being a less pressing problem, could wait for now.
    Snagging one of the cooked rabbits from the fire, he tore veraciously into the meat, juices soaking his famished mouth. He could barely eat the entire catch, being accustomed only to the smaller scraps Stephen gave to keep him alive. It occurred to him in a jolt of mental activity that from now on he would be eating meals this big every day, and that no longer would he be woken by a boot in the stomach; he would choose how and when he arose. Now that he was free so many more options than had been previously available opened up to him. For the first time he considered what he would like to do, not what he would be made to do by a callous owner. He was his own owner now.
    His hunger sated, he wrapped the spare rabbit in leaves and set it by the fire to keep warm. Operating on automatic, he piled the fire high with wood to ward off any ambitious wolf or curious bear and scooped out a hollow in the soft ash and filled it with what dried grass he could find, settling down on his back to sleep. High above him, the stars winked and shone with a brilliance he had never seen before, as though the entire sky was alive with hot coals strewn across it from some titanic blaze. Half remembered stories, whispered by the disembodied voices of his parents drifted back to him in his fatigued mind, telling tales of the creation of the world. The gods had forged the world out of rock, shaping it, giving it oceans and mountains. Legends said that the stars were the sparks from that forge, and that to this very day the world was still being hammered, heated by the fire of what the Dwarves reverently called the "Deep Places".
    It had originally been a Dwarf religious text, but when men moved to this part of the world they had adopted it as a children's story. Though seemingly harmless banter, it had sparked a series of wars between Dwarves and Elves, who believed that the god Arim had woven the world together like cloth using magic. Dragons believed much the same thing, though they argued bitterly that Arim was not a god at all, though none could deny that she had been very powerful. This in turn had sparked a war between the
    Elves and the Dragons, the two great magic wielding races of the world. The Dragons had lost, and what few of their kind that remained often raided outlying villages in the south for food, causing men to rally against them wherever they were encountered. Of millions that had once flown boldly in the skies only scant hundreds remained, all hiding.
    Religion starts far too many wars. Paul thought, his mind still buzzing with his earlier revelation. It's a good job that we men don't follow any religion as a race or there would be none of us left. With that final thought, he rolled over and fell to sleep.
    The smell of cooked rabbit was starting to grind on the creature's appetite. It only had to eat once every month, but it had become a scavenger by nature and was used to making do with what it could get or what didn't struggle too much. With practiced silence, it slid out of its lair and snapped up the bones of the eaten rabbit in its jaws, crunching them as quietly as it could manage. The human stirred slightly, but did not wake.
    It wasn't greedy. Greed got you caught, and it had spent its entire life in hiding. Getting caught was not an option, not if it wanted to reach the fabled old ages of its kind.
    It had sensed other humans today, near the border of the forest. They didn't venture very far inside, but the distance they did journey was along the same route as the younger human who now lay asleep beneath its looming figure. It was also by nature a hunter, and its instincts told it that the newcomers had been hunting the youngster.
    It examined the sleeping human as closely as it dared again, determined to uncover every last molecule of scent that might reveal something as to why the man-child was fleeing, but abandoned the attempt when the roasted rabbit smell threatened to make it drool all over its charge. A new idea presented its self, and it toyed with the concept, swaying gently on its hocks as it weighed up the pros and cons, then, reaching a decision it leaned down and placed a talon lightly on the human's forehead.
    Paul's dreams were troubled; all the injustices he had suffered under Stephen's tyrannical rule flew through his mind at an ultra fast speed. To his muggy awareness he was strangely detached of them however, as though someone else was living his nightmare and he had been cast out to watch as an observer. This confused him, and the sense that another presence was with him was strong, though through his dream-haze he was content simply to watch. As quickly as it had begun, the whirling nightmare ended, and he faded back into unconsciousness.
    "Ah…"
    The creature removed its talon from Paul's forehead. What it had seen from his memories disgusted it, and had deeply disturbed it. To think that it would have allowed such scum defile the sanctity of its forest by trespassing, especially in search of one they had tortured for so long was unthinkable, and it made a silent vow that if it detected their return that it would destroy them. With a start it realised that it was shaking, not from the strain of experiencing Paul's entire lifetime in but a few moments, nor from taking his memories into its self, but from the sheer similarity that they shared. Memories of its own brood returned to it, and it tried to suppress them before the agony of the experience overwhelmed it. That was where the two differed it mused, Paul's memories faded with time to the point that he could almost pretend that it had never happened, but its own remained as fresh as the day they happened.
    With a sad shake of its head it returned to its cave. There was no doubt in its mind now that the old man had sent him and it knew that meant that something important was about to happen. Lying down in its cave, it resolved to wait. Time, it thought, reveals all truths.

