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. Many smaller tunnels branched off from the large main one, and the fine sand was replaced by a rough grit underfoot. The air grew hot and humid, causing him to labour for breath.
    Thin crunching noises described what he suspected were skeletal structures breaking as he trod on them, rats maybe. All the while there was the feeling that he was being watched, making him turn and look over his shoulder blindly. Often he would walk into a wall or trip and fall as some unknown shadow of an obstacle presented its self. Before long he had completely lost his way in this maze of tunnels, obsessively following the path down which Melanth had been dragged. When there was no longer enough light to see the faint shine of the scales he began to feeling the deep gouges in the sand where his friend had been dragged, clinging to the hope that the dragon was still alive.
    The air became colder and stiller and he instinctively knew that the tunnel he had been following had opened up into a large underground cavern. He was reluctant to wander out into the vast, open expanse knowing that if there was a shaft then something so large could easily drop several hundred feet further underground, or that if he let go of the wall and wandered into another tunnel he may never find a way back out.
    He crawled forward on his hands and knees, ready to throw himself backwards if his hand came down into open air. The long voyage in the dark had given him some time to calm down and think, allowing his mind to alternately arrive at several conclusions and tell him how much of an idiot he was being. The first and most profound was that whoever these people were, they were not overtly hostile to him. They also had at least one magic user amongst their ranks, for that could have been the only thing to bring down a creature as large and powerful as a dragon without leaving any physical marks on Paul also. They had kept him alive, which meant that they wanted something of him.
    His groping hand found something soft and leathery in the darkness, something warm to the touch. Something alive.
    He withdrew his hand quickly, expecting some nightmarish creature to sink its teeth into him or throw him across the cavern. When no retaliation came, he reached out again, tentatively feeling the leathery surface. He traced his hand down the strange limb and encountered the rougher, harder surface of scales that ran down a dragon's wing bones.
    "Melanth, c'mon wake up!" He hissed, reaching that conclusion and growing even more nervous at the same time. The hairs on the back of his neck were raised and he was convinced that someone or something was watching him, perhaps whatever had dragged his friend down into these caverns. He stood quickly and kicked the dragon harshly in what he assumed were his ribs, but this raised no reply from the comatose creature. He groped for and found Melanth's head and, growing bolder, shouted his last command into the scaly ear.
    "He won't wake." Said a deep, resonating voice form the darkness. "Not until I release him at least."
    Paul instantly froze in terror, Spinning around and trying to locate the speaker. Too late he realised that he had become disoriented and could no longer remember the location of the entrance.
    "What have you done to him?" He asked, his anger welling and overriding his initial panic. He began to search for anything on the ground that could be used as a weapon; a stone, a sharp piece of bone.
    "It is a simple spell." The figure stated. "No permanent harm was done, of that you can rest assured, but what of yourself? No doubt you are tired and terribly confused. After all, you have travelled a long way and endured many trials without knowing truly why."

- 9 -

Part 10

    Paul was taken aback that the unknown stranger could know so much.
    "Who are you?" He asked, redoubling his efforts to search for a weapon.
    "I am a man of little consequence." The speaker said. "Indeed, my part here will be small compared to that which you will play. I am Master Sho Hai, Paul, and now I think it is time that we shed some light onto the situation."
    At that last word, a great plume of fire shot across the room, blinding Paul and making him throw himself to the floor in fright. A dim light spread throughout the room as the great plume ignited torches upon the walls, revealing the cavern to be much larger than he had anticipated. Standing in the shadows a short distance from Paul was a tall, old figure clad in white robes and bearing his weight on a staff. His wizened features could not hide the strong aura of power that rose off this man, a commanding power that spoke generations of wisdom and intellect. The man's slight features and almond shaped eyes would have put him into the annals of elven descent, had it not been for the long silver beard that grew nearly down to his knees. Behind the man, lurking in the shadows was a massive scarlet form, a dragon, the one who had given off the fire. The old man was not what Paul had expected or a man who the Hermit obviously held in such high regard. He had expected to find a younger, bolder, war eager commander.
    "The Hermit told you of me didn't he?" Paul said, studying this wizened old man, making his own assumptions. The strange twinkle in the Master's eyes was oddly disconcerting.
    "Indeed he did." The old Master said, walking slowly around him and Melanth in a circle, studying them in turn. "He seemed to think that you had some qualities that would be greatly valued here. I have to say that I am not disappointed. Not only have you ventured into the unknown to rescue your friend, a test I set to see if you are worthy, but from what I hear you have gone through a great deal and in such a short time too. It would be enough to drive some men to madness."
    "Believe me, it feels like it already has." Paul shot back. He abandoned his searching, sensing that the old man had more to say and knowing that, although far from what he himself had been expecting, it was what had been intended fro him. The old master smiled slightly.
    "Then it would perhaps ease your mind to know that for the time at least, you have my leave dwell here and study and train with us, both of you." He added, tapping the still unconscious Melanth with a sandal. "Rest for the now young Paul, you will find peace here, for the time being at least." With those final parting words, Master Sho Hai turned and walked towards the enormous dragon that had been lurking in the background. Sharing a few words with the creature, he turned once more to Paul, who was trying to regain at least a little composure in the face of a man who was obviously very important and powerful.
    "I place you in the ward of my second in command, Pattern Leader Seamus. He will show you to your lodgings and train you for the war that will invariably come. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some urgent business with a dwarf warlord to attend to." Turning, Sho Hai walked into the shadows, disappearing as thought the light its self had been once again extinguished.
    Paul stood, contemplating the short but meaningful exchange. When the Master's offer finally sunk in, he had to think carefully as to whether he should curse or cry with joy. He had his peace for the time being, but was now irrecoverably bound to the fight he had wished to avoid.
    With a sudden movement, the dragon emerged from the shadows, revealing it's self to be a massive creature of at least twice Melanth's stature and quite terrifying to behold. It regarded Paul and its sleeping kinsman with a mild interest, looking them over as a fox would a dead chicken it had found in a field. Paul cringed as it leant its long neck down to sniff at him.
    "Are you Seamus?" Paul asked, taking a chance once it had backed off and he was totally sure that it wasn't going to eat him. The great creature simply glared at him with its fearsome eyes, as though he had said something deeply offensive.
    "No." It replied simply, losing interest once more. "He is though." It muttered, indicating the yawning black entrance into which the Master had vanished with one scarlet scaled forefoot.
    The black armoured, red cloaked guard whom Paul had passed on the way in emerged, helmet in hands and his features bearing a quizzical expression. He was tall and appeared at first to be a stern man, but his features lit up when he spotted the new arrivals through the gloom. A smile curved above a short dark beard that adorned the man's face, despite appeared attempts to eradicate it.
    Paul drew a breath to ask a question, stupefied even further by the old master's speech but the newcomer cut him off in his own gruff voice.
    "So you're the new guys eh?" He asked, stretching mightily. "Sorry," He said, yawning and scratching his rump. "Old Sho Hai just tore seven colours out of me for drifting off on duty. He's a good man really, don't worry much about the little speech he just gave you, everyone gets that when they first arrive. So, what's yer name?"
    "Interesting." Seamus grinned, after Paul gave his name and, because he was unsure, his place of origin too. "So your one of the king's rebels? Consorting with a dragon is punishable by death over there I hear. That should go down nicely with most of the lads here. None of us have any love for that bastard, letting himself be controlled the way he does, but enough of that. That's the war talking, and you won't be seeing any of that for a good while yet, if Sho Hai even saw fit to tell you a little about it. He didn't?" Seamus said, responding to Paul's overwhelmed, shaking head. "Well, since you're to be attached to my squad I'll tell you a little of it on the way out of these accursed tunnels, but first it would be better if we woke up your friend here. He's bound to have as many questions as you. Later on you can tell me how you came across him. It's always an arranged circumstance, you see, how a rider and dragon meet and each meeting is unique, but they all invariably find their way here, we make sure of that. It's not efficient, but it's our way I suppose…"
    Leaning over, he places a thumb and forefinger on Melanth's nose and pinched, effectively blocking the dragon's nostrils. Melanth began to thrash around on the ground, and Paul was forced to duck to avoid his scything, whip-like tail until, with a spluttering choke, the dragon woke up.
    "I'm awake!" He choked, shaking loose Seamus' hold on his snout. Opening his eyes, he became still, once more, his jaw hanging open comically as he caught his first sight of the Commander and his enormous scarlet dragon shimmering in the torch light behind him.
    "Did I miss something?" He asked Paul in a very small voice.

- 10 -

Part 11

    The burning relented.
    The swift and total relief of Death put an end to the pain, flowing through the Shadow's consciousness like a heavy, dew laden fog. It had often wondered at this. Was this a natural part of death, or was it a part of the curse that held it bound to this plane of existence? It supposed that no one truly knew the answer, not even its self.
    As its disembodied consciousness floated through the ultimate nothingness and total blackness of the Void, a place between this world and the Deadside, it took the opportunity to analyse what it had seen in the brief second before its mind and body were obliterated. The creature that had attacked it had been a powerful being, that it knew beyond doubt; probably a demon of some sort that had breached the barrier of Deadside and saw the Shadow as a suitable host. It had probably never expected the Shadow to kill its self rather than risk being possessed…
    The Shadow felt power surge into its self, drawn from very planet its self. Sigil reformed, forming a glowing cage of purple light. Bone formed within the cage of the Sigils, intertwined with muscle and flesh that blossomed from the glowing symbols. Nerves and tendons knitted between the iridescent masses, and skin flowed over the half formed body like molten wax. The Shadow felt its consciousness torn from the void, thrust into the mind of this glowing new creation. The light from the Sigil burst, glowing into a climax as new life jolted into the new body and its heart began to thump with the Shadow's accursed life. The Sigil faded, leaving a new body, lying next to the charred husk of the old.
    The Shadow Breathed.
    Frozen breath clouded in the damp air; the blood had not yet warmed inside the Shadow's veins.
    Not even death was permanent for the Shadow, having been cursed to this life aeons ago for daring to resist the might of the Enemy. In the mortal world and its first life, its exploits were the stuff of legends. It was still spoken of to this day, even if its true name had long since been forgotten. It was the Shadow now, one of the Bespoken.
    In their day, the Bespoken had been the mightiest the great Clerics, bespoken by Arim of the gods themselves to carry the most powerful magic ever known. In their glorious name, the Clerics preformed miracles and created prophesies, all the while giving praise to the true gods. For a while, they had brought peace to the land. Then the war arrived.
    Others had grown jealous of the Cleric's power and sought to rival it for their own gain. Some had summoned demons from the abyss to strike the Clerics and their followers, but many of the demons were evil and too powerful to control. They took control of their masters, enslaving them to their vile will, driving them to raise armies with promises of glory and unity, peace and prosperity, while in secret they sacrificed the life blood of the slain to fuel their ravenous power. Other forces rallied, led by the Clerics and even Arim herself, a demigod. The conflict had been great, both sides were decimated many armies slaughtered to the last man, but in the last seconds of the final, Great battle, the dark, secret gods of the demons foresaw that they would fail and fled. The dark armies wavered, faltering and were all slain.
    The Shadow remembered that day well. As they retreated, the dark armies took captives to sacrifice in the hope that their masters would hear their pleas and return. The Shadow had been among these, wounded and weak. As a Cleric it was cleansed of the unholy ritual by its own might, but in doing so it sealed its own fate. When the demons saw that they had captured one of the true god's most devout followers, they cursed it, imbuing the very fabric of its existence with their own foul taint.
    Thus the Shadow came into being, a cursed and wretched thing destined to immortality. Its existence had outlived many of its former comrades and all those who it held dear had withered and turned to dust before its undying eyes. For the longest time it had sought death for its self, plummeting to earth, hurling its self into oceans of lava and the bloodiest conflicts throughout the aeons without fear, for death could only bring it release.
    But this creature, demon or not, was something else, something far more sinister. The demons themselves were nought more than conduits through which the dark gods operated, the ultimate opposite of the Bespoken in their glory days. None it had ever encountered had been a match for it since it had been cursed. None that is, except for this one who had threatened to break its will and enslave its body.
    During the split second that the creature had linked minds with the Shadow to deliver its agonising message, the Shadow had probed its mental barriers, searching for weaknesses through which it could perhaps deal a similar blow to the semi-mortal. Yet it had found none. To have such a perfect barrier as it had encountered would require near perfect levels of concentration, or power beyond that which even Arim had achieved. The Shadow had grown afraid, and killed its self to break the link before the demon could bring the full force of its mighty will to bear.
    Never in its long existence had it encountered such a creature, which could cut through its own mental barriers like a knife through butter and yet shield its self against its own fabled might. The sheer force of its attack had been overwhelming, crushing the Shadows mind like a troll stamping on a grasshopper.
    Scratching the stony floor with a talon, it reached out to an old comrade with its mind, something it had not done for millennia. Others of the clerical order still existed strewn throughout the world. Like the Shadow, they were immortal, though they could still perish by the sword or pestilence, a trait that the Shadow envied of them. Some of the clerical order believed that a few of the Bespoken still existed, as they were long the brothers of the Clerics before their name became reviled and despised. The Shadow mused on this for a moment, deciding against hunting out any who had served with the Bespoken. It remembered the darker, more profound side of the Bespoken, calling to mind what it had read centuries after the fall of the Alliance, in times that were ancient by modern reckoning and centuries after the end of the Great War, when such was being committed to the history books.
    After the war, the Bespoken had been divided by their loyalties. Having members of all races, when relationships between the great kingdoms had become frayed the Bespoken found their first loyalty to lie with their own kin. In the wars that had broken out between then and now, the Bespoken had fought for their own. Such was their power and sheer might that it was speculated only a Bespoken could slay a Bespoken, and so it had been that the Order had turned upon its self. Battle brother fought Battle brother; whole nations were extinguished, until finally only a few of the once proud Order remained. All sought solitude and none have emerged since.
    A cleric then, it would summon. Though the Shadow could not die, it did not relish the prospect of a reunion with its former friends. Though ultimately they could not harm it, to experience death was unnerving, if only temporary.
    Denhar? It called, searching out the mind of a cleric who it had served with. When no reply came, it probed harder using more force this time. When still no response was forthcoming it punched through into the fabric of its comrade's mind. It met no resistance, instead finding a void filled with a substance like damp air flowing through the space where Denhar's mind should have resided, not far removed from a heavy, dew laden fog.
    So, Denhar is dead. It mused cynically. Good for him.
    It tried a different name, meeting the same eerily empty fog. Another name and another mind bore the same trace. Its fear grew and it tried names at random; masters, apprentices and novices, all lost to the all obscuring fog of death. In its frenzy, it called upon every name it could think of, all those of the clerical order it had ever met or been acquainted with. This was not right! It had expected many to have perished since it last walked through the temple gates, but clerics lived indefinitely until disease or the sword claimed them. Surely some at least should still live!
    It tried still more names, people who had worked at the temple, others still who were candidates for the priesthood but had not yet ascended the Great Stairway into the temple proper, all the names it could remember, all dead.
    The Shadow wept in its lair, shudders of grief wracking its frame. It muttered curses upon its self a thousand times for foolishly hiding away, running from friends and family now long dead without explaining its reason or saying goodbye.
    What had it been thinking all these years? Drifting in the shadowy nothingness of Deadside, feeling sorry for its self and its own grievances when it could have spent many glorious years with friends and companions as long lived as its self! How could a creature so supposedly wise and mighty be so selfish? it thought. In time they would have seen past its deformed appearance, recognising beneath the skin what it its self had once been…
    It lay in a despondent heap like this, sobbing, torturing its self with memories of loved ones long dead. It wished with every fibre of its being that it could go back and revisit its past just one last time and say farewell, explain to its parents who would have fretted over it why it did the things it did and apologise.
    But it could never go back. It was centuries too late for that.
    It cried out the names of all those held dear to it, it's pleading mental voice lost to those it called like smoke on the wind.
    Makillis! Ebarot! Auzalt! It cried with renewed desperation. Why do you not answer? Are you truly all gone!? Is it possible that I am the last?
    The Shadow groaned, laying its head in its talons. For the first time, it felt old, a depressing and wearying sensation that left a strange hollowness in its chest where only moments before anguish had bred. It let its thoughts wander, recalling all those who it had encountered, venturing through the ancient temples and cities that had long ago been razed to the ground by war and the slower withering hand of time. It tried to recall any of those who may yet walk the earth; elves and dragons, the ageless races, though it doubted that any still lived. Elves themselves were subject to the ailments of the Humans, of which there were many, and any dragons who it had not already tried to contact would in their dogma, have undergone the rite of the Ki'odoso; a form of ritual suicide.
    Its wandering mind settled upon a figure, framed in the sun and half veiled by the fog of memory. When it had been young, the Shadow had remembered this novice walking alongside it a short way in the temple courtyard. They had swapped but a few words and a parting joke, but it she had been young enough perhaps to still live. From what little it remembered of this elusive companion, the Shadow recalled that she had been a promising clerical student, though had some radical ideas on how the will of the gods was translated that upset many of the elder priests and indeed many of her own kind.
    Rising to its haunches, the Shadow once more opened its mind, feeling yet again the misty obscuring shroud of fog. Its heart and hopes fell again, and in its broken hopelessness it whispered without hope of reply, Eternity, can you hear me?
    Through the fluid contact its mind held with its deceased Sister, it felt an almost untenable stirring, like one woken from a deep slumber. The Shadow's heart jolted, this was not possible!
    The consciousness became more solid, gained energy. If it were a physical form it would have rose to its feet, but the apparition existed now only in the endless expanse of Deadside; it should not be possible to contact those who had been consumed in that everlasting purgatory. The obscuring fog of death did not thin; a fact would puzzle the Shadow for some time to come. Instead, the disembodied spirit that had once inhabited the being named Eternity strode confidently through the mist, forming an imaginary half-world around its self in which it gave everything that was metaphorical of death a physical form. The Shadow felt a mirror image of its body condense around it, and found it's self to be standing in a marsh, the thick mist still pervasive and preventing it from catching a clear glimpse of the un-dead Eternity. She remained concealed within the mist, a greyish blur against the shapeless white smog that formed the barrier between one world and the other, yet she stood so close that the Shadow could have reached out and touched her. The Shadow realised that in a similar way to which the Demon had created a dream world where it could torment the Shadow, so had Eternity created one in which to commune with it.
    I hear you, whispered a ghostly, resonating voice.

- 11 -

Part 12

    Paul lay on a bed, curled in a tight ball as agony convulsed through every nerve ending in his body. He attempted to roll slightly to one side, but that action only sent further prangs coursing into his stomach. He groaned, trying to recall how this had happened.
    "Damn you Seamus." He muttered aloud, a sentence he had been repeating now in his head for about half an hour like a mantra. "I told you that the armour was too stiff…"
    Well, it had started as a normal day, if he had counted any day in the two months since fleeing Stephen as normal. It was a routine he and Melanth had been following ever since their arrival at Haven; weapons practice at first light to get the dragons accustomed to fighting while blind and their riders accustomed to dodging misplaced paws, tails and in extreme cases, streams of liquid fire. That was all well and good for him; Paul had quickly discovered a hitherto unknown talent for the use of a sword.
    Well, a long wooden stick shaped like a sword, but the principal was the same yes?
    Then they had eaten breakfast; rice… again, and beef with that strange and spicy sauce dripping all over it. That was good too, and so was the hand to hand practice immediately after that and the survival skills after that but perhaps the next exercise had not been the best…
    This time it had been squad practice, where their squad trained as a unit rather than with every other soldier at Haven, an exercise meant to build relationships in a squad and improve teamworking abilities- as well as their combat skills of course. It had started as always with Paul and Melanth sparring against each other, a contest Melanth always won with impunity, though to Paul's credit Melanth had left the arena with a large bump on his head today after getting cocky and pinning his rider to the ground while examining a female dragon in their company. Paul had taken the initiative and clouted the dragon while he was distracted.
    Then they had split up and moved along to join new partners. Not surprisingly, humans chose to pair with other humans and dragons simply having a mass brawl as were their way of war and alehouse punch-ups.
    Paul had paired off with Darnell, a boy about his age who, like him and three others in the detachment, had been redshirted in with some of the most elite soldiers in Haven in the hope that they would gain experience quickly, and perhaps learn some of the less chivalric tactics of warfare. They were training with experienced men after all, and experienced men generally made a point of living long enough to become experienced.
    The lad was of a rather shy nature and to Paul's eyes seemed to have only just broken the habit of hitting the other man's stick and not the man himself. After about half an hour of sparring, they had again broken off and found new partners. This time Paul had partnered with Seamus himself, who was in command of his detachment along with his dragon; the large red beast Paul had spoken to on his first day here by the name of Sol. Though Seamus could have easily beaten him hands down, they had practiced with a series of intricate and complex parries and thrusts, Seamus all the time commenting on Paul's performance, alternately praising and rebuking him on his technique. At this point Paul had found that the armour he had been given (also paper, but soaked in resin until it was amazingly thick and as hard as stone, while still being incredibly lightweight) restricted his movements. Seamus explained, while simultaneously delivering him a crack on the knuckles, that the leather straps that held the plates together would stretch the more he used it and become more flexible with time. Then he hit him on the head.
    Sweaty, aching and covered in bruises, Paul had then reluctantly moved on to his next partner; another redshirt called Aélynth who, from her name and accent, had arrived from somewhere south of the Horseshoe Isles. Her grasp on the use of a sword was shaky at best and Paul could tell that she was more suited to a bow from her elegant movements, but in sheer dirty fighting she completely outmatched him, making him sorely regret underestimating her. Her knowledge of what Seamus referred not unkindly to as "Art of the Elbow" was exquisite. This may or may not have had something to do with the fact that Aélynth had spent three days previously sparring almost exclusively with a man called fondly 'Grabber' Jameson, one of the most renowned and feared pub brawlers in Haven.
    Whatever her tuition, the movement of her stick had been fluid, precise and unerringly accurate. It had operated without input from her brain, arms moving on automatic, lifting her stick directly into Paul's groin.
    He had seen it coming, but because of his stiff armour he had not been able to move fast enough to block the blow and it had connected full force, sending him to the ground like a felled tree. The entire squad had helped him once more to the recovery building nearby and had, very gently, lowered him onto the bed. Despite the embarrassing predicament he doubted that he would be the butt of any jokes. Just ten minutes later he had been joined by Darnell, knees curled to chest in a similar state of uncompromising rigidity.
    "I'm so sorry!" Aélynth pleaded to them when the exercise was finally over. "I don't know what came over me, it was like my arms moved without me telling them to!"
    "That's Jameson for you." Darnell muttered grimly. "No matter what it is in his hands, sword, cudgel, cosh or even a spoon I heard, it invariably finds its way into your ba…"
    "How are you doing children?" Seamus asked jovially, making his presence known, having listened to the banter from the doorway. "I hope you will be able to continue training with us tomorrow, we're doing bow practice and I don't want you to miss it."
    "Give us a couple of weeks and we might just be able to walk again." Paul grimaced. He relaxed slightly and another lance of pain jabbed through him, making snap his knees back to his chest which resulted in even more pain. "Just make sure Jameson doesn't teach anyone any more little tricks like that."
    "That's nothing." Seamus said, grinning widely. "Just be thankful he didn't teach her his grab twist and pull number."
    "Please, sir." Darnell pleaded, screwing up his eyes. "Were in enough pain without having to imagine that too sir."
    This raised a mighty guffaw from Seamus.
    "All is fair in love and war, but mainly war though. I expect to see the pair of you on the grounds first thing tomorrow as usual. Rest well."
    It had been six weeks in total since he had first rushed madly from the house of healing and been escorted out of the caves by the commander of the armies at Haven himself. Now that he found himself back in the same building, in the same bed he took the time in between groans of pain to compare what he had felt the first time, and what he was feeling about his predicament now. The first time, he mused, he had not known if he was facing execution or imprisonment. What he had experienced was terror, both for himself and for Melanth. What he was experiencing now was mostly pain.
    It was the morning and Paul made his way out onto the training grounds walking slightly stiffer than usual. A long row of straw filled sacks nailed to poles were stuck into the ground in a row stretching from one side of the field to the other. Similarly, the soldiers were lined up standing a short distance back, a bow at the feet of each with several arrows stuck in the ground beside it. Seamus gave a small speech detailing various techniques and strategies for the new arrivals, but the older men stood to attention letting their minds wander; they had all heard this a hundred times over.
    Across the valley from them, the dragons were similarly lined up. Their targets however were man sized standing stones, and the ground around them was charred and blackened. Many of the stones themselves having a slightly slumped shape that suggested they had been melted many times and then cooled again. Other soldiers too, non riders were drilling across the lake on the flat area near the keep where he had spied them when he first beheld Haven. They were simulating a full scale battle. The vast majority of the soldiers at Haven were not riders, there being far too few dragons to undertake the role. Paul and Melanth trained only with other riders and dragons. Paul had imagined Haven to be a joint alliance of equals between riders and dragons, but this was not so. Riders were either drawn elite from the ranks of the regular forces or arrived already partnered to a dragon, and were a select few amongst Haven's armies. Of nearly ten thousand soldiers at Haven, only two hundred were riders and these were the men Paul, Aélynth and Darnell trained with every day.
    A barked order brought his thoughts back to the task at hand. Following the instruction the commander had given them, he picked up the bow in his left hand, fitting an arrow to the string gingerly with his right. This was his first experience with a bow, and though he already knew the basics from weapons practices, he knew his skill with this weapon to be lacking. His first three shots missed, embedding themselves into the ground to either side of the target. His fourth hit the mark, but the arrow lacked the sufficient force to punch through the tough canvas cover and this bounced off. His remaining four shots fared better, all four embedding themselves deep in the sack, three of which would have been fatal. When everyone had ceased firing, he went to retrieve his arrows, surprised to find that the target to the right of his was a veritable pincushion of feathered darts, all of which would have killed the hapless target. Aélynth walked over to the sack and deftly twisted the barbs loose.
    "Where I come from," She explained, grinning at Paul's amazed expression, "The women are allowed to hunt too. I have been shooting a bow all of my life. Sorry about yesterday by the way, are you any better?"
    "Um, yeah, much thank you." Paul said, still transfixed at the precisely perforated target. He felt a second, involuntary twinge of pain at the reminder. "Who taught you to shoot like that?"
    "My father," Aélynth explained. "He was one of the best shots with a bow this side of Agulas." Her expression hardened, her gaze fixing on her arrows. "He taught me everything he knew about bows. Then, one night when he was patrolling our walls a group of trolls attacked. Because it was dark, he could not see where he was shooting, and they killed him… that was right before I met Casanac…" She murmured, wrenching herself back to reality. She indicated a green, silver speckled dragon across the valley from them. Paul instantly knew that this dragon was female, though he would have been hard pressed to explain his reasoning as dragons had no distinguishing features. She was slightly smaller than the surrounding males and was breathing a long stream of fire over one of the stone targets, making it glow white.
    Paul returned to the firing line, once more unloading his quiver into the targets. Now that he had a better feel for the yew construction he held all his arrows hit the target, although not all pierced it. In the end, he scored a gratifying total of six hits, four fatal, a score that did not significantly improve as the exercise progressed.
    Seamus called the exercise to a close, allowing them respite to fill their stomachs and soothe their calloused fingers. Paul linked up with Melanth and talked about the days events so far. It occurred to them that although the term 'Dakkar' translated directly in to the phrase 'riding team' they had not yet fought as a pair, only against each other.
    "I don't get it," Melanth said as they walked. "They want us to be able to function as a team, operate as a single entity yet they will not let us fight together. What gives with that?"
    "Because," Said Seamus from behind them, making them jump. "You must first learn to operate as individuals and not depend on your team mate too the extent that you can not function without them. What if your partner was killed? Would you, in that situation be able to survive a battle or escape from behind enemy lines?"
    "Melanth would," Paul said. "But I doubt I would be able to." He confessed, seeing the reason in the isolated training.
    "How can you be so sure?" Seamus asked, grinning. "You will be surprised to hear that it is more often the rider who saves the dragon's life than the other way around. Though Melanth may be physically superior to you in every way, he does not have the ability to predict a possible attack, nor can he as one being fend off the sheer numbers of enemies you will encounter by himself. A rider sits in one of a dragon's only vulnerable spots at the base of its neck, protecting it from attack. Without this kind of protection, our casualties would be far worse than the have been."
    Seamus moved off to talk to recruits further down the line, and Paul and Melanth resumed their idle chatter. Despite training together almost every day they had had very little chance to catch up with each other in the nearly six weeks since arrival at Haven. Melanth had taken to sleeping in the woods surrounding the main fort or on the roof of the barracks, whereas Paul had opted to stay in the barracks with most of the other man-sized species and soldiers living in Haven.
    They had both been surprised to discover that Haven its self was an entire city and the garrison where they were trained and housed was but a tiny part of it. At weekends they were allowed respite from the arduous drills and endurance runs, though Seamus had advised them to keep their weapons and armour on them at all times in case of an attack. As a part of being redshirted into Seamus' personal unit, they were expected to accompany them into the fray with the rest of their squad; a technique designed to get rookie soldiers experience quickly in time for the impending conflict.
    Paul had quickly overcome many of his initial reservations about this new life. Their entire day was spent in training, something that Paul had been reluctant about at first but had quickly came to enjoy once he became familiarised with his new comrades, leaving him no time to reflect and ponder. Within days he had been accepted by the team, and now happily shared in the jokes, chatter and learning about his new friends.
    What had surprised him most was the similarity he shared with many of his new squad mates. They all seemed to share similar backgrounds; many had lost their families or had unwittingly stumbled into this mayhem. A great many that arrived here came from Paul's native land, but the variety of people here was immense. Dark skinned traders from across the sea came in ships with tales of goblin hordes and never left, whole families had come from the infamous Circle of Cities to the south seeking a better life and had inexorably found their way here. Paul had even spotted barbarians from the great southern plains and tribesmen of the desert clans when he wandered the city in his free time. They were not difficult to miss. Barbarians went nowhere without their wolf skin; a trophy of an initiation rite, and the tribesman seemed to be permanently clothed in their distinguishing white garbs.