- 3 -

Part 4

    When Paul awoke the next day, he set himself about removing all trace of his long captivity. He spent much of the day bathing in the stream, washing away the years of grime and dirt with a vigour that surprised him. He washed his clothes too, soaking the garments thoroughly in the water until they were clean then donning them again lest the Hermit decide to pay him a visit. He began to wish sourly that he had taken the initiative to steal Stephen's boots, as the thorny creepers were continually pricking his exposed soles and slicing at his ankles. After he felt suitably cleansed, he ate the second rabbit, and then hunted unsuccessfully for a third. As evening settled over the land and he returned to the scorched clearing he notice strange marks in the soft ash, as though something long, thin and heavy had been dragged through the dirt, and then scuffed the trail over slightly in an attempt to cover its tracks. Arming himself with the pilfered knife, he scoured the entire clearing for snakes but found none.
    Scratching his head, he returned to the fire and fed more wood into the blaze. There was plenty of dry wood scattered around the clearing and the forest and he had come across two pieces of flint that had been weathered from the bluff that he had used to start the fire. The fire was the most important aspect. At night he had been woken several times by wolves howling in the distance, their cries seeming to creep closer with every ululation. As it had many times, doubt about the Hermit's sanity crept into his conscience. The man was hardly reliable at the best of times, and his boasts that the creatures of the forest would avoid the clearing scarcely held his fear in check through the chill nights. The discovery of the strange marks gave the creeping doubt even more momentum, yet somehow he knew that his last meeting with the Hermit had fundamentally changed his perception of the man. Somehow the visage of the humble old cripple was gone forever more, replaced instead by a powerful will that belied the frail body.
    Several minuets of careful kindling later, the fire had been stoked into a small inferno that scorched his hair and licked hungrily at the wood and turned his skin an angry red. He threw still green twigs on the fire, and soon smoke billowed from the wood as well as flames. Left this way, the fire would burn through the wood within minuets, but that was the intention. He needed smoke to keep the wild animals at bay. Wolves and snakes would be driven off by the scent of smoke, and he could relax a little come the night.
    As he settled down, sleep came no easier than it had in previous nights. He put it down to the inky black void of the cave being so close at hand, and tried to put his unease out of his mind but the nagging sense that he was being watched persisted, annoying him like an itch that would not go away no matter how he scratched. Darkness descended like a shroud, and nocturnal creatures emerged from their daytime haunts. The rustle of hogs foraging in the undergrowth and flutter of bats and owls filled the night air. He was amazed that he hadn't noticed the sheer weight of noise that darkness brought before. In the pitch black forest where sight was not use sound became viscous, almost pliable. The various noises and darkness of the night surrounded his small camp like an ocean, held at bay by the light of the fire. It was quite frightening now that he thought about it; any creature could be lurking beyond the veil of light, waiting for him to close his eyes, to drop his guard.
    I suppose this is where the children's stories come from. He thought to himself with a half-smirk. After weeks in this place people must start seeing monsters in every shadow, it would be enough to drive a man mad, which is probably why no one ever returns unchanged.
    The darkness seemed to shrink back. Now that he knew its secret, it held no terror over him anymore.
    'Darkness is simply the absence of light. The Hermit had once told him. Like light, darkness is immaterial, by its self it is nothingness in every sense of the word. Remember that.'
    From what it had gleaned from Paul's mind, the creature knew of his intention to enter its cave on the third day. It had cursed its self a thousand times over for leaving the marks with its tail when it had gone to such pains to erase its other prints. It watched the human with half lidded eyes, contemplating its next move. Flee? Out of the question, it would never surrender its home to some two legged twerp, not even if one turned up with a sword and shiny armour. Attempt to scare him away? But the old man sent him here for a purpose…
    A new thought occurred to it; what if the old man had sent him here to meet it? That did seem the most likely option at present. The human had followed much the same path as the man had used when he visited it. Even if it wasn't his intention, the human wasn't in any position to rouse a rabble to hunt it.
    Chewing a talon as it played with the prospect, it considered all the aspects, all the possible negative impacts. This was something it was good at. When you could live for an epoch and had no other distraction aside from hunting and eating you tended to start looking at things from an analytical point of view. And now it was on a diet.
    Reaching a decision, it too settled down to sleep.
    Morning brought with it a glorious dawn, though from the cover of the forest much of it was obscured to Paul's eyes. The night had gone more quietly and in more comfort than previous ones. Wolves still howled in the distance, but their cries were heading steadily southward towards the Undirra River.
    Paul stood before the cave with a mixed sense of curiosity and fear. He assumed that the cave contained supplies of some sort, but if that was the case then why had the Hermit told him to wait for three days? Perhaps it was a test of some sort...
    He had fashioned a crude torch of a stick and strips of torn cloth from his shirt, not wanting to brave the darkness. Making sure that it was properly alight, he threw it into the darkness ahead of him, where it succeeded in illuminating almost nothing.
    "That was useful…" He muttered to himself. With a sputter, the torch went out and was consumed within the inky blackness. He started forward to retrieve the torch, but with a sudden flare of fire it reignited. Momentarily stunned, he strained to see something behind the torch that looked like a stone face within the cave, but his eyes could not penetrate the shroud. He started forward, intending to snatch up the torch and continue into the darkness, but what he saw next stopped him dead in his tracks. Almost as if by magic the torch levitated into the air at waist height and shot out of the cave, landing a short distance outside. He stood, awed at the spectacle, staring at the still burning torch. Inside the cave, the darkness seemed to grow deeper and denser.
    "Didn't anyone ever tell you that it was rude to throw things?" Asked a voice that issued from the darkness like a landslide. It was deep and powerful, and its tone suggested that Paul's immediate future was not a bright one.
    Paul froze, rooted to the spot. The voice held no malicious edge however, so he risked speaking. The Hermit's words about the man he would send floated across his mind, and Paul wondered if this was the man mentioned.
    "Are you the one I was supposed to meet?" He asked, cautious but not yet afraid. The voice sounded human, but had a strange accent he did not recognise. It sounded more like a growl than coherent words, as though the speaker had only recently remembered he could talk at all.
    "That is debatable." The voice said. "If the old man sent you here then chances are you were intended to meet me, though for what point or purpose I could not imagine." The darkness seemed to shift as the unknown entity adjusted its position. It waited patiently, clearly indicating for him to make the next move.
    Paul decided to trap the Creature with words and make it reveal how much it knew about the Hermit.
    "I'm to take it you know the old man well?" He asked. From the darkness a snort not unlike that of a horse was emitted. Paul began to get a very definite sense that the creature he was talking to was not human.
    "As well as he lets me know him. He carried a sword in that ridiculous stick of his though, so I know he should be respected. I can tell from his walk that he doesn't need a stick at all. It's all hot air." Paul nodded to himself; he had reached that conclusion years ago. Whoever the Hermit was, he wasn't what he portrayed himself to be.
    "He told me to meet him once I linked up with you, since it's fairly obvious now that he intended us two to meet. I'm tired of all this smoke and secrecy, show yourself."
    From the darkness, a low and bestial snicker emanated, growing in tempo until it was a low and cruel laugh. Paul flinched and unconsciously gripped his knife. No man could produce such a sound.
    "Trust me on this," The Creature said in an amused voice, "You wouldn't want to meet me in the flesh. I know the stories your kind has of mine, and if it's any comfort my kind say similar things of yours. It is not a meeting you would be thankful for." Something flew out of the darkness and landed beside the now extinguished torch. It was a claw, as long as Paul's finger. Paul stared at it, wondering what manner of creature could produce such a talon.
    "Now I believe we understand each other." The disembodied voice said, mistaking his awe for fear. "Given the recent history our species share, an encounter would not end pleasantly, especially not since we are both armed."
    The creature had obviously intended this as a dissuasive measure, but Paul's curiosity was piqued. He wanted to know what had so obviously excited the Hermit and separate the truths from the untruths. This creature obviously meant something significant to him, and he wanted to find out what the Hermit had planned. He drew the knife, and in a swift movement tossed it to the entrance of the cave.
    "I'm not armed anymore." He stated flatly. He had hoped to catch a glimpse of the mysterious figure as it picked up the knife, but it did not take the bait. The creature remained silent for a few moments.
    "Very well," It said, "But don't say I didn't warn you."