- 12 -

Part 13

    Not all the inhabitants were human either. Clans of hill dwarves still lived in lands around Ironhold, even if knowledge of their existence in that besmirched land was little mort than a rumour. Many of these had found employ as smithies and craftsmen for their fabled metalworking abilities, though to ask one about these skills and they would insist it was merely a hobby. But perhaps most annoying and quizzical feature of Haven was the Metamorphicates.
    Paul had first encountered one of these strange half-cat half-human creatures on his first day here, though he was not aware of it at the time. Metamorphs were shape shifters, and it had alarmed him quite considerably when the attractive young lady at the barracks canteen had suddenly sunk to all fours and grown teeth and fur before asking gruffly "Are you going to have rice with that?"
    Seamus had warned him to beware of them. They had something of an affinity for mischief, and were infamously known as petty thieves and troublemakers wherever they went. Few of them actually fought for Haven and those that did were mainly employed as spies, but a large population of them existed here nevertheless. Their shape shifting abilities made them invaluable for manufacturing work as they could take on any shape suitable for the job required, though in Paul's personal opinion their judgement of which shape was suitable was poor. He often puzzled this fact while picking fur out of his bowl of rice.
    While their mornings were spent training the body, their evenings were spent training the mind. Most of the new arrivals had a neglected or incomplete tutorage, a department that Pattern Commander Raoul took over.
    Raoul was Seamus' younger brother, and possessed much of his sibling's humour and tenacity, though was somewhat shorter tempered and tended to curse a lot. Together, the two were Master Sho-Hai's right and left hands in the running of Haven and the preparations for the war to come. Sons of a little known merchant, they were fearsome warriors who had previously spent their entire lives living by the sword and complimented each other perfectly on the field of battle. From what little he had gleaned of them, Seamus was directly in command of all ground forces while Raoul handled aerial operations for Haven's notably small dragon population.
    Paul had learned from John, a veteran soldier in his squad and rider of a sunset coloured dragon called Horizon, that Haven had already been involved in several skirmishes against the massing goblins to the north, all of which were resounding victories with none or few losses.
    But it looked like things were turning bad. Raoul had disappeared two weeks previously on an intelligence gathering mission, leaving Sho-Hai to personally take over their lessons. When he returned, Raoul's face had been grave, and he had an arrow wound in his side. His words with his brother and Sho-Hai had not boded well, and Paul had been lucky enough to overhear a brief part of the exchange before it moved to more private quarters in which he had caught the words 'Hellwings' and 'too many of them'.
    He was puzzled as to what this meant, and had been about to ask John but the look on the veteran's face stopped him. The man looked like he had seen a ghost.
    "Are you still awake there?" Melanth asked, poking Paul lightly with a hard talon.
    "Yeah, just thinking. You did know that our company pulled guard duty on the roister tomorrow?" He asked, to which Melanth nodded.
    The two walked into the canteen building, a stouter building made of stone because it also served as the fort's bakery. Delicious smells wafted out from behind a counter, and a large pot of boiling rice was hung over a fire. Paul had quickly learned that rice was a staple in this part of the world, and that the terraces he and Melanth had seen on their way here were where the small white grains were cultivated. The various mixtures of rice, vegetables and meat that were on selection were filling enough, but even after a relatively short time Paul longed for food less alien to him. His stomach craved hard crusted and solid bread, red meat off the bone and the 'unknown' stew that had been a traditional dish in Ironhold, giving a fair approximation of the town's culinary sense. The name 'unknown' was derived from the fact that Ironhold's inhabitants had long ago learned not to ask as to the ingredients, surmising that there are some things that a person is better off not knowing.
    He joined the end of the queue, filing into place behind an unknown guardsman and accepting the bowl that the Metamorph proffered to him.
    He took a seat with the rest of his squad and was joined shortly by Melanth, who was viciously tearing into a leg of raw mutton; a sight that all soldiers had learned to avoid fastidiously whilst eating.
    Scanning the faces of his comrades, he sighted Darnell, Aélynth and John. Others of the eight man squad pulled up chairs next to them; Osuoli, a physical giant of a man who had to duck or risk knocking himself out on the ceiling, Trent, a man of a short stature who was known for his equally short temper, and Suyvetho- a former nomadic plainsman whose name no one could properly pronounce. All three were arguing about something and seated themselves, Osuoli making the bench on one side of the table sag and groan alarmingly under his weight. Trent snatched up a fork from the table and began using it to describe a series of parries and thrusts that he had used in a battle with a goblin, to which the other two laughed heartily and told him he was a liar. Usually they stopped their rambunctious joking when Seamus walked in and took his place, subsiding into an amused silence occasionally punctuated by grins and sly looks at each other that would have given the impression they were continuing their discussion telepathically if he hadn't known it to be impossible.
    "Kids these days eh?" Aélynth often whispered in his ear, making him suppress a snigger or risk choking on a mouthful of rice. Besides himself, her and Darnell, the other humans in their squad were all over thirty years old. Melanth attracted some curious glances, having to lie almost splayed on the floor because of the ceiling's height. Though there was no actual rule about him being forbidden to enter the canteen, Seamus had mentioned that it would be more appropriate if he were to dine outside with the rest of his kin. Melanth had ignored the request, snorting derisively and stating that he would go wherever Paul went. Paul however took Seamus' side in this matter. It was simply too undignified for a commander to trip over an errant dragon's tail. Twice.
    Seamus himself was very agreeable and had never had to reprimand any in his squad, and the habitual silence that perpetually followed figures of authority seemed not to take any hold in his presence, but as he entered the room fell silent. His face was haggard looking and something was clearly weighing on his mind. It was a shock to Paul to see the usually lively commander in this state, resembling very much his brother when he had returned from the scouting mission, even though the two looked nothing alike in appearance. He ate silently, focussing on his bowl and not really tasting the food. Darnell seemed about to ask him something, but a stern look from John kept him silent. Around them, the entire hall had fallen silent too.
    "Perimeter duty, first light tomorrow. You all know the drill." Seamus said roughly, picking up his bowl and leaving. For several moments after he left silence remained, then slowly nervous whispering started, hissing around the room like wind through a tree's branches.
    "What was that about?" Paul asked John, his voice growing louder slightly as he realised there was no reason to whisper.
    "Something bad has happened lad." John said, shaking his head. "I've only once seen him like this, and that was after our third company was ambushed and half the boys killed. I recon it's something to do with his brother goin' out on that mission last month…" He relapsed into a thoughtful silence, his face stern.
    "I overheard them say something about Hellwings." Paul said, probing for more information, hopeful that his companions might reveal something. He was alarmed when once more the table went silent, his squad mates gaping open mouthed in horror. Aélynth and Darnell did not pick up on what had so obviously affected their comrades, and appeared to be just as confused as Paul.
    "Are you sure they said Hellwings?" John said sternly, grabbing Paul by the shoulder and flinging him around roughly. Around them other tables had fallen silent again.
    "Yes! Is that a problem?" He asked, growing worried. He had never seen them act in this way. No one replied however, and he the saw men grow pale and turn away from their food, amongst them were Osuoli who had a stomach and apatite to match his enormous stature.
    Behind then, a soft thud could be heard. It was Melanth; he had dropped the bone he was gnawing on, staring open mouthed into space.
    "More of a problem than you know lad." John said sadly. "If you want to know more about those fiends then I suggest you ask your scaled friend here. I've neither the place nor the spirit to tell you of such things." He stood up and left followed shortly thereafter by Trent and his group. Behind him, Melanth sighed and shook his head, retrieving his mutton bone and tossing it listlessly into a bin. The dragon unwound from his half crouch and shouldered his way out of the door before anyone could accost him, taking wing with a whip-like noise.
    Paul looked at his remaining three friends, silently appealing to them for any information. Aélynth shrugged, Darnell shook his head slowly, just as puzzled as Paul.
    Melanth did not take part in any of the later training, nor did he attend evening lunch or the lessons thereafter. Paul was worried about this strange behaviour, but he dared not ask anyone as to the nature of these mysterious Hellwings or risk provoking the same reaction as he had triggered in the canteen. Paul sat in a concerned silence throughout the evening period. The look on Melanth's draconic face had been hard to read, but Paul had come to know his friend well enough to read even the more subtle expressions. He had detected anger and shame, as well as a hint of fear. Whatever it was that had struck him so, Paul was sure he would not relinquish the information without a fight.
    When they were finally dismissed from study, instead of returning to the barracks as the others were doing, he struck out into the fading sunlight with a grim determination in search of his friend.
    "Wait!" Aélynth called, stumbling rapidly up the track after him, followed closely by Darnell. "We want to help!"
    "I don't think he'll want to talk about it, especially not to anyone except me." Paul said, perhaps being blunter than he intended. Aélynth looked briefly affronted, but quickly composed herself, folding her arms across her chest.
    "Well in that case just let us help you find him," She said, her voice pleading to Paul's concern. "It will be too dim for him to see soon, and if it grows too cold he might not be able to make it back to shelter by himself."
    "And how do you propose we find him?" Paul snapped, his chagrin rising. Melanth's erratic behaviour worried him, and the reaction from even the veterans in that hall had spooked him. Strangely, he felt like a child who was being reprimanded for some unforeseen slight without ever knowing what wrong it had done. Aélynth pointed skywards.
    "Reinforcements." She grinned, white teeth flashing in the fading light. The now familiar swoop and crack of wings became audible above the thin canopy. A pair of dragons angled into view, flying low over the treetops, heads swinging from side to side seeking a glimpse of their estranged kinsman. The green and silver scaled Casanac swooped suddenly, holding her wings stationary on the critical upstroke and seemed to float for a moment before landing gracefully, with barely a flick of a wing to slow her descent.
    "Beat that!" She called to the still hovering Storm, a larger than average grey coloured dragon who was partnered with Darnell.
    Storm angled in, mimicking Casanac's acrobatic showing-off, seemingly uncertain that his ponderous bulk was capable of imitating the feat. He held his wings frozen in the upstroke as Casanac had done, but unlike her his weighty frame did not seem to hang in the air for a brief second, and instead fell to the ground like a brick, leaving the embarrassed Storm sprawled in the centre of a dust cloud.
    "We'll make an acrobat of you yet." Casanac laughed, hauling Storm to his feet. "So," She said, turning her attention to the three humans, "Melanth has done a runner?"

- 13 -

Part 14

    She sat and listened while Aélynth explained what had happened, wincing when she heard the mention of the Hellwings. Darnell wandered over to Storm and helped him brush off the fine coating of dust he had acquired after his fall.
    "I know little of them." Casanac said once Aélynth had finished her story. "My ancestors segregated themselves of the doings of others, living wild in the mountains. I have no memories of such creatures and know them only by repute."
    "Then perhaps we should find one who does." Paul said, growing angrily impatient. "We should begin our search now, it is nearly twilight." Casanac and Storm agreed to sweep the land from the air, being able to smell their quarry and knowing his likeliest haunts. Paul, Aélynth and Darnell trudged through the forest, occasionally calling Melanth's name. From the ground they stood little hope of finding him as Melanth was a proven expert at remaining concealed. The sun was setting fast, sinking below the skyline and framing the hive of buildings that was Haven city with a golden halo. Paul had never yet seen the magnificent city from the sky, something he had promised himself the first day he had wandered the web of streets. From the ground, it seemed to stretch on to infinity, a veritable jungle of trader's stalls, pagodas, smithies and shops of all types. All the buildings in Haven had a strange and beautiful architecture, be it the spindly paper constructions of Sho Hai's people, the immense granite bastions the dwarves had erected or the massive walls and bridges that stretched all the way across the top of the valley, an artery to the city's other half across the valley. Despite the massive differences in the craftsmanship, culture and purpose of the various dwellings and places of business, they all fitted together in a pal-mal arrangement that seemed almost as if the cities architects had intended it, in the same way as a green piece and a red piece of a jigsaw will eventually come together to form a rose.
    A plume of red fire roared into the sky further ahead of the trailing three, a signal that he had been found. Paul remarked at the speed in which the two had located him as they broke into a run towards a small tributary of the great river which drained into the lake. As the trees cleared, they saw all three dragons on a small sandy beach by the bank of the river. Water cascaded over boulders half sunk in the river bed, creating a thick foam that was carried away on the rapid flow. A small waterfall poured its contents into a deep, cold pool further down stream, the fading sunlight casting a golden sheen over the rippling surface. Melanth sat, facing Casanac and Storm, his claws extended and ready to fight. The other two circled him, like hungry predators waiting for a sign of weakness. Though they would not harm Melanth, they were not prepared to attempt to restrain him when he was ready to fight. Melanth was larger than many dragons his age, and had the strength to match.
    "Stop this!" Aélynth shouted, rushing into the clearing and putting herself between the two opposing parties while Paul and Darnell caught their breath. "We are here to talk, not fight like brigands!"
    "I don't want to talk about it!" Melanth hissed violently. "Too many bad memories, ask one of the others!"
    "We already tried that." Paul sighed. "They told us to ask you."
    Melanth relaxed his stance, settling to all fours and digging his claws deep into the sand. Casanac and storm relaxed visibly.
    "I will not speak of it." He said, closing his eyes, wings sagging. The others knew that his defiance was a futile gesture and he would tell them anyway now that he was cornered like helpless prey.
    "They are evil things, tainted and foul beyond reckoning. They are what became of the Visari clan after the Great War, sinking deeper and deeper into their foul rituals and blood stained traditions. The foul spirits of the abyss took them into their palms, changing them, sending them into a permanent state of the bloodlust that afflicts all dragons so badly. Such a fury knows no bounds, has no limits. Wherever bloodshed and carnage goes, they follow close behind." He spat into the long grass, burning a clump of it to a crisp.
    "It is not to be unexpected that they should throw in their lot with the northern armies. They hate us you see, hate all dragons and those who defeated them when we first met on the field of battle. At every turn they have sought to destroy us, turning our allies into enemies, raiding our nesting grounds and the like. It is perhaps only fitting that we fight them once again, here, and the last of our dwindling kind against their frenzied hordes…"
    Melanth's voice drifted off lost to the gurgling of the river and sigh of the winds. He was shaking, and not from the cold that was stealing over the forest like an icy hand.
    "Why do the men of Haven fear them so?" Paul asked, walking forward and standing before the shaken dragon. Casanac reached forward and placed a paw on Melanth's wing, comforting him.
    "They fear them for our sakes." Melanth said, almost whispering. "They could not hope to kill all the men in this world, but they are determined to see the last dragon blood-eagled before the alter of their gods. There are no longer enough dragons to repel them when they fly out in full force. Their kind has thrived while ours is almost gone now, and quite probably they will have their wish."
    He shuddered once again, wrapping his bat like wings around himself in a vain attempt to keep warm. The sun was almost set, and the air was becoming chill.
    "We should go," Paul suggested, seeing Casanac begin to shiver too.
    Storm took to wing, leading the small squad out of the forest. Aélynth and Darnell took the lead, Aélynth sitting astride Casanac's neck while Darnell slogged on foot beside the two. Paul and Melanth drifted further behind the three, both walking with their eyes cast to the ground. Paul was angry with the dragon, feeling shunned that his closest friend could not impart such information to him. Melanth was ashamed, or worried. Who could tell? A dragon's expressions were hard to read.
    "How long do you think we have?" Paul asked, breaking the morbid silence.
    "Months," Melanth replied, not lifting his gaze. "Years maybe, if we're lucky. They will need to lay down provisions for their forces first, and then probably fly out to soften us up before the main assault starts."
    The two walked on in grim silence some distance further, silently agreeing to speak of the subject no further.
    "You know what annoys me most?" Paul said in a sudden, unexpected spate of anger. "This business with the Hermit; he told us that you had some memory that they needed here, and no one has spoken about it yet. We were tricked!" He slammed his fist into a tree trunk, perversely annoyed that his armour stopped the blow from hurting. Pain was the only thing in the world at the moment that didn't have a hidden agenda or kept secrets from him…
    "Perhaps not," Melanth interjected. "We were placed in Commander Seamus' personal squad, which means that they want to keep an eye on us for some reason. Aélynth and Darnell too, though their reasons are different from ours. Aélynth is an exceptional bow man- woman sorry!" He corrected himself as Aélynth shot him a dagger filled glance. "As the case may be, and Darnell and Storm share a symbiosis few riders have. Have you ever noticed that they seem to think as one?" He asked rhetorically. Paul cocked an eyebrow at the big lizard.
    "Since when did you become the voice of reason?" He jested, letting his anger melt away. He patted Melanth on a heavily muscled shoulder, caressing the scales and admiring their silken slickness to the touch. The dragon had a point.
    "Since you stopped being one." He retorted.
    The group walked back along the dirt track, past the three forbidding walls and into Haven's fortress. Paul had always wondered why the city had three walls, and especially why the outer wall was the smallest and the inner wall the largest. He was told that this was because an enemy who breached the largest wall first would only have an easier job breaching the other two, but an enemy who had to work his way up, progressively losing more and more men with each successive conquest and knowing that his job was only going to get harder would quickly be demoralised.
    All three walls were built of stout stone and were a solid physical representation of the cooperation that existed between the species in Haven. It was the first lesson every new arrival learned; that their defence and very survival depended on the coexistence that simply did not exist anywhere else in the world. All three mighty walls had been designed with Dwarven precision, hewn with the labour of humans and could have only been assembled on such a grand scale if not for the great physical strength of the dragons.
    Soldiers of all species patrolled the walls day and night, constantly on the lookout for any foe. Towers extended from the walls at regular intervals, and catapults or ballistae were mounted astride each of these fearsome parapets. Thin collapsible walkways connected each wall to the one behind it as a final strategy of escape should the first two barriers be breached. The third, innermost and mightiest wall fairly bristled with armament and was wide enough to accommodate dragon guards upon its length as well as smaller beings.
    "C'mon," Melanth said, tossing his head. "Let's see if we can get some last minute grub before the canteen closes up?"
    The canteen was already closed by the time the two arrived, and it was growing late in the day. Paul and the unlucky squads slated for perimeter duty would be on patrol from first thing in the morning until they were relieved at midday, and then return to their duty until dawn after a brief reprieve.
    Paul returned to the barracks, a darkly lit but by no means dingy building. Others were already returning to their personal rooms inside the complex, the building having originally been a communal home of a sort during times of emergency. Shoulders slumped, he slouched into his assigned room and yawning widely, shook off his armour before hurling himself into bed. As he lay, drifting into sleep, he heard a faint scrabble of claws on the roof as Melanth took up his roost with a few others of his kind, huddling in the warmth of the blazing watch fires. Most of the dragons who lived in Haven took up refuge in the woods or the abandoned dry docks Paul had stumbled through in search of Melanth, but a few felt some unknown need to remain close to their human companions. Or maybe they just liked to be near the fires…
    "Sleep well." He wished the dragon before drifting into sleep himself.

- 14 -

Part 15

    Dawn came, and the loud crash of a gong from the building's central courtyard had the unerring effect of waking all the occupants with a start. Even after years of being woken up to the same crescendo, no one could ever hope to get used to the incredible din. A loud thud and impolite language from the room next to Paul's paid testament to this single, annoying little fact. He retrieved a bucket of ice cold water from outside his room, where a Dwarven janitor left one every morning and splashed some of the stinging liquid on his face to wake himself up. He stripped off and washed briefly before putting on clean clothes throwing his dirty ones into a communal washing basket as the same dwarf pushed it down the corridor. In the mornings it was a veritable dance to grab your bucket and throw out your old clothes before the irate creature went on his rounds. Be too late and you missed him, be too early and he had a vindictive habit of slamming his trolley into the ankles of sleepy soldiers, eliciting a series of yelps and curses wherever he went.
    Paul often teased the bad tempered sod by deftly pulling his foot behind the threshold of his door just as the little cart shot past. He made a point of not hearing the grumpy old dwarf hiss "Drat!" under his breath before returning to his room. He buckled on his armour. A sudden voice made him drop his wooden training sword.
    "Ready yet?" Casanac asked, snaking her long serpentine neck through the window and studying the half dressed Paul.
    "Do you mind?" Paul asked, embarrassed at the dragon's attention. He pulled the sheet of his bed over his torso to conceal himself.
    "Why do you bother with clothing?" She asked curiously, sniffing at one of Paul's gauntlets that was lying on his bed. She cocked her head to watch him better.
    "Some of us have a modesty to preserve. Nor do I have scales to protect me like you do you great lizard!" He pushed her head back out of the window "What do you want?"
    "I'm here to tell you to get your lazy butt moving." She said nonchalantly, angling her head through the window once again, but this time to lap up the remaining water in the bucket. "No, actually this is just a social call, I wanted to see how Melanth was doing after last night."
    "You like him?" Paul asked innocently, strapping on his breastplate.
    "No!" She said, spluttering in the water. "Well, yes but… you know what I mean!" It may have been Paul's imagination, but the green scales on Casanac's muzzle and cheeks seemed to turn a deeper shade of green. "Seamus says to report to the quartermaster before you are due for duty." She continued, becoming flustered. "You are to pick up your real weapons today." With those final words she dropped from the window, landing in the street below.
    Half an hour later, Paul found himself standing outside the armoury building, in an orderly line with Aélynth and Darnell. The three talked quietly, wondering what the day had in store with them. This was to be the first time that they were to be issued with real weapons, and they could finally discard the wooden sticks, and both Paul and Darnell were eager to try out true steel, followed by a much less enthusiastic Aélynth. Suddenly, the wide doors of the armoury were opened with a flourish, and a tall, bearded and heavily muscled warrior not too dissimilar to Osuoli in stature stood in the frame.
    "Come in, come in!" The man boomed. "Ah, I suppose you are the new lot eh? Follow me."
    The three exchanged amused and worried glances, and then quickly followed.
    Racks upon racks of weaponry and armour form all over the known lands stretched across every free surface of the walls. The weapons seemed to be ordered in their nature, with chains, flails, morning stars set aside on one rack. Swords, daggers and dirks occupied another, and spears, staffs, sword poles and pikes occupied an entire wall to themselves. The quartermaster pulled up a small chair on a table stacked high with various implements of death, many unrecognisable in nature.
    "Now," He said, looking at the three through a bridge in his fingers. "What can I do for you hmm?"
    Almost immediately he stood back up again. He walked over to one rack and extracted from it a bundle of objects; swords.
    "You two," He said, indicating to Paul and Darnell. "I suppose you're destined to be swordsmen eh?" He sniffed, indicating to the bundle he had placed on the table. He loosened the buckle, opening out the fabric to reveal several swords inside, as well as a number of daggers and other sharp objects.
    "Haven, standard issue," He said proudly. "Fresh out of the forge last night."
    He picked up one of the swords in its scabbard and spun it effortlessly in his meaty hand, first horizontally, then vertically. With a final flourish, he drew the sword and drove it into the table with a single motion, lodging the weapon half way through the thick wood.
    "Impressive, eh?" He chuckled, seeing the threes awe filled faces. "They're a Dwarven make, perfectly balanced. Have an edge like a scalpel and more force behind them than a sex crazed dragon." He laughed. Paul agreed fully with the quartermaster.
    The weapon looked dangerous, even without the demonstration. The blade was long and thin, sharp only on one side and perfectly strait. The normally metallic blade was painted night black, the same colour as the armour they all wore. Because of the relatively few soldiers at Haven, their mantra was surprise attacks, ambushes and hasty, well organised retreats. They preferred stealth to brute force, making the enemy operate on the terms they dictated and never allowing them to rule the battlefield. Paul and Darnell took a sword each, and the quartermaster augmented their equipment with a pair of daggers of a similar design to the swords. He showed them how to buckle the swords across their backs, attaching one dagger to the belts on their rumps and the other to the front side of the strap that held their swords on their backs.
    "And you missy," The big man said, having sorted Paul and Darnell. "I dare say you would make a fine archer if ever I saw one." He paced the length of a rack of bows, muttering to himself. Finally selecting one, he pulled down a short bow of a curious make and painted green and brown. He passed it to Aélynth who spent a moment examining the weapon, then let out a gasp.
    "This is amazing!" She cried, holding he bow close to her like it was made of solid gold. "It's one from my native land!" She explained to the two boys who stood aghast.
    "I thought you'd like it." The quartermaster said, folding his arms across his chest with a wide, stubbly grin. "You seem suited to such a weapon, the way you move, your stance. It is my job to outfit new guys like you with weapons best suited to yourselves, a man learns a thing or two when you have been in this line of work as long as I have. I'm not surprised that you and this bow share the same home"
    He reached up onto a shelf and extracted a coil of what seemed to be wire. "Here," He said, tossing it to Aélynth. "That catgut string is not half as pretty as that bow, or you for that matter," He grinned even more widely if possible, Paul got the impression that if his grin got any wider, the top o his head would fall off. "But it's the best I have. You might want these too," He tossed a small package to her, which contained a pair of sai daggers. "Just in case you get caught up in any close quarters action."
    Bowing in thanks, the three ran full tilt to the canteen and snagged a bowl of rice each, the Metamorph at the counter complaining loudly about queue skipping and impudence. They wolfed down their paltry breakfast before dashing off again, back to the fort, arriving just in time as Seamus inspected his squad, taking their places at the end of the line. The commander looked the better for a night's sleep, but his features still bore the weighted expression that had silenced a whole hall of feasting soldiers. Paul relaxed slightly when Seamus approached Darnell at the end of the line, and a slow smile spread across the older man's lips.
    "Your breastplate is on back to front." He stated, moving on back down the line.
    Several minutes later, Seamus marched his troupe up onto the outer wall where they stood ready, waiting for instruction.
    "We are your relief," He said, reciting the ritual greeting to the squad on duty. "You may take your leave.
    "A most welcome relief it is," Replied the aging sergeant, saluting smartly. "The keep of our safety is yours."
    Seamus arranged each Dakkar pair in the squad atop one of the towers that protruded from the walls, ordering them to keep their watch and man the siege weapons atop each spire. Paul was content to sit and stare out over the deep, blue lake and its bustling marina, watching the coming and going of the ships and carts. His position also offered him a good view of the training grounds where the others were undertaking their morning practices and a long view over the lush vista of the Endless Boughs to the mountains that were scattered across the horizon there. Melanth climbed atop the catapult Paul was propped against and spread his wings wide to take in the sun's early rays, humming to himself and occasionally whistling like an oversized bird.
    Paul had rarely had a chance to simply sit still and observe the working of the city its self, the coming and going of carts and people of all cultures. From the cities elevated position on the valley and his own perch on the wall, He could even see out to some of the outlying settlements that surrounded Haven, though at that distance men and oxen alike were little more than indistinct blurs to his vision. A large group of the people native to these lands approached the city, driving cattle before them on the way to market. Men from Ironhold would perhaps have shunned them or worse, attacked these people because of the differences in culture and appearance. Like their master, Sho Hai, these men led a disciplined life and had thin cat-like features that reminded Paul of Elves he had seen in pictures scattered around the place. During the first weeks he had spent here, he could not help but feel that he was pushing these natives out of their own city somehow, almost like he was invading the sanctity of the peace they had here and polluting it with his uncouth ways, but the sensation had quickly passed. Haven was a centre of trade and commerce between species and nations and because of new arrivals such as him it found the protection it needed and it prospered.
    Melanth yawned mightily and absently scratched his neck with a hind leg.

- 15 -

Part 16

    "How are we suppose to load and fire this thing if were attacked?" He asked, thumping the catapult that was his perch with his tail.
    "We're not. We just watch for trouble." Paul said, still lost in his thoughts. He had seen the catapult crews practicing a few days earlier and had determined that it was most definitely better to be on this side of the wall.
    "Right, its just one of those guys on the way to market down there was one of the ones I spooked when we first came here…"
    At noon they were given a temporary reprieve to eat lunch, for which everyone was grateful. Paul rubbed his rump where it had gone numb from hours of sitting on the hard wooden catapult.
    "I hate guard duty." Trent said through a mouth full of rice. "Up all stinking night in all weathers and not a word of thanks!"
    "Especially in the winter," Osuoli affirmed with a grunt. "Bloody snow everywhere and the winds are so cold you can't feel your bal-"
    "If you think that's bad, you should try being cold blooded in the dead of winter." Melanth snorted, tearing a chunk of raw steak to shreds.
    After the short break, they returned to the wall for the second half of their duty. Melanth seated himself on the battlements, peering out over the expanse of the forest and occasionally snapping at passing butterflies. Paul returned to his state of waking sleep, letting his mind expand and wander without input from his consciousness.
    The sun began to set once again, casting its long shadows across the land and enveloping it in darkness. Briefly, a man appeared with a tinderbox and fuel and lit the watch fire, to which Melanth sighed gratefully and reclined against the glowing metal.
    Suddenly, he stretched his head high into the air, sniffing.
    "What's wrong?" Paul asked, cocking an eyebrow at the dragon.
    "You haven't just farted have you?" He asked, eyeing Paul suspiciously.
    "No!" Paul said, his dignity affronted. "Why? What do you smell?"
    "Nothing just thought I did for a second…" He replied and sunk back down onto his belly.
    Paul lapsed back into his blissful daydreaming, only to be disturbed yet again moments later by the distinct slap of footsteps on stone. Paul stood up, suddenly alert, his hand automatically falling to his sword. Aélynth came into view, out of breath and weapon in hand.
    "There's trouble!" She hissed. "Seamus wants us back in the main courtyard on the double!"
    She took to heel again, Paul following close behind. Alongside him, Melanth matched his pace with his own loping gait. The three clattered down the wall's steps and fell panting into line along with the rest of their squad.
    "There is a small party of goblins just beyond the range of our archers." Seamus said in a hushed voice, wasting no time in making the seriousness of the matter clear. "Third time this week they've got this close to the walls. Seeing as it is we are the ones on duty, it is our job to dispose of that scum before they have any time to report back." He grinned evilly in the darkness. Trent cracked his knuckles, Suyvetho loosed his sword from its scabbard and Darnell coughed nervously.
    "Mount up," Seamus ordered. "And give them hell."
    Without a word, Melanth crouched low and extended a wing to help Paul climb aboard. Though their current line of work would inevitable lead them to fighting as dragon and rider, Melanth had outright refused to accept a saddle, stating flatly that he would rather keep his dignity. Initially, this declaration had chagrined the other seven dragons in the squad, not in the least because they had all accepted saddles and were very proud creatures indeed, but Paul had averted a confrontation by agreeing to accompany Melanth into the fray bareback despite the incredibly high risk of falling or being injured.
    "Ready?" He asked the dragon, patting him on his neck.
    "Let's go!" Melanth cried, leaping to the sky with a powerful movement. Paul wrapped his legs around the dragon's neck and lay flat to reduce as much drag as possible. He relished the sensation of flight once more, the sense of weightlessness that made his stomach leap, the intense pressure of the cold wind on his face. What was more was the bond that he shared with Melanth, a bond that was renewed each time they took to the sky together; a bond of ultimate trust, friendship and cooperation.
    Flying like this made him feel alive.
    Melanth banked gently, careful not to make any sudden movements that might unseat Paul.
    "I see them!" He hissed. "But barely! This dim accursed light fogs my vision! You will have to guide me!"
    "How?" Paul roared over the howling wind. He was not sure his voice would even carry the plaintive cry in the wind, let alone barked orders. Melanth obviously heard the question however.
    "As you would a beast!" He spat. "Kick my left side to go left and my right to go right! Lean away or against me to indicate up or down!"
    Steeling his eyes to the wind, Paul detached his helmet from his belt and shoved it onto his head, the metal visor giving him a little relief from the icy air and stopping the air from being rammed down his throat. He deftly kicked the dragon on his left side, lining him up with the dark, indistinct fleeing shadows that were the goblins. Leaning forward slightly, he urged the dragon into a shallow dive, taking him directly over the retreating group and skimming low over the treetops.
    "Are you sure you know what you are doing?" Melanth cried as branches scraped and slapped against his belly.
    "Trust me!" Paul yelled, leading Melanth in a wide arc, trying to drive the goblins away from the forest. Once more he urged the dragon into a dive, parallel with the tree line this time. Through his visor he selected a target; a straggler, thundering after the main group but hampered by what appeared to be a sprained ankle. When Melanth was about thirty feet behind the foul creature he drove both his heels into the dragon's sides, shouting "Hyah!" as a torrent of fiery death shot forth from Melanth's jaws, engulfing the luckless foe and two of his team mates from the main group.
    "I'm not a horse you know!" Melanth shouted after emptying his mouth of the remainder of the burning liquid.
    "Sorry," Paul said, grinning shyly. "I just got carried away."
    He urged Melanth back around for a second pass, passing Aélynth and Casanac as he did so. The two worked as a team, Aélynth splitting a small group off the main one with her deadly rain of arrows and Casanac eliminating them with her fiery breath. Darnell and Storm shot overhead of the rest of the trailing group, executing a steep dive and pulling up at the last moment, landing ahead of the group, hoping to cut them off from the ground. Paul noticed that the older men were holding back, watching and not attacking. They wanted the rookies to have this battle, to get their first taste of real combat. He could faintly hear Seamus from Sol's back shouting encouragement to the swooping six.
    Melanth made another pass, but Paul's aim was off and the dragon only succeeded in crisping a strip of long grass. Casanac dropped lower, snatching an enemy up in her claws and neatly breaking its back before tossing it amidst its fellows. This act seemed to disgust Aélynth, who stuttered in her rain of feathered shafts, but quickly recovered. The goblins were retreating again in the face of Storm, who ploughed towards them like death incarnate spewing fire and fury. He seemed to be herding them towards the older riders, but they pulled further back denying the offer. Paul and Melanth took advantage of the situation, this time scorching five with a single pass and igniting the grass. He urged Melanth around again, approaching from the opposite side and sandwiching the survivors between himself and Darnell. Seeing that they had nowhere to run, the goblins made a final, desperate charge at Storm, who sent them flying like tenpins with a swipe of his tail. Darnell impaled another on his sword, giving the dead thing a horrified look before Storm lurched forwards, dislodging the corpse.
    The goblins scattered, rendering an aerial attack almost useless, especially with the added risk of hitting Darnell and Storm. Paul urged Melanth to the ground, helping the dragon direct and coordinate his limbs for landing.
    "Are you sure this is wise?" Melanth asked, as a goblin close to them ran towards him brandishing its sword, something totally out of the dragon's experience. "I can't see him!"
    "Turn sideways!" Paul commanded, reaching up to his back and drawing his black-bladed sword.
    "What are you thinking?" Melanth shouted, but he complied.
    "That it's time for some close quarters combat!" Paul shouted pulling himself high on the dragon's back. The goblin leapt at Melanth, swinging its broad bladed sword in mid air and bringing it down on the dragon's scaled neck with a dull thud. The enemy, who had from the air appeared to be little but a human shaped shadowy blur appeared to Paul in all its gruesome glory. Paul's heart lurched treacherously, and his hand hesitated in the downwards stroke that would have decapitated the creature. The training he had gone through, all the morale building that would have had him believe he was ready for combat wavered as he beheld the face of his enemy. In the thing's poisonous yellow eyes, he saw insane fear, a terror that knew no bounds, and more, he saw his own reflection in the shine of its eyes.
    His face bore the same expression as the monsters.
    The terrible visage was torn away from his gaze in a sudden, violent movement. The huge, meat cleaver like sword the creature had swung at him in the split second he had hesitated swished over his head, and at the very same moment as the goblin emitted an inhuman, ear splitting shriek. Melanth's jaws applied their full pressure where they held the monster by its torso, splintering ribs, cutting off the scream as black blood poured in rivers out of its lifeless mouth.
    "Pah!" He spat, flinging the corpse out of his teeth with a twist of his head. "It will take me hours to lose that taste!"
    As if waking from a dream, Paul examined his sword which he still held as an unfamiliar weight, bloodless, in his hand with an unbreakable grip. He reached up and felt the top of his helmet, fingers teasing into the scratches where the blade had shaved the armour, then looked at the spot on Melanth where the monster's sword had bit into his friend. The scales were unbroken, but dark red blood seeped between them like a crimson river. Paul shared the dragon's pain.
    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another goblin rise out of the long grass with rapier in hand, raising the weapon to stab Melanth in his soft vulnerable belly.
    Paul did not hesitate a second time. <