- 4 -

Part 5

    A nose breached the darkness, followed be the rest of its head and neck. It had vaguely equine features, though every inch of its skin was covered in scales of an indeterminate colour. Horns curves back gracefully from behind its eyes, extending back over its long, lithe neck. As the rest of the creature filled the clearing, its true size became apparent. Paul measured twenty three feet from nose to tail, and wished sorely that he hadn't discarded his knife so lightly. It spread its bat-like wings with a noise like a whip cracking and yawned expansively, displaying serrated, scalpel sharp teeth. There was no mistaking this creature now; it was a Dragon.
    The Dragon advanced on the cowering Paul, examining him with its catlike eyes and stopped in front of him, lowering its head to his level.
    "I hate to say I told you so…" It said. Paul found it difficult to read its expression, but it seemed to be slightly embarrassed, or maybe amused.
    "Well… this explains a lot." Paul said, pulling himself together. Throughout history of all races dragons were renowned for being honourable creatures, but their ability to deplete the food supply of an entire village within days was much better documented, along with the unfortunate fact that a single sneeze in the wrong place could wipe out an entire district. The Hermit had spoken often of the honour of dragons, telling Paul much about their culture; perhaps he had been planning this for years…
    "Hot air eh? I should have picked up on that one." He said to himself. "And the marks in the ash?" He asked the dragon, amazed at his own audacity. He knew that the best way to talk to them without angering them was to show you were not afraid and affront their smug sense of superiority. This proved in the dragon's eyes that he had what the Hermit had not so meekly called 'Balls' and earned their respect, provided that is it had not already plastered you all over the scenery. He was even more amazed when the dragon replied.
    "My tail," It stated, "I erased the tracks my paws left, but I forgot about my tail."
    The creature shifted its weight, sitting down on its haunches. It regarded him with a calculating stare, like a fox sizing up a rabbit. "I am sorry to say that when you came here I was forced to search your mind to discover your intentions. Be assured I did not intrude into anything personal…"
    "How much did you see?" Paul asked, unconsciously searching his mind for anything that might be amiss.
    "Not much," it admitted. "I saw your name, and delved into your past to find a reason you might be here. Some of the things I saw… Disturbed me… Is it in the nature of your kind to torture and kill wherever you go?" It asked flatly.
    Paul grinned slightly, unsure if this was a calculated insult or a dragon joke.
    "That's humanity for you." He said weakly, wondering exactly what to say next. The dragon seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "If the old man asked to see us, then it must be important. We can converse in more detail later, but right now I'd like to get some answers from him and uncover the reason as to all of this." He explained.
    The dragon snatched the knife from the dirt in one of its talons. "If we set off now we can possibly reach your town, this Ironhold by nightfall," It hissed the name with distaste, "I did not delve deep enough into your mind to see if you had arranged a meeting, but I am assuming that you had this planned?"
    "I was to meet him outside the gates." Paul said, still trying to absorb the magnitude of what had just happened. A Dragon!? What was the man thinking?
    "Then let us be on our way then." The great creature said. It started into the forest, weaving in between the trees and occasionally ripping smaller ones out the ground to make was for its self.
    Some time, snapped trees and a lot of cursing about brambles later, a realisation hit Paul and he rushed to the dragon's side to enquire about it.
    "I assume you have a name of some kind?" He asked the beast.
    The dragon smiled, exposing its teeth in a gesture that would make many men spoil their pants. Paul held firm though, knowing that he had nothing to fear of the creature…
    Well, only an agonising and very briefly hot death, but he discounted that by default. He had known the dragon for nearly an hour by this time and was still alive, and from what the Hermit had told him this meant that they really liked you.
    "Yes, I have a name, though it would be impossible to pronounce in your language. The old man refers to me as Melanth. I believe it is an elvish word used to describe the play of sunlight on the waves of the sea. He was not specific however, but you may address me by that name."
    Paul nodded. What little he knew of the elves said that they were a very poetic race. Such descriptive words were common in their language.
    "And are you..?" He asked, not knowing if dragons even made a distinction.
    "I am male." The dragon, Melanth replied.
    "That's easier." Paul said, and continued on his way through the forest.
    It was totally dark when the two finally broke out of the trees and onto the main path towards Ironhold. Paul could see the gate, illuminated by watch fires on either side of the path. Even at the distance he was at, he could see that there was no one standing guard.
    "Let's go." He called to Melanth, who was hiding in a ditch.
    As quickly as he dared, Paul ran to the gates, constantly scanning the walls as he moved. Melanth followed closely behind, darting from cover to cover. Paul was amazed at how agile the dragon was for a creature his size. Most of his length was neck and tail, and he alternated between all fours and his powerful hind legs, walking swiftly like a pheasant.
    They waited for a few moments outside the gates, fearing every second that a sentry might spot them as exposed as they were in the light. The lack of guards disturbed Paul; the men on duty at Ironhold were always lax about their duties, but at least they were standing on the walls when they fell asleep.
    "Pssst! Up here!" Hissed a voice from the parapet, the Hermit. He was holding a rope.
    "I couldn't open the gates without alerting the entire town, but at least I got rid of the guards for you two." He said, cackling merrily. He tied the rope to a torch bracket that had been driven into one of the gate towers and lowered it down to Paul.
    "The guards?" Paul asked as he climbed over the parapet. With a noisy flap of his wings, Melanth propelled himself up onto the wall too, landing gracefully like a cat.
    "I doped them with a little potion in their evening brew," The Hermit said, smiling expansively. "They won't wake up for hours yet."
    The Hermit sped off, leading them through the winding maze of streets and alleys. Paul in the least was not happy about returning to this place, but Melanth was having real problems remaining discreet. When they finally arrived outside the Hermit's house it was a relief to all three to get indoors and out of sight.
    "There," The Hermit said, slamming the rickety door of what could only be described as a hovel. All manner of strange and wonderful things adorned the walls, from shrunken heads to straw dolls. The Hermit prodded the fire to a respectable size, before slumping down into a chair and observing the two from between a bridge in his fingers. Melanth curled up beside the fire and emitted a gratified noise.
    "I bet you are rather confused at the moment," He said, observing the dragon with a strange smile playing across his lips. "And no doubt you want a few questions answering. If you are prepared to hear me out in this, all will be explained but it may take some time." Paul nodded.
    "Why have you been hiding him?" He said, indicating Melanth with a pointed finger.
    "You are very sharp." The old man said in obvious surprise. "That is the first thing I was going to explain." He took a deep breath, ending it with a sigh. "Have you ever wondered why the dragons flying across our lands during the civil war were always bearing wounds? Or why our king rose to power so quickly, despite having a reputation as a ravening lunatic and sadistic murderer? Many tomes of history speak that the dragons defended us and this land during the waning years of the Fire Wars, yet we were quick to turn against them when a king who no one liked declared war." The Hermit lowered his hands and looked at Paul directly for the first time since he sent him into the woods three days ago. "I chose you because your heart tells you to do the right thing, even when you so desperately want to do what is morally wrong. Your attempt at vengeance is as much proof of this as I need lad. Trouble is brewing again, and Master Sho Hai is going to need every Dakkar team he can get."
    "Dakkar?" Paul asked; the unfamiliar pronunciation catching in the back of his throat and making him gag. "What do you mean? And who is Sho Hai? This is the second time you have mentioned him."
    "I will answer your second question first. Sho Hai is the leader of an army that is currently in residence at the stronghold of Haven some leagues to the east of here. He is trying desperately to mobilize a sufficient force to repel the army of goblins that is currently marching south to strike his position. You may have noticed that for the past year goblin attacks on Ironhold and all other towns have ceased entirely, and it has nothing to do with the king's boasting that his armies have finally driven them away. Some higher order is commanding them, drawing them together, organising them. The attacks have stopped because their attentions have been diverted to the choicest targets, but by who or what we do not know. Sho Hai is attempting to discern this, as well as to hold the tide of goblins and their allies at bay, though his resources are very limited."
    "And the Dakkar?" Paul asked.