- 16 -

Part 17

    The black bladed sword sung a smooth note as it lashed out, neatly separating head from trunk and sending the former spinning into the grass. The headless body collapsed with nearly no noise, settling into the dust. Consumed with new emotions, Paul raised the weapon high into the air knowing forever more that he would hate it more than any goblin, more than he even hated Stephen, and knowing also that it was a part of him now as much as his heart, as much as the arm that wielded it.
    Shining blood glinted gloriously in the setting sun, but the battle was not yet over.
    "To Storm, Melanth!" He shouted, adrenalin pumping intensely through his system, making his blood burn. "Darnell is being overrun!"
    Melanth darted into his shambling sprint, drawn without Paul's guidance to the smell and roaring of his kin dragon. Paul's mind remained fixed, devoid of any other thought. The goblins wanted to kill his friends, friends he could even go so far as to call family, and that made him Angry.
    His second victim never even saw him coming and was run through from the back. Melanth's jaws snapped up his second, shaking it like a dog then tossing it aside as a child would a rag doll. Paul's third saw him, and had time to raise its sword in defence. Paul batted away the horizontal swing with his own blade, then brought it around in a circular arc and slashed its right side open. The goblin fell to the floor where Melanth stamped on it with a taloned hind leg, then wiped the mess off onto the grass.
    Darnell too was fighting back. Nearly fifteen dead enemies littered the ground where he and Storm had slain them with sword and claw. Paul briefly wondered what had possessed them to come to ground when they would have been safer to stay airborne, but then remembered that they did not want to completely destroy the grassy scrub. A downwards vertical slice put paid to another enemy, hot blood spattering his face. Another and another charged forward to be decapitated and hewn by his sword, the sweeping and deadly motions of Melanth only adding to the chaos. A roar that sounded out over the fields finally stemming the mad, desperate attack. The goblins fell back, running as fast as they could.
    The more experienced teams were moving in, picking off the routed goblins. They knew that they had no chance as soon as Melanth too had landed, and had scattered, madly dashing in all directions seeking escape from the inferno and furious dragons. The dwindling group that was engaged with Melanth and Storm broke ranks and retreated, fleeing after their comrades. All four were too tired after the brief but bloody mêlée to give chase, though Melanth sent a final spray of liquid fire after them, encouraging them to seek new employment. Casanac landed nearby and wandered over to them with a tired gait, Aélynth sitting tall in the saddle with an arrow knocked and ready.
    "What a party." Storm muttered, covered in small wounds. He then sunk into the dust.
    Seamus and Sol came to land near the fatigued group, dismounting smartly and walking over to the six with a swagger in his step. Paul did not recognise the look that the commander bore on his face, but whatever it was, it was definitely akin to vengeance or, perhaps pride.
    "Good work," He said, pushing the hewn body of a goblin out of his way with a boot. "This was your first taste of some real action, and I'm not disappointed with your performance. You are truly a pride to Haven."
    A weak cheer was raised from the tired six.
    "I though you said this was only a small group?" Paul said weakly. He felt sick with his own actions and in desperate need of a bath.
    "For goblins that was a small group." Seamus said, grinning slightly and reached out to ruffle Paul's sweat streaked hair. "I counted thirty al together, two teams of fifteen, but I doubt goblins know how to count." He apprised the bedraggled group before him, some innate part of him recognising age old symptoms.
    "I know you all feel sick," He said, directing his words particularly to Paul and the pale green Darnell. "Everyone feels sick after their first battle, it's only natural. To this day I still throw up after a major fight, mostly because I remember all my friends who were slaughtered at the hands of this scum," He kicked the goblin's corpse. "I start getting worried when someone doesn't feel ill, because that means they enjoy the killing. A man like that can be just as dangerous to his friends as his enemies."
    He cast another look over the group, noting that they could at least make eye contact this time. When next he spoke, his voice had an unusually brittle, commanding edge.
    "Don't spare the goblins any sympathy, because they don't feel sick after their first battle."
    The dreams came that night.
    Seamus had relieved them early from their duty, seeing that they would not have been able to continue throughout the night. The replacement squad cheered at them as the two parties passed on the steps, patting them on the backs and congratulating them with much shaking of hands. "You are part of us now" They seemed to say. "We are all brothers in arms here."
    All six of them had treaded numbly to the barracks, the humans wandering into the maze of rooms without a word and the dragons taking positions on the roof. With their partners so distraught they would not stray far.
    A bucket of water was waiting for Paul when he arrived at his room. The old dwarf did not grumble as he passed, not did he try to break Paul's ankles with the trolley as he normally did. Head bowed, he passed swiftly and silently, refusing to look Paul in the eyes. In his room, he silently scrubbed the dried blood from his armour, then removed the protective clothing and scrubbed it from his flesh too, watching the stained black droplets slide down his skin with a detached feeling, keeping his mind as blank as possible. The chill night and the water he bathed in made him shiver, but he scrubbed on regardless, scrubbing and scrubbing until the skin turned red and broke. Red blood slid down his raw skin, mixing and mingling with the black water. He didn't feel the pain.
    Wrapped in his thin blanket, he could not remember when he finally fell asleep that night. He did not cry, for he knew that the goblins were evil things and that even as he lay in his warm bed they were amassing in the thousands; ready to march across the chilled wastes of the north on an unstoppable warpath and slaughter all in their way. Yet he had seen fear in that goblin's eyes, fear not unlike his own and could not but help the treacherous worm of shame the slithered inside him, gnawing at his hope and breeding despair. In his dreams he saw the same face, mouth sneering, filthy jowls swinging as it sliced with its horrid sword. Other faces too crowded him, many bearing expressions of shock, like those he had seen on them as they sailed through the air, cleaved from the neck by his own sword. In his dream, the goblin swung again as he stood helpless before the things' hate, and in his dream, Melanth was not there to help him…
    He woke, jolting upright and gasping for air. Sweat drenched the sheets and his body, his heart was racing. The abhorrent, gloating expressions of the goblins remained imprinted on his eyes for a brief moment, then shrank back into their immaterial death with silent vows of vengeance and retribution. The room was empty, silent as the grave save for his hard breathing.
    He sunk back into his sopping bed, wiping his forehead with the back of a hand. A nightmare, nothing more he told himself unconvincingly. He sighed, wishing he could convince himself that he had done the right thing this day.
    The un-shuttered window moaned faintly with the wind, his linen curtains flapping with eerie life in the silver moonlight. The goblins were evil, he knew. His tutorage had taught him that they deserved nothing if not to die for the atrocities they committed; he had even seen some of the soldiers returning bearing wounds and missing limbs. Every day more and more refugees poured into Haven with horror stories of hordes of goblins massacring all and being refused shelter elsewhere, many still carrying their wounded or dead, fearing to stop even a moment to bury their loved ones. He hated them, and some deep, secret and dark place inside him secretly relished in the slaughter of them, yet he knew that their spirits would haunt him and would let him seek no peace.
    He splashed some fresh water on his face, wiping away the worst of the sweat. The old dwarf had dealt with this kind of thing before, he realised. He knew how to handle the newly-blooded, and from his perspective that mostly involved supplying as many buckets of water and clean towels as possible.
    "Since I have met you, I have come to realise that humans are full of contradictions." Melanth's voice said, the noise pushing its way into the window, followed shortly by the dragon's head. "You desire beauty, yet many of you live in filth, in a single room you can produce the finest poetry and the bawdiest drinking songs… You speak of peace, yet you seem to be constantly at war…" He finished. He extended his head and neck into the window, then, improbably, pulled his wings tight to his body and squeezed his forelegs and chest through too. How Melanth had managed to squeeze himself through such a small aperture Paul did not know, but what was perhaps more disturbing was that nearly thirty feet of scaly dragon was now compacted into a room of about sixteen foot square. It was getting very crowded.
    "Nice of you to knock." Paul said harshly.
    "If I had knocked you would no longer have a window." Melanth said. "Besides, you would have probably invited me anyway." He curled himself up in a corner of the room, lying flat on the floor. "You were having nightmares," He said, studying Paul closely. The remark was not a question, but a statement of observation. "I have had nightmares too, but of a different sort. My dreams were not of guilt as yours, but of the bloodlust." He turned his gaze downwards, gazing intensely at the floorboards. "I do not feel shame for what I did this day."
    "We took lives Melanth!" Paul hissed, sitting on the side of his bed. "Lives! Like yours or mine! We have no right to do such things!"
    "Do you think the goblins engender such questions?" Melanth asked calmly, fixing Paul in his gaze. "They seek only the death of themselves or their prey. Though perhaps I do not understand the grief you feel now over such foul creatures, I am a predator by nature and understand such feelings as they had." He raised his head, bringing it close to Paul's own. "If it were you who were now lying on that field, the goblin who was your better would not be torturing himself as you are, in fact he would most likely be boiling the flesh from your skull for a trophy."
    Paul bent double and held his head in his hands. Melanth was right, he knew.
    "If it will make you feel any better," The dragon said, delivering Paul a delicate nudge with his muzzle. "Then tomorrow we will go and build a pyre for those bodies in the field. It is not what they would want or deserve, but at least it would ease your mind."
    Paul patted the dragon's head in return.
    "It's a nice idea." He said. He rose to his feet and stretched, rubbing his forehead with a hand. The sun was slowly returning from over the dark horizon and the gong would be sounding off within the hour. There was little point in trying to get back to sleep.
    Paul buckled on his armour, having already washed and changed. His dented helmet he could not help though, and so tied it to his belt again, making a mental note to talk to the quartermaster when time allowed. He hesitated before picking up his sword, though. His hand lingered over the sheathed blade, indecisive. Melanth was watching him with an intense scrutiny. With a darting movement, he snatched up the weapon and thrust it into his belt, fastening the knots to the cold leather and slotting his wooden training sword in beside it. Melanth gave a low, approving growl.
    "Time heals all wounds." The dragon murmured, and then made his way back to the window. Paul stealthily opened his door, checking once more for the lethal little dwarf and his trolley, but doubted the care taker would try anything. He walked into the deserted hallway and was about to close his door, but a frantic scrabbling of claws on wood from his room stopped him.
    "Umm…" Melanth said, embarrassed. "You wouldn't mind giving me a push would you?"

- 17 -

Part 18

    Paul lined up outside the barracks with the rest of his unit. Some of the older men gave him curious or encouraging looks as he passed down the line to take his place at the end, and both Aélynth and Darnell looked as if they had had a restless night. Whereas the three had generally been ignored and avoided by more experienced soldiers, today they seemed to have earned the approval of the older men, who expressed this in subtle ways. As he took his place in the line, Paul received nods of approval, which brought a small smile to his lips. News travelled fast in Haven.
    "Haven't slept all night…" Darnell muttered as the commander made his routine early morning inspection. "I could use a couple more hours…" The boy's face showed the rigours he had experienced through the night. His eyes were black and his skin sallow, almost grey in colour. He could barely stand straight without swaying from side to side alarmingly.
    It's more than just that. Paul thought. You can feel the guilt too, the sense that you have ended something's life that makes you feel sullied and unclean. Just like me.
    They began the morning with an endurance run. Seamus led the group around the outside of the walls, barking orders to keep all the men in line and their pace synchronised. Today was different however. Seamus was leading them at a hellish pace, and all the way around the city, not just half way as was customary. Some of the men began to complain, passing harsh whispers between ragged breaths. Darnell looked as though he was about to faint, and fell steadily down the line despite a yelled order from Seamus. Paul ground his teeth and slogged on, even when he felt like his heart would burst and his lungs would collapse. He knew that Seamus was trying to keep his mind off last nights events by keeping his body occupied. Only sheer determination kept him in line with the others. Seamus' ploy didn't work, and to make matters worse Paul could not help but think why he had been brought to Haven in the first place, the supposed secrets Melanth held. Not once had they been mentioned.
    Seamus ordered a stop, and the company crashed to a halt, many people running into the backs of those in front of them. Without allowing time to rest, he organised the men into two different groups and set them against each other from opposite sides of a field, simulating a mass battle. Shouts and curses rang out as tired men slipped and hit each other with more force than intended, one man even breaking his comrade's arm. The field soon became thick with mud and men began to slip, getting steadily more and more covered in the slimy filth. No proper means to distinguish friend from foe only added to the chaos. Weary and dispirited, Paul was among the first to be 'killed'.
    Grateful for the break, he flopped down next to the dusty track, watching the mock battle. In a very short space of time he was joined by the majority of his squad, all up to the eyes in mud and Trent with a large bruise spreading across his cheek.
    "So much for your bluster about your fighting skills," Osuoli snapped, rubbing his head where a sizable lump had already developed. "Can't even tell who your friends are!"
    It had always intrigued Paul to see the two men, one of who was the size of an ox and just as dumb, and one who was always the last man to know that it was snowing, be such good friends. Trent and Osuoli, joined occasionally by the secretive and reclusive Suyvetho did almost everything together. The three could not be more different. Trent was small and overtly obnoxious, but his sarcasm and humour more than made up for his unsavoury character whereas Osuoli was more likely to cause offence by his slow nature and clumsiness. No one knew much about Suyvetho, though it was rumoured that he had forsaken his tribe for a more secure life in Haven. He was thin and tall with gaunt, skeletal features and was a master of the throwing knife.
    Aélynth joined them, virtually dragging Darnell off the field. He leaned heavily on her and was limping, the result of a misplaced sai on Aélynth's part.
    "Right in the bloody fork again." He murmured before slumping into a still heap and snoring. The seven lay still and watched the remainder of the battle snuff its self out. The dragon's appeared next, darting down from the sky in formation and landing before engaging in a combined aerial and land battle similar to what the humans had done. Seamus finally allowed his group to rest and observe the spectacle of roaring fire and flashing claws. Paul tried to spot Melanth amongst the glittering, scaled hides and finally saw him grappling with Sol, Seamus' partner, wondering what had given his friend the audacity to challenge the commander's personal dragon. He winced in sympathy as Sol twisted Melanth's forepaw behind his back until the dragon thumped the ground with his remaining limb, then went to join the humans on the edge.
    "I don't understand this concept of 'uncle'." He said perplexed to Paul half an hour later, rubbing his strained paw.
    Lunch was unusually bland and tasteless, the Metamorph having run out of sauce for the rice. Raoul reappeared afterwards, looking much the better for his time in the place of healing, though black circles hung under his eyes and Paul thought for a second he saw a grey streak in the young man's hair. Tuition was spent learning about how various plants and animals interacted, such as bees pollinating flowers and receiving nectar in return. Though whimsical, the lesson served a serious purpose in explaining the continued relationship with the dragons. It had shocked Paul to learn that some of the civilian and regular army youngsters who attended the classes with him had a prejudice against the dragons and those who were partnered with them. Jealousy or ignorance, he did not know but it became suddenly clear to him that he, Aélynth and Darnell were more or less outcasts in the social circles that had formed in the classes, easily distinguishable from non-riders by their black armour. Paul had been unaware that a rift existed between Haven's regular soldiers and the Dakkar, until by some unperceived slight he had earned the ire of a redshirt in the regular army. That had happened several weeks ago, and until this time Paul had tolerated the barbs and comments he received. The boy, whose name eluded him, regularly commented on the cowardice of the Dakkar as it was a well known fact that their dark blades and armour were meant for stealth, being too few in number to engage a large force in a direct battle without support from auxiliaries. Paul had spent the first three weeks of training learning techniques for evasion and stealth as well as practicing his sword skills, and while he rejected the term cowardice he had to admit even privately that it seemed dishonourable to sneak up on an enemy and ambush them, so had restrained himself when dealing with the whelp.
    Paul and Aélynth chose a private corner, Darnell having politely excused himself from the lesson before passing out. away from the main group who sniggered and snorted as the whelp sent insults drifting across the room to the pair, commenting constantly that Paul's relationship with Aélynth was more than professional and making him blush, which only added to his considerable frustration. However, when the boy suggested that Paul should copulate with Casanac, he felt inclined to punch him, which he did.
    In that one moment, Paul's frustration, the Hermit's lies and yesterday's terrible events found their release, and when the blow had connected it sent the whelp sprawling amongst his peers. Gingerly the boy reached up and touched his nose, bringing his hand away to reveal red blood staining his fingers. With an incoherent roar, the boy launched himself at Paul, whose foot was already coming up even as the whelp's fist was being raised. With a blow that even Grabber Jameson would be proud of, he sent the boy back to the floor. This time, the whelp had the sense to stay down, and lay curled in a blubbering mess on the carpet as Paul calmly returned to his place.
    Several of the boy's friends looked at Raoul, but the man merely shuffled his scrolls with a nearly unperceivable grin. He had heard much of the exchange and as a Dakkar himself was not overly amused with some of the comments.
    By the time the lesson was finally over, Paul was even more tired and itching for a fight. He had half hoped that the whelp would throw more abuse at him and give him a reason to strike again, but the boy, surrounded by a crowd of friends, was limping to the healing house. Aélynth cajoled him back to the Dakkar barracks, placing both hands firmly on his shoulders and frogmarching him at full speed.
    "That was stupid!" She hissed. "Now the whole crowd of them will be after us!"
    "And what else was I suppose to do?!" Paul spat in return.
    "Maybe tell Casanac what he said," Aélynth suggested with an amused note in her voice. "Dragons take personal insults very seriously, and Casanac is as proud as they come."
    "You know, I might just do that anyway." Paul said with a malevolent grin.
    The two retired to their rooms, too tired to socialise. Despite the fact that he had been at Haven nearly seven weeks now, Paul's room was bare, devoid of personal possessions. His room was a place he came to sleep, nothing more and hardly surprising considering the rigorous regime he had endured since arriving here. Training took up all his day, and when he returned he had little time or inclination to do anything but sleep.
    The next morning when the riders were lined up once again and Seamus was making his daily inspection, Darnell had returned, looking better than yesterday but still the worse for the ware. He told them that he had spent his night in the house of healing.
    "I take it Aélynth got acquainted with another friend?" He asked, shivering slightly. His face was still grey tinged and weary.
    "Nah, that was him this time." She replied, jabbing a thumb to her right where Paul stood.
    The familiar clomp of Seamus' boots passed down the line for the second time, and he stopped in front of the three, giving each a hard but quizzical look in turn.
    "You three," He said, waving a finger at the assembled warriors, who exchanged nervous glances, wondering what they had done wrong. "And you three," He said, indicating this time Trent, Osuoli and Suyvetho. "Report to the command structure, I will be with you shortly."
    The selected six bowed shortly in response as was customary when being relieved, and neatly filed out of the assembly area, heading down a wide fortified path to the command building.
    "What did we do? Are we in trouble?" Darnell asked frantically as he struggled to keep pace with the others.
    "We're being given an assignment." Suyvetho said, his thick, guttural accent surprising the three redshirts who had never before heard him speak.
    "What sort of assignment?" Aélynth asked, shouldering Paul out of her way.
    "Who knows? That's why we're going; to find out." Trent said irritably.

- 18 -

Part 19

    They marched up the stairs of to the command building; a fearsome construction that looked like a fort in its own right rather than an extension of and existing stronghold. High walls rose up on either side of the path, arrow slits looking down over the path like sentinels. A pair of emplaced ballistae framed the great brass doors, which slowly swung inwards on silent hinges as the group approached. A short corridor and portcullis followed, leading deeper into this bastion where the walls yet again peppered with arrow slits. Wooden trap doors in the ceiling that formed murder holes where pitch and oil could be poured if by some divine act an enemy breached the walls traversed the path of death and battered their way through the great doors. The small group passed through the portcullis and entered a large courtyard with high walls and inward facing battlements. Soldiers patrolled the walls, halberds held high as they kept watch. In the very centre of the courtyard, a strange device that resembled a trebuchet with no arm or sling was positioned. Beside it lay a large, circular piece of very high quality, thick glass installed on what appeared to be a mounting of some sort. A pair of Dwarves were arguing bitterly in their own gruff language, each repeatedly pointing to the strange device and shouting.
    "Welcome to the inner sanctum," Seamus proclaimed loudly, making the younger three jump. "Please do not mind the overabundance of fortifications and keep all arms and legs away from sharp, blunt, hot and apparently harmless things." He grinned as he continued; "In fact it would probably be better if you didn't touch anything, follow me."
    He led them across the courtyard and through another set of brass doors into a labyrinth of tunnels. The tunnels were lit only by torchlight and reeked of damp and stale air. Occasionally they passed a Dwarf struggling with some large and unwieldy object or a patrol of soldiers. Paul soon lost all sense of direction, but Seamus seemed to know exactly where he was going, leading them down one corridor and ignoring others. Paul got the impression that they were deep under the city.
    Abruptly, the smooth cut stone walls vanished, replaced by a rough hewn surface and infrequent torch brackets. The solid floors turned to sand, and just when Paul was beginning to think that he was being led back into the dry docks which were on the other side of the lake, the tunnel ended, opening out into a sparsely lit room. Rows of stone benches were cut with geometric precision into the rock, like an amphitheatre. Rusty iron grates led away into impossible blackness in several directions, deeper into the earth. In the centre of the sandy floor was a gibbet that had once been suspended from the ceiling. A length of chain so rusty that the links had fused together was coiled, barely visible beneath the debris. The wooden windlass had disintegrated, spilling more lengths onto the floor where they lay half buried in the sand, along with paler, more obscene objects.
    Paul's boot knocked something in the sand. He kicked away at the powdery stuff, trying to unearth the object. A smooth surface appeared through the sand, but more sand slid in to take the place of that he was excavating. Finally losing patience, he forced his booted foot beneath the mysterious object and levered it out of its sandy prison where it exploded from with a spray of sand and rolled across the floor, rolling and coming to a stop in the centre. Hollow eye sockets framed by bleached white bone surrounded the grisly trophy he had unearthed; a skull, and by the looks of it human.
    Locked in the sand, other hideous objects began to stand out, the top of a femur here, ribs sprouting from the sand like the husk of some wrecked ship. Teeth glinted like jewels amongst the yellow sand.
    "What is this place?" Paul hissed, staring into the eyes of the skull which grinned obscenely back at him.
    "This was once the infamous torture chamber of Mau-Set, young man." Master Sho-Hai said, rising from where he was seated on the top row of the amphitheatre. In the darkness he had blended into the shadows and none had seen him.
    "Once, long ago, criminals were brought here to face their punishment, though back then the punishment hardly fitted the crime." The old Master stepped carefully down from the tall seats, leaning heavily upon his staff as he spoke. "You will never have heard of Mau-Set," He continued. "Indeed, his is not a tale you will find anywhere except perhaps in the great library, or this very room. He lived during the time of the first Great War, and proceeded to rule over the settlement that would one day become Haven, once the hostilities were over. He had a somewhat macabre hobby of capturing deserters or traitors and using them to perfect what he called 'the art of torture' which as you can imagine, he became very good at." Sho Hai finally reached the bottom of the benches and went to stand beside the gibbet. "Nor did he limit himself to his enemies either. Soon he became insane and paranoid, believing everyone to be conspiring against him, so he tortured these so called 'conspirators', often to death.
    "Finally, one day, his people became so exhausted of his tyrannical and insane rule that they rose up in rebellion against him, imprisoning him in this very room and burying him, destroying all knowledge of this evil place and the horrors that occurred here. His skeleton still lies inside this cage."
    "Why are you telling us this?" Paul bristled. This forsaken and ungodly chamber of horrors unnerved him, he could almost feel the icy spirits of the poor damned souls in this place reaching out to him and shivers ran down his back. Seeing his discomfort, the old master chuckled.
    "Do not fear ghosts young one," He said. "This place is indeed quite haunted, but the spirits are benign. The dragons sense it you see. Have you ever noticed why they avoid the city square where they can? Because this place is directly beneath it. It makes them uneasy to be around here, even if they do not know what it is that spooks them."
    "You have not answered my question." Paul stated flatly, regaining some control of his shivers.
    "No, indeed I have not. Please forgive the ramblings of an old man." He coughed lightly, stroking his long, silver beard. "Have you ever considered why we must destroy our enemies?" He asked, leaning lightly against the fallen gibbet. Though in the dim light Paul could not see where the old man was looking, he appeared to be studying the cage's grisly contents.
    "Because they are evil," Paul said carefully, sensing a test of some sort. "They burn and pillage and slaughter good people, they need to be stopped."
    Sho Hai did not move, but Paul could instantly tell that this was the wrong answer.
    "Evil is a perspective." He said simply. "Do you seriously think that these creatures who threaten our lives truly believe themselves to be evil? No, from their point of view it is us who are the evil ones. You must remember that we kill their kind too, chase them from their settlements wherever we find them and wage a constant war against them. What think you of that?"
    "Then are you saying that we are evil?" Paul asked, becoming confused. The old master shook his head.
    "As I said, evil is a perspective. No doubt there are those out there who would argue that we are, and indeed if this accursed place proves anything it proves that we men are capable of great evil indeed," The old man sighed and moved away from the gibbet. Between the rusted red bars of the cage, Paul thought he caught a glimpse of a stained brown skull, its jaw agape in a soundless scream, perhaps even a glimmer of light in its sockets that still burned with an insane, eerie life; but the terrible visage disappeared with a flicker of the low torchlight. Sho Hai moved closer to the group, and all six unconsciously stiffened to attention.
    "This is why I brought you here today," Sho Hai said, studying the younger three closely. "Try not to think of things in terms of good and evil, because believing your enemy to be evil will lead you to believe yourself superior, and that in turn would lead you to underestimate him. Nor should you think in terms of right and wrong, because you will often be forced to do the wrong thing in the ultimate cause of rightness, as you all found out to your woe two days ago."
    "How should we regard our foes then?" Paul asked, growing less and less easy in this evil place. The tunnels had been stiflingly hot and close, and had only become more so the deeper they travelled underground, yet this horrid room had a chill air that was nothing to do with a draught. The flames of the torches wavered and flicked even with no breeze to blow them.
    "As equals," Sho Hai said, moving out through the way the six had entered. He moved back up the harshly cut corridor with a speed that was surprising in a man so old and his staff made a dull thudding noise each time he set it down, making it easy for the six and Seamus to follow his movements. "Take your enemy as your equal and you will not underestimate him, but that does not mean do not view him as your foe. He will not hesitate to run you through, so do not hesitate to return the favour unto him."
    The rough tunnel that seemed to snake the length of the city its self fell away, returning to the smooth blocks and regular torches. The air became thinner and cooler and the faint noise of the hustle and bustle from the city above filtered down into the subterranean paths. Other tunnels began to branch off, and Paul began to realise that they were being guided back the way that they came.
    Striding forward, the old master pushed aside the heave brass doors and the group exploded into the courtyard. The bright sunlight made Paul's eyes smart and sting, and he raised a hand to shield his face while still chasing after the glare obscured figure of Master Sho Hai. The master was waiting patiently for the others to catch up, standing by a second set of brass doors for the trailing group and ushering them inside.
    "Up the stairs." Seamus said, taking up the rear of the group as a pair of guards slid the gates shut behind them. Aélynth took the lead, setting off up the steeply spiralling stairs with ease.
    "Where does she get her energy?" Paul said to Darnell. Both were panting after the speedy and hot journey underground.
    The winding stairs levelled off into a large room that was immediately clear to be Haven's main command centre. It was a large room, opening out onto a wide balcony and the walls surrounding the keep. Another set of stairs led to a higher tier, and the floor was crowded with tables and shelves containing strange items. Captured enemy weapons adorned the walls and every surface was festooned with maps, diagrams and literature in a language Paul could not understand. Men and Dwarves were running around frantically carrying various sheaths of paper and scrolls and shouting to, or in many cases, at each other. Activity ceased briefly as Sho Hai entered the room as the officers snapped smartly to attention, and then began again having lost none of its previous vigour.
    "Over here," Seamus said, beckoning for the group to gather around a large table with a map pined to each of its four corners. Paul had never before seen a map like this, with the land divided up with borders and marked with arrows indicating water and air currents. Ornate pins worked with incredible skill to resemble men of many cultures, dwarves and dragons were dotted around its surface, and other pins forged of a dark, tarnished metal to resemble goblins were scattered amongst them. Large red splotches were marked wherever these darker pins were placed, and wherever one of the dark pins met a pin resembling a man, dwarf or dragon, a knife was thrust into the wood of the table between the two, and a dotted line drawn.
    "This is how the situation is looking for us at the moment." Seamus told them, indicating a picture drawn on the map that resembled the gates of Haven. With deliberate slowness, he took a dark pin and pushed it into the paper beside the picture.
    "That represents the group you engaged and eliminated two days ago," He said, studying the group. "Goblins are pack animals, and where you find one group the others are never far behind. Our scouts tell us that they have spotted a large group, upwards of a thousand strong heading this way."
    "Haven can easily handle a thousand goblins." Darnell stated flatly. "There are nearly ten thousand soldiers here as it is."
    "You are right of course," Sho Hai said, interrupting Seamus who was about to speak. "But this is merely an expeditionary force, content to burn farms, not topple a fortress. Unfortunately for us, it is also merely the tip of the proverbial iceberg." He snatched another dark pin from the side of the map, and planted it deep in the endless boughs to the north of Haven and close to a group of hills.
    "Draconian recon teams led by my brother sighted that twenty thousand strong force nearly a week ago." Seamus said, taking up the rapport once more. "By our best estimates without risking anymore of our scouts' lives, this is where they should be by now. To make matters worse, they were accompanied by Hellwings."
    "But that only puts the first wave at two weeks distant!" Paul exclaimed as the pin was pushed home, a short way behind the second.