- 5 -

Part 6

    "They are an ancient organisation of Sho Hai's native land. That is the word they refer to themselves, to most other people who are ignorant of their language they are known simply as dragon riders."
    "You mean…" Paul gasped, pointing first to the now sleeping Melanth, then to himself, and finally to the Hermit. The old man nodded.
    Paul slumped in his chair. His brain seemed to be clogged with the weight of today's events, and he could form no words to say.
    "You want me to ride him?" He said, his mind making the necessary connections while still trying to master the concept. Legends always said that dragons were proud creatures, and although he and Melanth had become fast friends on the trip out of the woods, it had also allowed Paul to gain an insight into the workings of a dragon's mind. Melanth would reduce him to a pile of smouldering ash before he would subject himself to any such indignity.
    "I'm afraid so." The old man said, turning his gaze downwards. "The situation is graver than you know. In four months, the goblin army will have amassed enough strength to overrun Haven and this entire continent! Could you imagine the calamity that would be? Millions would die, millions! If you think Ironhold of barely a thousand is big you should try to get your head around that number!" He prodded Paul firmly in the chest with his walking stick, making the blade inside rattle ominously. "It is not my place to explain fully, but this here dragon," He prodded Melanth with the stick, making the dragon growl, "Is important to the old Master in some way, which is surprising because he is the most inelegant one of his kind I have ever seen!" A Final whack of the stick succeeded in waking the dragon, who emitted a belch and looked around sleepily. "See what I mean? Melanth here was orphaned much the same as you were. His entire brood was slaughtered by the king's armies during the civil war, when he sought to purge this land of all non-humans. Sho Hai will explain to you in more depth, but the king in these lands is being controlled, probably by the same force that is commanding the goblins. Sho Hai, myself and Melanth's mother saw this coming and made plans for the day when the war would erupt fully, but that can wait to be explained later. I have another task for you two."
    Both Paul's and Melanth's heads snapped towards the old man, waiting for instruction, with varying degrees of eagerness.
    "As I said before, Sho Hai needs you two at Haven. That is your task; go to Haven and find Sho Hai. He will take over your instruction from there."
    Paul shook his head, wondering if this was all just a bad dream. Not even a week ago he was a lowly slave, grinding corn and clearing out muck. Now he was embroiled in a conflict that could affect the entire continent? If this was a story to be told around the fire of an inn it would not be credible. If it wasn't for the dragon and the strange, irrefutable look that the Hermit gave him he would have thought him a madman.
    "Melanth, you understand the situation?" The Hermit asked the dragon, brandishing his walking stick once more.
    "I understand and obey, but I am not happy about the arrangement." The dragon growled. "But I would seek those who drove my family to their deaths, as I am no doubt sure Paul does too." He continued, giving Paul a look of compassion and understanding. "If it would be beneficial to that cause, then so be it. I will consent to being a beast of burden."
    The Hermit nodded, rising and striding towards the door. He opened the draughty aperture a crack, sighting the street for patrols, then gave the all-clear and motioned for the others to follow him. Back through the winding, cramped and filthy streets he led them, stopping at every corner to check for watchmen on duty. He led them eventually to Ironhold's town centre, a large and open area. He led them both to the centre of the square. The openness of the place made the hair on the back of Paul's neck stand on edge and he knew that it was only a matter of time before they were spotted.
    "Now listen, Haven is to the East. If you fly into the rising sun you will eventually come to a river in the mountains. Follow that river; it will lead you almost directly to Haven. Now, hear this both of you," In an unexpected movement he grabbed Melanth's muzzle and Paul's shirt and pulled them close. "The Master is a wise man, and you will be needed to fight at some point. You will be trained and you will be given orders but sometimes to do the right thing, it is necessary to disobey orders and face the consequences. Sometimes it is necessary to do the wrong thing to do the right thing, do you understand?" They both nodded. "Now be off with you, and fly safely. I don't want to hear stories of people having to scrape you two off the side of a cliff." The Hermit slung a previously unnoticed pack to Paul who discovered upon opening it found that it contained a weeks worth of travel rations. Giving his thanks to the Hermit, he turned to Melanth who dropped to all fours and, offering no assistance of any sort, allowed Paul to climb onto his neck. His gaze met the dragon's, and they both agreed silently that this was an activity they would avoid as much as possible for the foreseeable future.
    "When the old man suggested this idea, I told him that I'd be a wall crawling gecko before I let any man climb onto my back." Melanth said, sighing in a very human gesture of exasperation as he shared the words privately with Paul. "Now I wonder how long it's going to be before I start licking my eyeballs." The dragon watched his every movement as he climbed onto his neck just in front of his wings. Paul, embarrassed, tried to make himself comfortable for what he knew was going to be a long and uneasy journey.
    "I must say," The dragon said in an undertone as Paul settled in. "The old man is very persuasive."
    "Tell me about it." Paul said with a wry grin. He didn't know whether to be angry or thankful towards the Hermit. The old man had rescued him from captivity and given him a way to escape, but he had also involved him in what sounded like a fierce conflict without even asking his permission. He was jolted from his thoughts as Melanth flexed his wings, the sudden action tensing hitherto unknown muscles in the dragon's back and nearly unseating Paul from his precarious perch. Before Paul even had time to give a shout, the dragon was airborne, flapping to gain altitude. Once he had reached a suitable height, he angled into a shallow dive, pulling out and using the momentum to gain even more height and speed. Paul clamped his legs around Melanth's neck, but managed to resist throwing his arms around too. The first few moments while the dragon had been stabilising his flight were terrifying but once he was ready Paul found the new experience of speed and height thrilling. It was too dark to see the ground, or else he probably would have quailed from flying altogether but when it was as dark as it was the flight was like meditation, deprived of all senses save hearing, with the steady thump of Melanth's wings as his mantra.
    "You like it?" Melanth asked, turning his head on its long neck to observe Paul. Moonlight glinted off large, white teeth and Paul knew that the dragon was grinning. "I've been cooped up in that cave for so long I almost feared that I'd forgotten how to fly. I'm keeping low because it gets colder and windier the further up you go. We should rest for a while once the sun begins to rise, and then continue when it is high in the sky; dragons have good night vision and excellent day time sight but in half-light we are nearly blind."
    Paul nodded agreement, rubbing his arms to stay the cold. The wind has a cold bite to it that cut through his thin shirt and stabbed into his flesh. He dreaded to think what it was like higher up. Looking back, he could see Ironhold in the distance, illuminated by the watch fires. He thought he could spy the miniscule figures of guards slumped on the walls and even the speck that might be the Hermit observing their flight, but put this down to lack of sleep and an empty stomach.
    The flight was relaxing, save the coldness. It was nothing like what Paul had expected, smooth and calm without arduous flapping that he had expected of a flying beast. Melanth explained that at higher altitudes, winds were very strong and cold so dragons preferred lower altitudes where the sun could still warm their blood and they could glide without effort. He discovered as they conversed that Melanth knew very little of his own kind and that what he did know was based mostly on the Hermit's teachings and inherited memories. It also surprised him that Melanth had a well developed sense of humour and an acid wit for underhand barbs. His opinion of humans was mixed, having me only a few and the majority of these being the ones who slaughtered his family. It also occurred that he was not intelligent as such, but made up for it with an animal cunning, guile and when it came down to it, brute strength. Most of what he understood was through instinct and empathy, a blending of wilderness and civilisation (all be it the shadier aspects of the last) that dumbfounded Paul's attempts to understand it.
    When the first tendrils of the suns rays crept across the land Melanth set down in a bank of tall rushes by a stream. Paul paced around a flattened area Melanth had made with his body, kicking at the crushed reeds and trying to restore some feeling to his flight numbed body. Despite the relative shortness of the journey he was nearly frozen through, and his thin linen shirt was useless for keeping out the cold. Exploring the large and heavy cloth sack that the Hermit had thrown to him, he was surprised to discover that as well as the rations it contained worn leather breeches and shirt, as well as a heavy travelling cloak. He was also amazed to discover a small pouch that, upon opening it, contained a few gold coins. It wasn't much, but it could pay for a hot meal and a nights lodging. Putting the coins aside, he searched further into the sack and drew out a thin, curved sword sheathed in leather. He thought of everything. Paul thought to himself, neatly packing the rations and other traveller's equipment back into the pack, but keeping the clothes out. That done, he disappeared into an uncrushed patch of plants and changed, emerging donning the new clothes. Melanth turned his head and studied him momentarily, and then burst into a fit of hissing and snickering that Paul could only assume was laughter.
    "What?" He said; his pride affronted.
    "You look ridiculous and smell like dead cow." Melanth gasped out between bouts of laughter. "I never did understand the human fascination with wearing animal skin, though I hear it's one of the oldest fashion statements of your kind. The old man told me you never see the rich duchesses wearing cowhide these days."
    "That's because they are rich." Paul said sarcastically.
    "I never understood that either." Melanth said, rolling over onto his back. "Dragons like gold, but that is just because it is shiny and good for attracting a mate, but if humans do not use it for this purpose then what do they use it for?"
    "We exchange it for goods and services. We use it for that too," Paul said, grinning wryly. "Men who have a lot of gold tend to attract women, no matter how old, fat and unattractive they are."
    "I have a lot to learn about your way of life." Melanth said, lounging in the nearly full sun. For the first time Paul could clearly see the dragon's colouration; Melanth's scales were a deep golden colour verging on bronze in most places. This colour deepened along his limbs, growing into a light red-copper along his paws and wings. Other aspects were also clearer in the fuller light. Smaller spines ran down the length of his back, stretching to the tip of his tail. His paws were oddly disproportionate, larger than nature intended and revealing to Paul for the first time Melanth's own immaturity. "As no doubt do you about mine." He continued, unaware of the scrutiny. "For instance, while your body stays the same temperature all the time, mine is the same temperature as the environment around it. If I get too cold, I fall asleep and die." The dragon continued, basking in the sun. "Every morning I must sunbathe to bring my temperature to a high enough level for activity."
    "Does that mean you can't go to cold places?" He asked, remembering how harsh some of the latest winters had been. He wondered vaguely how Melanth could have survived, and then suddenly remembered that dragons could breathe fire.
    "Yes, nor cam we fly too high up." Melanth said, making lazy circles in the grass with a talon. Paul shivered, remembering how cold it had been even at a low altitude. "I dare say that if it wasn't for that little flaw in our anatomy my kind would have overrun the lands long ago. Not all dragons are as outgoing and friendly as I am." He finished with a half-sarcastic grin.
    "What do you mean?" Paul asked, growing curious. Melanth shook his head, rolling back onto his stomach and flexing his wings across the ground in obvious discomfort.
    "There are certain clans that do not think as other dragons do." Melanth admitted. "Aeons ago, when humanity had only just discovered how to cultivate plants into crops, one of these clans tried to take dominance. Among their less palatable rituals were cannibalism and blood sacrifice, but sufficing to say they were not a nice bunch. They were also the biggest clan at the time which caused a few problems, as you could imagine, when we forged our treaties with the dwarf nations. The Visari clan, as they were called did not want peace. They revelled in the fighting and slaughter, and wanted it to continue so much they were prepared to slaughter their own kin, that is to say- us. The war that followed all but annihilated our kind and played a major part in our decline as a species. Dragons do not like to live as a group in any case, but the war saw the last attempt for us to create a society for ourselves and since then we have all lived solitary lives, as nature intended."
    "Why try to live together in the first place if you weren't meant to?" Paul asked, perplexed. The more he learned about dragons, the more confusing and illogical they became. Melanth shrugged; a movement that involved his wings and nearly knocked Paul to the ground.
    "All of what I know I tell you only because my ancestors experienced it, paid witness to it. Therefore I have paid witness to it, for their memories are also mine. There are many details that are missing and that is one of them. All I can tell you is that since that time we have never gathered in large numbers, except for the few places that females go to lay their eggs. I feel that this new war however will put paid to our solitary lifestyle for good." He said, sighing deep in his chest, then added grimly, "If we even survive that is."
    Seeing that the topic of conversation was weighing on the dragon's mind, Paul pointed out that the sun had risen fully during the time that they had talked and suggested that they continue on their journey. Melanth agreed heartily.
    After another shaky start, the two were on their way again, flying as fast and low as they dared. The sky was warmer during the daytime, and Paul could see the landscape for miles around; trees, farmhouses, even distant towns looked like nothing more than child's playthings and whirled past slowly, though he knew that they were travelling at a considerable speed. If it hadn't been for the intense wind and flutter of Melanth's wing membranes he would have sworn that they were still and that instead it was the world that moved beneath them.