- 19 -

Part 20

    Seamus nodded.
    "That is the stark reality of the situation," He said grimly. "We believe that the group you dealt with was a reconnaissance unit linked to that closer, smaller group. Because you killed them all, we believe that the goblins are as yet unaware of our location or our military capabilities, but that will soon change. They are cutting their way towards populated areas, and when they start to torture the civilians they'll talk. Our secret little resistance force won't be secret for much longer."
    "And what do you want us to do about it?" Trent said, growing angry. "Why are you telling us this when the people who really need to know are the people out there" He flung an arm in the general vicinity of the fortress gates. "Why are you keeping this a secret?"
    It was Seamus' turn to get angry.
    "Can you imagine the panic that this would cause? That our doom is at the most three weeks march away! You are foolish if you think we are not prepared for this first wave, but the second is well beyond our ability to deal with, even without those flying abominations standing vanguard!"
    "Then what exactly are you planning to do about it?" Trent spat.
    Sho Hai, stepped between the two, placing a hand on the shoulders of each.
    "We have always known that this day would come." He said. "That one day we would be forced to fight a battle that would decide our fate. We ourselves could only confirm that Raoul's story was true when our own recon teams returned late last night. The man had been poisoned by that arrow and was feverish; he may have seen foes where there was none to be had, but to our misery he spoke true. That is why the men have not been told. We did not want to spread panic by telling tales that may have no base in reality." The old man then turned to Seamus. "I do not besmirch your brother's honour by doubting his words, but you know how the poison takes its victims." Seamus nodded, backing away from the calmer Trent.
    "What is it you want us to do?" Suyvetho said in his calm monotone. Throughout the entire journey, he had remained silent and pensive, absorbing everything, but now he intervened lest Trent say something he would regret.
    Sho Hai gave a curt nod to Seamus, who strode out to the wide balcony. The man made a strange hand signal, swinging his hand over his head as if he were about to throw a lasso. The distinctive thump, thump of dragon wings became audible scant moments later, growing closer with each passing second. Sol, Casanac, Storm, Melanth and the other's dragons flew in tight formation towards the keep, neatly back-winging to slow their descent and landed on the rail that ran across the balcony like oversized birds.
    Amongst their number was a small blue scaled dragon that Paul had never seen before. The creature was panting and still clad in a saddle and harness, indicating that it had just returned from some errand. It was not a part of the main group, and so the others gave it a wide berth as was respectful.
    "Ah, Seisan you have returned, how went your mission?" Sho Hai said, addressing the stranger.
    "The old man was reluctant to comply," It sneered between gasps. "But he came in the end. It seems that the locals were not too happy to have me around. It seems also that I have proven reports of my swiftness a-wing were not exaggerated after all." It continued impetuously, throwing a scathing glance at Sol, who growled ominously. "He will be with you momentarily." It said and then without another word, the little blue took to wing again.
    "Offensive little kes'tha!" Sol spat, uttering a curse that made the others in his flight shuffle on their perches. "He'll learn some manners when I run my claws across his impudent snout!"
    "Calm your temper," Sho Hai advised. "Now of all times is not the time to start a fight. Soon we will need all of your kin healthy enough to fight here."
    "Very well," The big red dragon said, staring after the retreating blue with evil intent. "What is all this about? You said it was urgent when you summoned us."
    Sho Hai raised a hand and pointed to the stairs the others had emerged from a while earlier.
    "It would be better to wait until our guest has arrived." He said. "He knows more of this than I."
    For several minutes the assembled warriors shuffled around nervously, studying the room and the antics of the officers within. Paul and Aélynth returned to the map and studied it closely. Paul was surprised to see that in two other places aside from Haven were knives thrust; one to the south near the deep, nameless jungles that grew there, and another to the east, along a forbidding chain of fire tipped mountains and close to the legendary city of Barathrum. Stories told of this city said that it was wedged on a plateau over a great canyon nearly a quarter of a mile tall. He hoped that he would be able to see the place with his own eyes one day…
    Paul's musings were interrupted by a sound of commotion from below, and the tap, tap of a wooden stick upon the stone stairs. Tentatively, Melanth stretched out his long neck towards the stairs and sniffed just as more shouts and curses echoed up to the listeners above. For some reason, Paul laid his hand on the dagger at his hip.
    "You have got to be joking." Melanth said in a disbelieving voice, his jaw agape, just as a grubby grey cap appeared over the threshold of the stairs.
    Claws flashed, bright points of light in the thick darkness. A light sluicing sound followed that nearly unnoticeable swish, and the same claws came away again, bloody this time. The deed was done.
    Chelor, the last of the Bespoken, was dead.
    The Shadow shuddered a deep sigh of relief. It felt no regret, nor did it feel malice towards its former kinsmen. For the past month, it had forsaken its dark lair, a lair so deep in the earth that no living thing could survive there, so hot that flesh would melt and without air to breath. Eternity's words had shaken it beyond even its own horror-filled memories, and so for the first time in millennia, it had dared the sunlight again.
    It looked glumly down at the body of its once-friend. Chelor had always been greedy and ambitious, even during the days when the Bespoken were revered. It had been perhaps only fitting that in the years following the Upheaval he had sunk into the shadows that had inexorably led him to the thieves' guilds of the Triad Cities.
    The Shadow paused for a moment to consider what it had just done, that it had just slain the last of those with whom could have ever hoped to find a sliver of acceptance, those who could have understood and shared in its pain.
    Annoyed with its self, it shirked away such thoughts that were almost heretical to it now. Chelor had been a miserly fool and foul advocate of the thievery and thuggery that gave the Triad Cities their bad repute. It scraped its claws fastidiously on a nearby wall, cleaning them. The world was certainly a better place without such slime.
    Once more, as it had done many times since its emergence from the dark and dank caves, it turned its head skywards, basking in the tender light of the moon and stars.
    When it chose the site for its lair it had picked the most inhospitable place it could find; a desert. It had dug and blasted its way deep into the bowels of the earth, hoping that no one would ever find it and that those who did would never survive the journey to tell others. It had never expected what it saw when it finally emerged.
    Desert had given way to forest; settlements and cities had sprung up close to it. Rivers flowed where once there had only been baking sand and barren boulders and animals thrived. For the first time in millennia it had seen beauty, and it had wept.
    For the last two weeks, with the redeeming light of the sun to its back or the tender caress of the moonlight as its guide, it had flown in search of the last of the Bespoken, the few who had outlasted the years of plague and slaughter between then and now. Many were warped, shrivelled husks of their former selves, the ages past and disease and lavish having stripped them of their former glory. Many were corrupted, and it was for this reason that they had to be destroyed; if the Bespoken were to ally themselves to the cause of the northern armies, then the combined forces of such potent magic wielders and the sheer mass of bodies that the goblins had would render them invincible. Or at least more invincible than they already were.
    Swift as an arrow, the Shadow darted out of the dingy alleyway where it had cornered its victim and onto the cobbled main street. Watchmen patrolled these streets, enforcing the curfew that the thieves relished in breaking each night. No one was around to see the silver moonlight glinting off its onyx hide as it dashed the length of the street and vaulted the high wall in a single, silent and fluid motion. In the houses, people slept on and babies rocked in their cots. Only the gargoyles ever saw it come and go, and they weren't telling anyone.

- 20 -

Part 21

    With more cursing and a groan, the rest of the squat form of the Hermit followed its hat and levered its self off the stairs.
    "My legs aren't what they used to be," He mumbled, rubbing his knees before spinning around and brandishing his gnarled stick at a pair of guards who too appeared over the threshold.
    "Sir, he forced his way in. He said he had business with you." One guard explained, straitening his helm where a bright speck of light bore witness to a dint in the metal.
    "Now look here you young ruffian!" The Hermit raged, levelling his stick to eye height where it quivered and rattled ominously. "I was saying I had business here and I meant it! Stop pestering me and go polish your boots or something like a good soldier!"
    The guard bristled at this.
    "With your permission sir I would like to remove this man." He said to Sho Hai. To him, this man was obviously deranged.
    Sho Hai raised his hand to silence the two.
    "It is quite alright," He told the guard. "He is here at my request, return to your duties."
    Huffily, the soldier about turned and stomped down the stairs mumbling darkly.
    "You!" Paul finally managed to choke out. Ever since Melanth's exclamation he had been standing with his jaw agape, drawing some curious and worried glances from his squad mates. "What are you doing here? You were in Ironhold!"
    "Was," The Hermit said with a crooked, black toothed grin. "Are you seriously telling me that you hadn't clicked that I was in on this easy racket the whole time? C'mon lad, I thought you were quicker that that."
    Paying no attention to the stares and doubtful glances of both the assembled squad and the officers who had ceased their frantic labour to watch, he stumped over to the table and sat himself down. Without pause, he withdrew a tiny pipe from a thong around his neck and tamped down the acrid smelling contents, before patting down the many pockets in his grubby jerkin.
    "Got a light?" He asked Storm hopefully.
    Behind Paul and standing close to the stairs, Sho Hai gave a tiny but firm cough. The pipe disappeared back into the Hermit's stained collar as fast as it had arrived.
    "You know this guy?" Aélynth asked, leaning close to Paul and whispering in his ear.
    "Of course," He replied. "He's the one who got me involved in all of this."
    "Ah… right." She said in quizzical understanding.
    "What was this all about then?" The Hermit asked jovially, looking around at the still standing soldiers. "I can't abide the company you keep these days Sho Hai," He said. "So much gloom about the place, everyone acting so serious. Don't you people ever lighten up? And that dragon you sent to fetch me was downright rude! Honestly, where are everyone's manners these days?"
    "Is he always like this?" Aélynth asked, leaning close again. Her eyebrow was cocked and she regarded the Hermit with a mixture of pity and reproach.
    "Always." Paul affirmed with the ghost of a grin.
    "You were here to explain a most peculiar message you received some time ago." Sho Hai said calmly, his patience limitless. "Messages concerning a certain prophesy?"
    "Oh, that!" The Hermit said with a senile smile. "Aye, a strange thing indeed, couldn't make heads or tales of it at first. I thought it was just a load of gibberish, but then I realised that it was written by your mother." He finished, pointing his stick at Melanth. "Made for dreary reading too, all about the end of the world and massing armies and such, the uniting of the five goblin clans and so on, so forth. Strangely enough, there was only half of it there."
    A stunned silence fell over the room where only moments before there had been shuffling and barely stifled laughs.
    "My mother?" Melanth said, the enormity of the words scarcely sinking in.
    "Aye," The Hermit said, taking out his pipe once more. "She was a good priestess, and a bloody good Seer, did things with magic that would make your brain boil trying to understand them." He extended his hand to Trent, who was standing gawking into the air. The little man patted his pockets and withdrew a box of matches. Without any input from higher brain functions, he placed the box on the Hermit's extended palm then returned to his former stance of attention.
    "A priestess?" Melanth said, repeating the Hermit's words without absorbing them.
    The Hermit scowled at him from under the brim of his hat.
    "I never knew that dragon's and parrots were related." He snapped, then struck a match and lit his pipe. Within moments the oily, black fumes from the weed within had the entire squad coughing and rubbing their eyes. "Aye, she was a priestess, one of the last too. The gods granted her visions of the future and such, but that was all so much gibberish to me. The last I ever saw of her was right before she went to build her nest, and then she went and got herself killed by that ridiculous band. Remind me to tell you about it someday…" He took another draw on his pipe.
    A deathly silence had stolen over the room. Melanth seemed paralysed, able only to stand and gape stupidly at the old man who was sublimely puffing away on his pipe. In a single instant, his expression changed. A snarl of rage wrinkled his muzzle. With an incoherent cry he smashed his way into the room, scattering people and furniture alike, and grasped the Hermit in a single paw, rearing up so that his head scraped the ceiling.
    "How much did you know about her!?" He roared point-blanc into the old man's face. "Why did you never tell me this!? No more deceit!"
    The vision of aged senility disappeared from the Hermit's face, dangling like a rag doll from the Dragon's claw. His stick moved with a sudden blur, and Melanth dropped him to the floor. The dragon roared and clutched his nose, and looked like he might strike the Hermit dead if Paul had not grabbed his upraised paw out of reflex, throwing his weight against the dragon's chest.
    "I did not tell you 'cause the last thing I wanted was for ye to go off looking for the bastards who did it and getting' yer sel' killed too." The Hermit said, his tone growing stronger as he spoke. "Which we both know you would have. Learn to curb that fiery temper of yours, or we might never know the full story."
    With a huff, he straightened his hat and sat back down. Sho Hai coughed once more.
    "What my compatriot is referring to, I believe, is your inherited memory." The old master said, shuffling spilt papers with his foot. "We were never able to fully decode the message that Eternity left us you see; it was bound in the strongest magic and written in a script that is quite possibly as old as Arim herself. Despite our dealings with your mother dear dragon, we never knew much about her. All we have to work with are scattered accounts from relatives, and her own journals that were recovered when you were discovered."
    "So you want my memories?" Melanth asked, his words escaping as a hiss from between clenched teeth. Paul felt that it was safe enough to release the dragon's paw. "I remember nothing of my mother, or her life. Other ancestors, yes, but not her."
    "We know this." Sho Hai said, soft words soothing inflamed tempers. "We believe that she imparted the knowledge to decode her message with her only surviving hatchling." Sho Hai's usually emotionless demure took on a deep and sorrowful aspect. "Passing such knowledge to you would have been her among final acts. She would have erased your natural memories of her and her life so that they could not fall into the wrong hands, which is why you know nothing of her."
    Melanth sunk to the floor, wings drooping limply. He suddenly seemed weary and much older, as one who has endured many horrors.
    "Why?" Were the only words to escape his mouth.
    Sho Hai put a comforting hand on the dragon's shoulder.
    "Your mother was a Seer," He said softly. "She foresaw the events in which we are now embroiled and plotted."
    He sighed before continuing. "I myself was only gifted to meet her twice; once, at the founding of this stronghold when she and the last of the true clerics came and warned us of a great danger brewing in the north. I remember that day well. Dragon though she was, her words inspired us and destroyed our fear of the other races. It is in part the reason why this place exists, for we only took her heeding seriously when the refugees started arriving. The second time was when she appeared to the Hermit and myself to deliver her message and entrust you into his care as we journeyed to the Dwarven clans in the north. We had much to ask her, but she was badly wounded and disappeared before we could even begin to form our questions. The Hermit was able to track down her lair, and found her brood and herself slain. Since then we have devoted ourselves to her cause, and we have learned so much."
    The master smiled as he talked, and Paul felt that he spoke truly, and from the heart. His story made sense; it was unsurprising that they had not taken Eternity seriously at first, but when proof arrived things had begun to change. Eternity's actions had been desperate; knowing that she was dying, she had given her only surviving child to the Hermit to care for, and had entrusted this child with all the knowledge of her schemes and devices so that he could continue her work. Whatever information she had given to Melanth could very well mean the difference of life and death to Haven in its current situation, but something didn't add up…
    "Why wait?" Paul burst out suddenly. "Why wait until now to try to retrieve the memories and not earlier?" Something clicked in Paul's mind. "This is about me too isn't it?" He said. "For some reason you needed me for this as well."

- 21 -

Part 22

    Seamus stepped forwards.
    "Do you know why a dragon can not fight well without a rider?" He asked, giving Paul one of his piercing glances. "It is because of the bloodlust," He continued without waiting for an answer. "A dragon suffering from the red thirst will slay friend and foe with no discrimination, no judgement. A rider can guide and focus a dragon's fury, directing it at the enemy and not at his own allies. A rider can make judgements where the dragon can not, and can plan ahead and solve complicated problems, which a dragon can not. To unlock these memories, Melanth will need focus and determination, for Eternity will not have made such knowledge easy to attain. Without a compatible mind, Melanth would never be able to unlock her secrets." He paced amongst the debris, boots clinking off spilt pins, both bright and dark. "We had hoped to train you properly and have you ready for the fray before we tried to unlock this knowledge, but it seems that fate has other plans for us. All of you have proven yourselves, even at this early stage to be effective warriors, and that is why we must now act before any more time is lost."
    Paul took the hint.
    "I suppose now is as good a time as ever?" He said, releasing Melanth's paw and stepping back from his companion. Melanth clacked his jaw and looked rebellious, but after a moments thought he subsided with a huff, giving a short nod. Sho Hai nodded too, approvingly.
    From the balcony, Sol gestured that Melanth should come to him. Unsure, Paul remained in his place until Seamus indicated that he should follow with a prod on the shoulder.
    "What do we have to do?" Paul asked as Sol curved his head down towards them, glaring.
    "Just remain as you are," Sho Hai said, nodding again, almost unperceivably to Seamus and Sol. "It will take Sol a moment to weave your minds together, but after you are linked he will be able to help you no more, you will have to break the barrier by working together." Melanth nodded.
    "Will it hurt?" He asked grimly.
    "We have no idea of knowing." Sho Hai said. "But it is likely that Eternity will have left traps to ensnare any who would seek to take this information forcefully. You will have to be careful." He warned.
    Melanth nodded slowly, turning to face Paul.
    "You ready?" The dragon asked, drawing a second pair of eyelids across and swallowing in nervousness.
    Without waiting for Paul to reply, the irate Sol grabbed Melanth's paw and placed it on Paul's head. Paul didn't have time to even utter a cry of protest before he lost all feeling in his body. He remained standing, and suddenly his muscles locked tense as if in a convulsion. He began to panic, he could not move! Was this normal?
    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Melanth fared no better. Sol still held the dragon's paw to his head and appeared to be in a trance, mumbling strange, alien words in a mantra. He heard Aélynth shouting something, and Darnell was trying to reach him, but was being held back by Seamus. His hearing and vision began to fade. His lungs were burning, he could not breathe. Sho Hai was saying something that he could not hear. Only the sound of Sol's chanting remained clear. Paul wondered if this was what dying felt like.
    His sight disappeared in an indistinct fog of shapes that faded to grey, and the sound of the chanting too was beginning to die out. Trapped, his mind took on a strange clarity. His fear and panic faded like his sight, just as the last vestiges of the strange mantra faded.
    His body jolted, as if he had just woken from a dream where he was falling and hit the ground. Sight, hearing and touch returned in a single blinding instant, overwhelming his mind. He was aware of falling backwards, severing Melanth's contact with him.
    He lay on the cold floor, eyes closed, contemplating a few choice words in some of the more colourful aspects of language he would share with Sol and Sho Hai. Something was wrong though. The burning in his lungs was gone, though he had taken only a few breaths. He stretched out a hand to prop himself up, and his palm reached out to cold stone. The floor of the building had been wooden.
    He jolted up opening his eyes. The command room was gone, as had the light and the shouting he had heard before he blacked out. He stretched out a hand into nothing but deep blackness. There was a sharp crack and a small shower of stones on the floor near Paul.
    "Melanth?" He called out tentatively.
    "I am here," The dragon said, after a moments hesitation. "I can not see in this light. We are in a cave I think. Do not stand; to roof is quite low in here."
    Paul crawled in the direction that Melanth's voice had come from, staying on his hands and knees.
    "How did we get here?" He asked. He had limited knowledge of magic himself, but he knew that it was a fickle thing. Melanth had been tutored in magic wielding as a part of his training, but the dragon was not an efficient wielder and had never found any practical use for it aside from jokes. Still though, perhaps he could explain more.
    "I can only think that we are in one of my memories." Melanth said. There was a shuffling noise as he moved.
    "How did you work that one out?" Paul said, gritting his teeth as his knee impacted with a rock. It certainly didn't feel like a memory.
    "Because I was born in this place." Melanth said. The dragon gave a great roar that nearly popped Paul's eardrums. There was a noise like a battering ram slamming into a door and another shower of debris, wood this time. Fire flared out and Paul caught a glimpse of the dragon spraying a stream of flame onto a lump of wood. The cave filled with light and the choking odour of burning.
    Melanth was coiled in the centre of the room, holding the torch firmly in his mouth. The room appeared to be some kind of storage space, for bails of soft grass and wood tied together with supple twigs were stacked neatly in a grotto. The roof was low enough for Paul to manage to stoop, and then grew in height where Melanth lay. White dust plastered the top of the dragon's head and scales lay on the floor.
    "You were born in here?" Was all Paul could think to say.
    "Not here," Melanth said, spitting out the makeshift torch and rubbing his head. "There are other rooms."
    Keeping low, he crawled like a lizard into a shadow in a corner of the cave. The height was enough to allow Paul to stand erect, but still posed some problems for the larger creature. Paul picked up the slimy, fallen torch and followed swiftly after, the shadows fleeing and dancing before its wavering flame. The stone walls became earthen, and roots protruded from the walls and snagged Paul's feet. He stumbled after the dragon, who seemed to know exactly where he was going.
    The damp tunnel stopped short, spilling them out into a large room with walls lined with smooth cut stone. Beams supported more stone that arched upwards and formed a high domed roof in which an opening had been dug to admit copious amounts of light. Grottos had been cut with linear precision, in which were stored rolls of parchment and furled skins on which text had been scrawled. Books and tomes shared the shelve space, and on the floor smaller bones and strewn straw marked this as a dragon's cave. In the centre of the floor, framed in a beam of light was a large, haphazard pile ash, of soft grass and leaves.
    "This is what I remember of this place," Melanth said. "But it is strange. I view this now as though it were before my clutch was laid. That mound in the middle of the floor is a nest, probably the one from which I hatched."
    "Then how are we witnessing this?" Paul asked. Eternity's memories had been passed to Melanth at the moment of conception, and continued only from the moment he was born. The dragon should not have been able to remember his own nest before he broke his shell.
    "I honestly do not know." He replied awe struck. Almost reverently, he stretched out his neck and sniffed at the nest. He closed his eyes, as if concentrating.
    "Empty." He reported. "No eggs in here."
    "Then why a nest?" Paul asked. "Is this some kind of test?"
    "Probably." Melanth affirmed. "The Hermit warned us to be cautious, and I can only assume that this is one of my mother's memories, and so it must be a test of some sort."
    With a swipe of a forepaw he scattered the pile of debris and began raking through the straw.
    "What are you doing?" Paul asked, raising an eyebrow at this strange action.
    "Searching for something that is in the nest, but is not an egg." He replied, then realising that this did not register with Paul continued; "It will probably be an artefact of some sort, or a trinket like a coin. To a dragon, a nest is a precious thing and is in turn filled with precious things. Because Eternity died upon her nest, it would only be fitting that a clue would be left within that nest." Stooping suddenly and darting his head out like an enormous heron, and came back with a bright blue sapphire held gently in his jaws.
    "What did I tell you?" He declared victoriously, spitting the stone into Paul's hand where the two examined it.
    "It looks like an ordinary stone." Paul said bemusedly, wiping off saliva and taking a closer look. "Ring any bells with you?"
    The dragon sat down on his haunches, pondering the object and cocking his head from side to side.
    "These tests," He said in an explanatory tone. "Will be centred around things that only a dragon could know so that anyone who forces their way into my mind would be unable to access the secrets hidden within me." He remained transfixed with the stone for a few more moments, as though simply looking at it fiercely would make it disgorge its secrets.
    "A dragon's hoard is also precious to us, but for different reasons." He said slowly, as if weighing this probability up in his own mind. "Perhaps that should be our next step."