- 6 -

Part 7

    It was three days before they finally found the river, a vast and wide expanse of water, snaking its way up into the mountains like some legendary serpent. The Cold Tor, that Paul had looked to in the distance throughout his troubled life was in fact the tallest in a range of peaks, all rising from the green sea of the Endless Boughs. The rising sun as their guide, the two had followed much the same pattern as the first day since then, hampered only by their need to stop at dawn and dusk and Melanth's need to heat his blood. During this time, Paul had mastered the art of sleeping on the move. By being careful about keeping his balance, he was able to nod off astride the dragon's back, thus preventing them from having to stop to allow him to sleep.
    He sat, mesmerised by the sight of the mountains he had long dreamed of fleeing to, knowing that for centuries, no one had ever seen them this close. He was daunted by the sheer size of the mountains, and the distance they were from Ironhold. The way the light and clouds cast shadows across the grey peaks and the brightness of the snow that capped each one took his breath away. The Cradle Melanth had called them, as some of these mountains had long ago been the birthplace of his kin. They were deserted now, save for the occasional mountain goat that bolted to cover at the sight of the dragon's shadow. Eagles circled the stony spires, swooping occasionally upon their prey and darting off to their lofty eyries. No plants grew upon the mountains themselves, and the peaks stretched off to the North and South as far as either of them could see, cloven in half by the mighty power of the river. The sheer stark bleakness of the environment held a unique beauty all of its own, enhanced and glorified by the dancing of the sun's rays. Winds were strong around the mountains, and Melanth did his best to avoid the gusts but when it became apparent that they were not going to make it through the range in a single day, the two started looking for a sheltered spot to rest.
    Paul spotted sanctuary in a small, tree lined corrie in the foothills one of the tallest peaks. The cover was sparse, but the pool was fed with a pure stream and was sheltered from the wind on all sides. It was not a comfortable place to rest, especially considering that Melanth's bulk filled the majority of its space but it sheltered them from the elements. Even to Paul's limited knowledge of the wilderness, it was obvious that the mountain air would be bitterly cold come the night. Gathering what dry wood he could find, Paul piled it at the edge of the corrie and started a large fire as Melanth took the opportunity to sate his hunger before the fatal night set in. several minuets later, he returned carrying a large mountain goat and tore into its carcass with a vigour that made Paul feel queasy, sending gobbets of hot blood and flesh everywhere. Then, gratified, he curled up beside the fire and having not slept in nearly four days, promptly fell asleep.
    Propping his aching back against one of Melanth's scaly chest, Paul quickly followed the dragon into the depths of sleep.
    He wasn't sure what woke him first, the wolves growling or Melanth's hissing, but before he quite knew what was happening the dragon had exploded from beneath him and swiped viciously at the leading creature and retreating before it could fix its jaws around his throat. Paul's hand dived into the pack and returned holding the long knife the Hermit had given him, slashing just in time to convince the wolf that had sneaked around the dragon that he would not be an appetising meal. Blood streaked the pine needles around him and the wolf retreated, minus an eye.
    Other shadowy forms lurked just beyond the circle of light, prowling menacingly. Melanth retreated, closing the distance with the fire, hoping to make himself a less viable target. Red blood already oozed from a puncture in his neck.
    "I can't see them," He hissed, keeping his gaze fixed on the pack. The wolf Paul had injured whimpered pitifully, pawing its mangled face. Two more lay dead in eviscerated heaps where they incurred the dragon's wrath. "This be-cursed fire dulls my vision yet I dare not extinguish it!"
    The pack moved in, silently creeping forwards like a grey tide of death. Several of them tried to drive a wedge between Paul and Melanth, separate the weaker so they could attack without mercy. Melanth snapped his jaws, his teeth slamming into a cage of ivory points, inches from the creature's neck, making it yelp with fright. The pack closed in, and it was a big one. Paul counted twelve wolves and who knew how many more still lurked in the darkness.
    "Can you not drive them away with your own fire?!" Paul asked quickly, his panic growing. One of the wolves had isolated him from the dragon with its body. Melanth dared not snap it up in his jaws as he had with the others, wolves grew bolder with numbers and they were all closing in. A false move might cause them to attack.
    "Nay," Melanth snarled. "I can not see you. If I were to attack with it I could burn you too, not to mention half the forest."
    "What if I were to get closer to you, so you could know where I was?" Paul said frantically. The wolf was so close that if he had wanted, he could reach out and touch its head. He dared not lash at it with his knife, and stared at it balefully. Its eyes reflected the coals of the fire; its mouth was curled into a vicious snarl.
    "Yes, but you would have be very close. With quarters this confined the fire would sweep through the entire clearing."
    "I'll take that offer." Paul said, fixing eyes with the wolf. In a blinding movement, as swept the knife at a horizontal angle, slicing neatly through the wolf's throat. Blood, wet and warm dribbled down his wrist as he vaulted the mortally wounded creature and sprinted to Melanth's side and slamming into the scaled flank like a stone wall.
    "Now!" He yelled, diving under Melanth's wing, just as the dragon began to inhale.
    When he thought back about it later, what he had seen from beneath the folds of leathery skin hadn't been fire as much as an aurous white glow, but what he remembered most was the noise. A terrible swirling roar like the apocalypse incarnate, followed by a gentle crackling of burning wood and the click of cooling stone. The wolves had never known what death had hit them, especially as it had arrived at a temperature hot enough to vaporise flesh.
    Once the rocky ground had finally solidified again, Paul stepped out from beneath the cover of Melanth's wing, inspecting the scale of the damage the flames had caused. In a wide circle all around them stones glowed red and the ground smoked foul fumes. Nothing could be seen of the wolves.
    "Is it always that hot?" Paul asked, prodding what looked like a skull fragment with his foot.
    "No," Melanth said, sniffing the ground, "But I felt I had some anger to work off. Now you know why my kind are feared so." He added with a dragon-smirk, obviously pleased with his handiwork.
    A nearly inaudible tap-tap sound reached Paul's ears, and tracing it back to its source he spied a long, bloody gash on Melanth's left haunch. Following his gaze, Melanth said "Oh, that." He shrugged. "When you started running they leapt for you, and a few for me. One of them gave me that before I had a chance to incinerate them."
    "It looks serious." Paul said, trying to gauge the wound's depth. Even for a creature as large as Melanth the amount of blood that pooled around his ankles seemed dangerous.
    "I will live." Melanth said, licking the tear with a serpentine tongue, and turning his mind to the task ahead of them. "It is no longer safe here I fear; it would be better for us to- uuh…" He collapsed to the ground like a felled tree, lying motionless and breathing hard. Reacting on reflex, Paul managed to keep the dragon's head from hitting the ground and was surprised to find him still conscious. Grabbing for his pack, he ripped off a piece of his old shirt and pressed it to the gash, staunching much of the bleeding. "It's worse than I thought I take it?" He muttered, to which Paul nodded. Through the folds of torn flesh he could see the life giving fluids spill onto the pine needles. "Damn I hate being proved wrong." The dragon sighed, laying his head on the ground.
    "I know little of healing." Paul admitted, having experience with only his own wounds. "But I can tell you for nothing that you will not live the night if I don't get this cauterised."
    "Cauterised?" Melanth asked, lifting his head to observe Paul with a suddenly cautious eye. "I don't understand that term."
    "Then learn quickly." He said, tossing his knife to the dragon, who caught it in his jaws. "I need you to heat the blade until it is glowing." Then added as an afterthought "But not so much as it goes soft or turns to liquid." Melanth obliged, and a moment later tossed the knife, its blade white hot, onto the ground beside Paul.
    "Now," Paul said, wrapping his hand in the thick leather of his flying jacket and gritting his teeth against the heat that radiated from the knife. "Brace yourself, because this is going to hurt."
    With a swift thrust, he set the glowing tip of the knife into the wound, sealing the veins and arteries shut. Melanth writhed his neck and tail in agony, clenching his jaws so tightly some of his teeth cracked with an audible snap. Paul traced the tip of the blade down the wound, sending steam and a sickening odour of burning flesh into the air. Blood that had pooled in the wound boiled and hissed, yet none more came forth. Melanth howled, no longer able to contain the sheer and total agony. The wound sealed and cleansed, Paul threw the knife to the ground and emptied his water skin onto the dragon's leg, taking the bite out of the pain. Melanth went limp on the floor, breathing hard and whimpering. The noise reminded Paul of the wolf whose sight he had taken earlier that night.
    It seemed to him wrong somehow that dragons should be flesh and blood like other living things. Until now he had been inclined to speculate that dragons were made of magic as folk lore and tales described. Well, he thought, the truth of the matter is all over my hands. He rubbed his blood-sticky palms on the remains of his shirt, examining his handiwork.
    "As if the bleeding was not enough you add to my miseries by scalding me too?" Melanth said, anger colouring his words vividly. Though his voice was weak Paul could feel the rage rising from him like steam.
    "You misunderstand. I sealed your wound and purged it with fire, now the bleeding had ceased and you need not fear about it festering."
    "Your people have strange methods of healing." He stated, calming. "I feel now that I grow strong once again. I thank you for your services, but I am not well enough to continue tonight. If you could keep the fire ablaze while I recuperate I would be twice indebted to you, thrice so if you could fetch a little water."
    Patting the dragon swiftly on the back, Paul snagged his empty water skin and made his way to the river.
    "My thanks." Melanth said, licking his lips after Paul upended the skin into his maw.

- 7 -

Part 8

    The night was cold, almost torturous. Through the night Melanth began to shudder and grow feverish, but Paul's fears were allayed when he subsided and his breathing became regular again. When morning brought its scarce respite, Paul examined the wound for a second time. In the dim fire light he had not been truly able to see its full extent, but now he could see what Melanth had had to endure. The wound was a long, ragged patch of bare skin that ran from the dragon's knee to hock. For all it was shallow and had missed the muscle, the tear would leave a permanent bald patch of gold/bronze skin where no scales would grow. Spots of blood ran the length of the gash, but scar tissue had already begun to form. Paul was amazed at how fast it was healing.
    Melanth rose unsteadily to his hind legs and stretched, spreading his wings and obscuring the sun. Testing his injured leg, he winced as the movements pulled the delicate new skin. More spots of blood formed.
    "Be careful," Paul chided. "You won't want me to have to cauterise it again will you?"
    Melanth snorted, but Paul saw a faint shiver of horror rack his frame.
    "Shall we return to the path?" Melanth suggested, changing the subject. "I long for the sky, and we have already lost much time."
    Limping slightly, he unwound and sank to all fours, allowing Paul to climb on to his neck. With noticeably less force than he usually used, Melanth flapped skywards, relying more on his wings than the initial upwards leap to gain the sky. Despite the injury they made good progress that day, crossing the remainder of the mountains and, to their surprise, finding plains of wild grass and flowers on the far side. The Endless Boughs continued to stretch away into the north. Oxen and deer grazed here, but these fled at the passing of the pair. Packs of wolves could also be seen lurking in the tall grass. Once, Melanth swooped down without warning and burned a long strip of grass concealing one such pack and nearly unseating Paul in the process. The river still cut a swath through the countryside, and like the trail of some elusive prey, they followed it wherever it went.
    Melanth had to stop often during the two days of travel thereafter to allow Paul to tend to the wound. Paul was sceptical about the healing properties of dragon saliva, but miraculously the wound remained un-inflamed and continued to heal at its accelerated pace. Some time after night finally fell on the second day the two found a rocky outcrop close to the river and made their camp there, keeping a careful eye on the surrounding terrain. Paul took first watch as this allowed the dragon to catch up on some much needed sleep, and sat for a while with his back leant on Melanth's shoulder, gazing back at the mountains they had just passed, through ever alert for danger.
    It's all moving so fast. He thought to himself. During the flights on Melanth, he used the spare time to contemplate and try to piece together what the last week had brought. Often when he woke, he was startled by the sight of the dragon and was amazed at how much weight he was gaining, even on hard, tasteless iron rations and the scant remains of whatever Melanth snagged in his claws. Earlier that day, it had occurred to him that what he had done over the last week would, if told to anyone else, sound like a child's story. He had broken out into a fit of laughing at the thought, which had left Melanth shaking his head doubtfully and Paul with a sore stomach. Most people at Ironhold would have given their arms to do what he, a lowly slave boy had done. It just didn't seem credible…
    What is to become of me?
    The thought sprang into his mind so suddenly and sharply that he nearly gave a start. He realised that he had spent so much time focusing on the life that he had left behind that he had never stopped to consider the life he was literally about to ride into.
    What awaited him in this mysterious Haven? Having only just escaped the imprisonment at Ironhold he had no wish to fight a war, no matter what its causes or its goals. If this Sho Hai was as wise as the Hermit seemed to think, then surely he would understand why Paul had no wish to fight…
    Melanth shifted uneasily beneath his weary back, thrashing his tail in response to whatever dream he was experiencing, ebony claws piercing into the ground like a cat.
    What if Melanth wanted to fight? Surely the dragon would want to remain with the last of his kin. Maybe he would wish to learn a little of his own kind before they were lost to the world entirely.
    Paul did not know if he would have the strength of will to leave his only friend and venture these strange and far away lands by himself. Despite the fact that the two were completely different species and had only known each other for days, the trials of their current predicament had bonded them together in a way that eluded description and both shared common histories and personalities, aside from a few minor differences and a few major attitude problems.
    He feared that they were now inseparable.
    Head bowed, he sunk deeply into his thoughts searching for escape from this new trap, a trap of his own creation until sleep's velvet hand claimed him too.
    Something sharp and persistent prodded him in the chest. Cracking his eyes open, he spied the now familiar reptilian muzzle shading his face through the glare of the sun.
    "Are you going to wake up or do I have to carry you back to those icy lakes we found in the mountains and throw you in?"
    "I'm up! I'm up!" Paul said, blocking the sun's glare with a raised hand while the other batted away the dragon's paw. He could scarcely stop a gasp escaping his lips as he saw the landscape in the light of the new day, everything was totally different!
    The sturdy pines and beeches he had found when he first dared the forest days ago were gone, replaced by new, unfamiliar trees recognisable even in the distance. What he had at first taken in the dawning darkness to be the same plains they had traversed the last day was something alien to him, the land was swampy and the sparse trees stood out on their roots as if on stilts. The water was stagnant and full of wriggly things, tadpoles and frogs, but less than a mile to the west was the river, ploughing its steady course east. The dragon had picked the only solid rock for what seemed like miles to land them on.
    "The plains we crossed yesterday melted into these marshes just after sunset last night." Melanth explained, seeing Paul's surprise. "The water here is safe to drink aside from the bugs, but it is foul further ahead. Fill your skin."
    "I have the feeling we are getting close to our target." Paul said, dutifully filling his water skin. "Yet I find it hard to believe we have come so far in so little time." As he said this, he unconsciously threw his gaze to the mountains they had just crossed, startled to find that they were little more than a blue strip on the horizon yet again. "How?" He asked, looking at the dragon speculatively.
    "The air above these plains grows far hotter than the forests," He explained. "When the ground is hot, warm air rises above it and I can use these to keep my altitude in flight, I can also fly faster because my blood is warmer. Though you may not have noticed, I have been flying far swifter than the fastest bird for these last few days." The dragon said, proudly puffing out his chest. "And I think you are right, I smell strange things on the wind, such as I have never smelled before. My heart beats faster in anticipation. We are close."
    After briefly arguing about the likely distance to their destination, the two were off again, Melanth making headway at a speed startlingly faster than any Paul had yet experienced. The numerous updrafts and thermals rising above the swamp made for an unsteady ride, and Paul was soon feeling sick from the constant up and down motion and turbulence. The river was clogged with debris in places and slower flowing than it had been in the mountains. A whole assortment of animals made their homes in the swamp, including an unusual creature that vaguely resembled a dragon, but swam in the stagnant water by sweeping its tail from side to side with powerful motions. Gangling species of birds that Paul had never seen and Melanth could not find in his inherited memories rose in great, pink flocks at their passing and were left wheeling in the dragon's slipstream. Slowly, the great river began to open out, expanding and cutting a crevasse in its strait flow as the land around it rose. From his perch on Melanth's back, Paul gained a unique perspective of the river and its course. It always seemed to take the easiest route through the land, often flowing around or avoiding harder rock such as granite and cutting through sandstone around the deposits and leaving a small island in its wake. In the distance to the north, the Endless Boughs were creeping back to the river now that the soil was deeper and not so waterlogged. The landscape was certainly more exotic than anything Paul had ever seen before. The forests of the endless boughs were no longer of the tall and imposing pine trees, but were instead of longer, lanky trees with wide canopies. Little grass grew here, and the ground was instead covered in soft moss and ferns. Rocky flats broke through the soil in many places, and many such deposits showed signs of having been quarried in recent years. It was the first sign of civilisation they had seen since crossing the mountains.
    "Definitely close." Paul muttered under his breath. He was becoming tense, not knowing how these people would react to new arrivals. What if they attacked? Or what if they refused to let them in? Well, they hadn't come all this way to simply give up. They would cross that bridge when it came.
    A short way ahead, the steep banks of the river and almost every hillside were covered in broad terraces, each terrace flooded with water. At this point, the Endless Boughs finally merged with the river again, the strange thin trees and fronds all too alien to them.
    "Is that natural?" Melanth asked, inclining his head to the strange, water filled terraces.
    "No, look, oxen stride in the terraces, and I have never seen land shape like that by its self. Circle lower for a closer look."
    Dutifully, Melanth tipped a wing, spilling the air from the pinion deliberately and came in at a low, steep angle, levelling out only meters above the ground. This manoeuvre startled the oxen, which fled the swooping dragon, tripping in the water logged mud. Melanth snatched up one of these fleeing creatures in his claws, swallowing the creature in three bites.
    "Peckish." He stated, giving Paul a gore stained grin.
    The dragon flashed over a ridge on the terraces, scaring yer more beasts into frenzy. Paul was startled to see people, bent double in the field and bearing baskets on their backs. They wore simple clothes, shorts up to their knees and linen shirts. They picked stems of a grass like plant out of the water, putting each one into the basket they bore. Hearing the oxen's wild noises, they looked up from their work, seeing the fleeing herd and Melanth flying low. What startled Paul most about them though was that upon seeing the dragon, they did not flee.
    One even shook his fist at them as Melanth shot over his head, shouting something obviously unpleasant in a language Paul did not understand.
    "I thought you said that your kin feared mine?" Melanth said, craning his neck back to watch the short men try to round up the panicking herd. "This is odd, they are not afraid."
    "But they do seem to be very angry." Paul said, looking back as well. The farmers, for that is what they were, were yelling some choice curse words after them. "I get the feeling that this isn't the first time that this has happened to them."
    The river was beginning to meander widely, its course taking a haphazard edge as it snaked its way through valleys and chasms. Many more of the terrace-farms appeared, like stairs for some arcane giant of legend on the side of every hill and valley wall. Communities sprang up sporadically along the river and eventually the two no longer bothered to attempt to avoid them, simply flying high enough to be mistaken for a passing bird. The buildings were strange, of an architecture as alien as the trees they were built of. The wagons of the traders who cam to Ironhold every few years selling rich silks and curious spices bore similar markings and designs. Most of the buildings had russet coloured clay roofs and light frames of wood and what turned out to be paper upon closer inspection.
    "Look at that! I wonder how their houses don't fall apart when it rains?" Paul said, pointing to a large building where a market was being held. He wanted so much to go and see some of this fascinating new land and its culture, but knew he had more pressing concerns. Melanth did not answer, merely tipped his wings in a new path.
    "Where are you going?" He said, poking Melanth in the ribs and frowning. The dragon had turned away from the river and was heading off course. When Melanth did not answer again, he kicked him, knowing that he could not do any real damage to such a large creature. Melanth jerked as if waking from a trance.
    "I smell something." He said deliberately and slowly. "It smells familiar, like… Me"
    The next think that Paul knew was that the breath had suddenly been knocked out of his lungs. When he looked back on this incident in later years, he would liken it to being struck on the back with a great hammer, but there was no pain. He could not draw breath. There was only the sensation of falling and the horrible choking attempts he made to breath, but no matter how hard he tried no air would enter his lungs. He Panicked. His lungs began to burn and his vision blurred. Melanth was no better; the dragon fell through the sky like a boneless chicken. Whatever was causing Paul to choke had already taken its toll on the dragon, nerveless wings fluttered in the wind and his body was limp. The fear and panic consumed him then, and sorrow too for he knew his friend to be dead. His flailing limbs became numb, the howling wind, cold and lack of oxygen boring their way into his flesh. His vision darkened, and he could no longer find the energy to struggle to breath. Tumbling wildly through the air, the last thing he saw before he blacked out was a great flame, beautiful, terrible and scarlet in colour, falling from the sun towards him.

- 8 -

Part 9

    Slowly, like the first lights of the rising sun, the darkness parted, revealing in its wake strange patterns, delicate lines and painted symbols, artwork that seemed to have been crafted from the finest hand with surgical precision. It came as a shock to him to discover that he was still alive. The memory of what had happened returned to him after a short while, snapping him out of his confused stupor. He was also surprised to discover that apart from a splitting headache he was unharmed. Propping himself up on an elbow he studies the room he was in, it was painted white and was hung with paintings of art styles he did not recognise. He lay on a bed, clean, and a jug of water was placed nearby. The strange, spidery writing he had been looking at was in fact a small banner that had been hung on the wall before him, along with the painting that had so captivated him. It appeared to be a dragon, but was grotesquely disproportioned; its body elongated like a snakes and completely lacking the wings that graced Melanth's back…
    Melanth! The last fateful moments of that terrible plunge came back to him in a wave of feeling so intense he feared he would black out again. By the time unconsciousness had released the asphyxiating hold on him the dragon was dead or at least out cold as he had been. A glimmer of hope deadened the sting of sorrow that had shot through his heart like a splinter of ice; perhaps his friend was alive after all!
    Propping himself on one shoulder and shaking his head to clear the sleep, he tried to calm down and deduce from the room what kind of people held him prisoner. The bed was soft and clean, not like anything he would normally associate with a prison cell. The room had been painted totally white, and a jug of water had been set beside the bed he lay upon. Light entered the room through a pair of narrow windows behind him, but the windows were facing into the sun and the glare prevented him from getting a glimpse of the landscape.
    The more he thought about this place, the less it seemed like a prison and more like a place of recovery. Not in the least to say that the door wasn't locked.
    Pushing it ajar slightly, he peered out into a corridor, scanning for signs of a threat. With practiced stealth, he slid out of the small room, quietly closing the door behind him. The corridor looked much the same as the buildings he had seen in the little towns they had hurtled past, with light wooden framework and paper spread between the slats. Other doors leading to other rooms angled off at regular intervals. From within the strange chambers, people coughed and groaned.
    Out of curiosity, he reached out and touched one of the strange paper walls, finding the paper hard and slightly coarse to the touch. As with the towns, red and gold were the predominant colours here, and more of the spidery writing was traced in neat columns on banners running from the ceiling to the floor. Bright coloured paper lanterns hung from the roof, each bearing a small, unlit candle and furnished with golden decorations. Moving further down the corridor, he came to a turn off where he assumed that the corridor would lead deeper into the building, but he had already come to the conclusion that if they were holding Melanth prisoner anywhere it would be outside, with few structures large enough to accommodate the dragon's size and it would certainly not be the best idea to put an angry fire spitting lizard in a paper building.
    Reluctantly, he wandered further down the corridor, looking for an exit to the outside. Other paths branched off from the one he tread, leading like the other into the guts of the strange, oriental building. Several minuets of wandering yielded no clue as to how to reach the outside, and Paul was rapidly losing patience. He considered smashing through the paper and wood walls, but that action would only get him discovered. He began to wonder why no guards had been posted outside the room if he was truly being held prisoner, and a few minutes later the answer to this presented its self. The steady clump of heavy boots forewarned of someone approaching. He ducked into a vacant room, sliding the door to silently just as a pair of men, carrying a third on a stretcher, marched past at speed. They wore armour, with long cloaks of different hues for each man. All three were powerfully built and wore long, thin swords on their hips. The man on the stretcher was wounded, swearing in an unknown language and clutching his stomach while his companions talked to him, occasionally laughing. The man was not too badly hurt. As they passed he shot out of hiding again, dodging around a corridor and pressing his back to the wall, breathing heavily. That had been too close…
    His heart leapt as an ear splitting roar shook the wooden frame of the building, making the delicate paper and lanterns vibrate. Paul knew of only one creature that could make such a noise.
    Daring everything, he set his elbow before him and slammed his way through the thin wall, emerging into blinding sunlight that made him squint and shield his eyes. Without guidance from his brain and knowing that the guards would be on his back at any moment, his legs carried him towards the terrible noise. He prayed that Melanth was not too badly hurt, knowing that the fall from such a height would probably have shattered his wings if not wounded him mortally. Suddenly, the land beneath him dived away at an incline causing him to lose his footing on the loose soil and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a long graze on his arm. He was mildly aware that someone had changed his clothes from the tough travelling gear that might have saved him the injury. His eyes were finally becoming accustomed to the light, and the glare began to fade from his vision. The sight that struck him left him breathless.
    An azure lake framed by a tall, rolling forest that could only be the Endless Boughs, stretching away into the distant horizon. Long ships, graceful, red-brown and golden in colour like the building were moored on a marina that thrust boldly outwards into the blue water. Hundreds of buildings found footing on the opposite shore, and to his left and right he spied four castles set upon the pinnacles of the valleys, where the river emptied into the lake and the lake in turn emptied into its valley. Paul stood at the top of a slope that led steadily down to the lakeside. As more of his vision unclouded, he could see that between each of the castles graceful arches that must be bridges had been erected. Behind him, more buildings crowded around a large, empty area. People stood there, moving slowly and gracefully through some trance-like ritual. Though it was immediately apparent to be a style of fighting it was in many ways indistinguishable from a complex and intricate dance. Buildings had been engineered into the lake side, some the same as the one he had just fled, and others of a more solid constitution; built of stout stone or even whole logs like barbarian dwellings. More men clad in black armour ran in neat ranks on a track further down that circled the lake, while on another flat area on the opposite shore even more fought each other in mock battles, charging, flanking and single combat. One of those practicing the martial arts close to him was less than half the size of a normal man and stocky of stature, a Dwarf, training alongside men and others of his own kin.
    Several of those in training turned to look at him, regarding him with curious stares but quickly returning to their activity, ignoring him in the favour of their own discipline. The same dreadful roar repeated snapped him out of his awe and brought his mind back to the situation at hand before the significance of anything of what his eyes had seen could sink in. The cry had been emitted from further down the slope.
    He was running again before he knew properly what was happening, his legs having reached the conclusion that his brain was still lying on the bed in which he woke. He could see a stony ridge at the base of the valley near what looked to be a small fishing dock. He was sure that this was from where his friend's cries could be heard and he dreaded to think what they were doing to the dragon to make him give such a terrible noise. His pounding feet faltered half way down the slope, tripping and sending him rolling and flailing down the remaining length, tearing his clothes and skin on exposed rocks and brambles. He hauled his bruised body up, spitting coppery blood from his mouth, studying the area where he had come to a stop.
    He was standing on the walkway that ran along the base of the lake. Jetties and piers jutted out in places, allowing smaller boats to be moored here. The large marina, supported by massive stone pillars extended out onto the calm surface of the lake was where larger ships were docked. Upon it, a small fish market was doing a brisk trade and the voices of hagglers and merchants rolled in a confusing barrage of sound across the lake to where Paul was dusting himself off. From what his scrambled mind could deduce,
    Another man wearing forbidding black armour, this time clad in a scarlet cloak, stood his vigil outside a cave's entrance. Paul was certain that Melanth's desperate cries had issued from here. The man was leaning heavily on the railing of the walkway and his attention was far away across the lake, apparently bored with his duty. Paul sneaked past him and quickly vanished into the shadows of the cave, hoping beyond hope that the man would not realise his presence and follow him.
    His eyes adjusting to the shortage of light, causing the darkness to retreat slightly and become less dense. Here and there holes had been drilled into the ceiling to allow circulation of air and narrow shafts of light drifted into the deepening passageway. On the floor, amongst fine sand something sparkled in this scant light with a golden sheen. He bent over, sifting through the debris until his fingers curled around one of the elusive objects, round and silken in texture. He raised it to eye level. It was one of Melanth's scales.
    The cave and its tunnels must have been some sort of subterranean dry docks, he thought. Amongst the sand, he felt wood and nails with his feet, and beneath the sand its self was a smoothly carved stone floor with metal rails set into it to ease the large ships out and into the lake.
    He began running again, following the pinpoint trail of scales down into the deeper darkness where even the paltry comfort of the ventilation holes didn't exist. M