- 22 -

Part 23

    Nodding, Paul followed the dragon into another passageway. This one was wider and grander than the last, lined with unlit torches and flagstones. The room beyond was smaller than the main area, but no less striking. Piles of objects reached nearly to the ceiling in many places, and surprisingly few of them were gold, silver or jewels. Most of the objects were statues, shields and swords, bows and other weapons. Many were crafted so finely as to be the work of only the best masters. Paul couldn't help but grin when he imagined what the big quartermaster's reaction to this place would be.
    "What are we looking for?" He asked searching the room for anything outstanding, but in the jumble of glinting objects this proved to be a fruitless task. Everything was outstanding.
    "This is an unusual collection to be sure," Melanth said, tapping a shield that bore three deep claw-slashes in its face. "Most dragons collect gold, but anything shiny does in the end I suppose. We will be looking for an identical stone to this one, or maybe a box in which it was kept. Our large claws are not meant for manipulating small things, so we like to keep such trinkets with their original packaging."
    The two began sifting through the large mounds of heaped objects. Paul was daunted by the sheer scale of the task, but then it seemed that they would not be going anywhere until it was completed. He sorted objects in order of aesthetics like he had seen in the armoury; swords, spears and other weapons in one pile, armour in another and a third pile that he simply called 'unknown'. They continued for what seemed like hours, but did not grow bored or careless. Amongst the hoard were also many ponderous objects that were interesting or required close scrutiny to define their purpose. Many of the more interesting items had magical properties, though only Melanth could sense this and only through touch with the enchanted items. The dragon even unearthed a marble statue of some long forgotten emperor from beneath a pile of trophy goblin skulls.
    Paul's hand fell to a long golden chain of plates that he was about to discard on the 'unknown' pile when some innate suspicion stayed his hand. Rattling loudly, he drew the length of the necklace through his fingers until he eventually found a large pendant, inscribed with arcane runes and set with turquoise and ribbons of patterned fabric. He signalled to Melanth.
    "It is possible," The dragon concluded, having looked at a large gap in the amulet that was roughly the same size as the stone. "Anything is worth a try I suppose, and I'm frankly getting sick of all this sorting. Try it, but be careful; that thing is enchanted."
    Gently, and with care for fear of setting off some trap, Paul placed the stone into the depression. It was a perfect fit.
    "Well?" Melanth asked when the strange necklace gave no response.
   "Nothing." Paul said, peering into the blue facets of the stone. "Maybe you're supposed to put it on?" He suggested. Melanth grimaced.
    "It's a collar." He spat.
   Surprised, Paul held the ponderous length of the golden plates up with both arms stretched apart. The joints in the rounded plates were held together by hinges and chains, certainly giving the object the semblance of a collar.
    "Got any better ideas?" Paul asked, cocking an eyebrow. "Fine, put it on me." Melanth sighed, lowering his head with much grumbling.
    Paul fastened the small, delicate catch around his companion's neck, finding that the strange trinket was an almost perfect fit for the dragon.
    "There, now you look like a girl." He grinned, stepping back and pretending to admire his friend. "Now let's see if we can find you some makeup…"
    "Don't make me eat you." Melanth replied, craning his long neck around. "Is it doing anything?" He asked.
    "Doesn't look like it," he said, darting forward for a closer look. "Maybe we need to do something else to trigger it?"
    "Such as?" Melanth snapped tetchily. He raised a paw and was about to tear off the relic, when his scaled paw brushed the strange, diamond shaped pendant and the stone set in it. The world exploded.
    Paul's head started to spin; come to think of it his whole body was spinning even though he was not moving. The dizziness increased in intensity, spreading deeper and deeper into his consciousness until it engulfed him. He felt light-headed, and just as he began to wonder what new trauma he was about to experience, he fainted.
    It was the burning of his lungs that woke him, suddenly and rudely. He gasped for air, and a needle of pain stabbed clean through his head. Spluttering, he lurched to sitting position and stared blearily around, recognising in the haze of shapes and myopia that he was back in the command room. More pain slammed into his skull like a crossbow bolt and he fell back, clutching his head. Then the noise started again.
    "Quick, get a medic!"
    "Find somewhere to lie them down, make room!"
    "Give them some room damn it!"
    That last voice had been Seamus'. He recognised the forceful tone that the man only used when something serious had happened, or he was angry. Coughing, Paul tried to sit up again but this only sent a wave of raw agony through his skull, making him yell and grasp his head. He was pushed back down by a firm hand on his breastplate.
    "No lad, stay still, just for a moment." Seamus said. "Magic like that is serious business, it takes everyone differently."
    Paul lay still on the floor, regaining his breath and allowing the throbbing pain in his head to slowly subside. He must have been unconscious whilst the spell was taking effect, he knew. What he and Melanth experienced must have happened while they were comatose.
    "How long were we out?" He asked groggily, the movement of his jaw sending another pain through his skull.
    "Barely moments." Seamus said, producing a damp cloth and pressing it into Paul's hand. "As soon as Sol stopped chanting you both toppled over, then you woke up almost instantly." Then his tone turned to a more businesslike demure. "Were you successful?"
    Paul was about to shake his head, but thought better of it, and instead raised the cloth to his forehead.
    "I do not know." He said.
    A loud bestial groan sounded as Melanth woke up, rolling over onto his belly and growling, clutching at his head.
    "By the great fires that be!" He cried, shaking his head as if to shake off the pain. This only made the agony worse. "What devilry is this to cause so much pain!?" Hissing, he tucked his head beneath a wing.
    "Bring an apothecary!" Someone shouted.
    Moments later, a nervous looking man carrying a box of herbs and powders was bustled into the room, looking around with a terrified expression like a rabbit in a fox's den.
    "W-ww-w what is it?" He asked, stuttering and clutching his box close to his chest like a shield. His eyes were flying around the room, acutely aware that he was under scrutiny from dozens of armed men. Seamus stood aside, revealing Paul and Melanth incapacitated, still clutching their heads.
    "See what you can do for them. This was their first exposure to magic and it looks like they are suffering the full force of a feeble-mind spell."
    The apothecary's eyes widened at the sight of Melanth lying prone on the floor, head resting on a rolled up floor mat and emitting groans of pain that to the untrained ear sounded quite formidable.
    "Y-you want me to treat that?" He said in a near shriek, pointing a quivering finger at the dragon.
    "Don't worry," Seamus said, amused by the man's discomfort. "He only bites when told to, or if someone denies him a cure for what to my reckoning must be the great granddaddy of all hangovers." Then, placing a not unfriendly hand on the man's back, pushed him towards the two.
    With feverish determination, and trying desperately to ignore the curious eyes of the command staff, he set to work on Paul, taking his temperature and shining candles in his eyes. Then, humming to himself dementedly, he opened his box and began to mix various seething potions and herbs, creating such a pungent stink that the encircling crowd backed off. Paul began to worry that he was going to be expected to drink the horrible stuff. Unable to much protest, he was helpless to stop the healer pour the foul, reeking concoction down his throat and was left spluttering and retching as the horrid mixture burned its way into his gullet.
    The medicine man now faced the problem of the dragon, who was now growling fiercely at the apothecary having smelt what he was soon to ingest.
    "Pour one drop of that stuff on me and I'll chew your arms off." Melanth promised, eyes flickering evilly.
    The little man backed off, looking for an exit, and backed right into Seamus who had predicted this eventuality.
    "Not until the job's done." He said pointing back at Melanth. The apothecary gulped, sending his adams apple bouncing like a ball on a string.
    "But you heard him!" He squeaked.

- 23 -

Part 24

    Seamus inclined his head.
    "Sol?" He said. The large red dragon, who had been watching the display, picked up a table leg and twirled it in his claws, then rammed it between Melanth's jaws, wedging them open.
    The little man gulped again, then quickly darted forward and tipped the last of his vile potion down Melanth's struggling neck. Taking the opportunity while the dragon was coughing to stuff the bottles and tubes back into his box and then ran back down the stairs at a pace that left papers drifting in his wake, just as Melanth choked the last of the liquid out of his lungs.
    The horrible potion had left a lingering taste in Paul's mouth that would not go away. He began to feel drowsy and sluggish, and the world around him became fuzzy around the edges. The pain in his head subsided, but by that time he was in a stupor and was barely aware of being moved on a stretcher back to the barracks. Dimly, he noticed as that the Hermit and Sho Hai disappeared into a smaller room, talking in low, clandestine tones. Melanth however proved to be a problem to move, and it seemed that a general consensus to simply leave him to sleep until the potion's effects had passed.
    When morning came, the pain in his head had lessened but was still sufficient enough to prevent him rising. Groaning, he simply rolled over, put his hands to his temples and went back to sleep, wishing the apothecary all the ill luck in the world.
    Aélynth roused him later, bursting into his room so unexpectedly that he gave a start and fell out of his bed.
    "Oh!" She cried, quickly ducking back out and covering her eyes. "Sorry, I didn't realise…" She said sheepishly.
    "It's okay, I've still got my armour on." Paul said, loosening his grip on the sheets where his instant reaction had been to wrap them around himself. "What is it you want?"
    "Nothing particularly, just checking up on you." She said, stepping once more back into the room. "We haven't seen you all day, and Darnell was getting worried. Melanth had done a runner too, but Casanac says he's bathing in the river." She reported, eying him critically. "Are you sure you're ok? You look like perdition."
    "Just a headache," He told her, trying not to think about it because the pain was stronger when he concentrated on it. "Is Melanth ok? Something happened to him in the… hallucination we shared. I didn't get a chance to talk to him afterwards."
    She cocked an eyebrow at him.
    "You don't miss a trick do you?" She said sarcastically. "He's been distant, even what little we've seen of him. That's half the reason that I'm here. We want to know what happened, what you saw…" The last was almost a whisper from her.
    She sat on the end of his bed and listened intently as he explained what had happened in the dream. It was the only word he could think of to describe what had happened, yet it had not truly been a dream. Dreams were fuzzy and difficult to remember once they were over, but that had seemed as real as the bed in which he was lying. Had he not known that they had been in the room same all the time, he would have sworn that he had been transported to wherever it was that Eternity had made her nest.
    "I've heard of stories about magic," Aélynth said, looking concerned. "And none of them were good. They say that magic serves both light and darkness in equal measure, that it's a sort of resource, like air I suppose but it has a mind all of its own. It takes a very powerful mind to bend magic to your will, even for small spells, or it will turn on you and destroy you." A fleeting look of horror passed across her face as she contemplated what could have happened yesterday. "Look, if you and the dragon are going to be messing around with magic, be careful. I hear tell that even venerable old Sho Hai doesn't mess with the stuff if he can avoid it. Eternity must have been powerful indeed to wield such control over it…"
    Paul grinned knowingly as Aélynth finished her speech. He imagined that this was the way a mother talked to a child who had just eaten a worm.
    "It seems that everyone knows her around here, or knew her of her at least. Did you see the look on Seamus' face when the Hermit was having his speech?" He said, reminiscing.
    "No one knew her personally, I don't think." Aélynth said, shaking her head. "But even so, she helped whip people up into a war they weren't prepared for. I really don't suppose anyone believed her at first, but one thing is certain; your friend, that little round old man knows more than he is letting on." She said severely.
    "Wouldn't surprise me." Paul said glumly. "He got me into this without ever even telling me what it was all about." He grinned again, softly this time. "I probably wouldn't have gone if I had known what all this would be about, killing and fighting and all that. Still," He said, leaning back and cracking his knuckles. "This place is better than where I was before. I don't think I'd ever go back now, not unless it's to burn it to the ground."
    Aélynth lowered her eyes.
    "My home, Carvaka, is already in ashes." She said sadly. "Or will be soon. That's why I stay. I know what its like to be the little and defenceless one, the one who is left to pick up the pieces when some invader comes and kills your family, takes your food and clothes and leaves you in the gutters amongst the bodies. My mother died shortly after my father, from a slow, wasting disease no healer could cure or priest could exorcise. The grief didn't help either, and when she passed away my brothers and sisters were cast out onto the streets and our home was taken by the government to pay the debts." She sighed, wringing her hands. Tears welled up in her eyes and she sniffed them back before she continued speaking. "I stowed away on the trader's wagons. It had been my job to look after my siblings after our parents died, but when my older sister took a husband she agreed to take them in. I had no idea where we were heading, only west I knew. I met Osuoli as a beast driver in the caravan, though I only really got to know him later when we arrived here. Then I ended up here, and when I saw other girls in armour I decided that I'd join up rather than live on the streets again. Anything except that."
    She sniffed a second time and wiped her tears on the back of her hand, standing up and stretching. Paul knew that most of the people who ended up in Haven came from a hard background, searching for a better life or a land not tearing its self apart at the seams through war. There had been a great many wars in the last decade, and each one seemed calculated as if by the hand of some god to cause as much havoc and strife as possible. Crops had failed inexplicably for years, and countries and nations that had once been allies in the Great War had turned against each other, especially in the south and east where good land was hard to come by. It was either that or starve for many of them.
    "At least I have a better life here." She said. "Someday, when all this is over, I'm going back to get my sisters and bring them here. At least here all we have to worry about are goblins, not where the next meal is coming from."
    She took her leave, walking out through the door with a mumbled goodbye. Paul felt a stab of sympathy for her hardships, hardships that could only be compounded by the knowledge that whilst she had a better life in Haven, what remained of her family was still suffering on the dire streets of Carvaka, the largest and least reputable of the southern Triad or Circle cities.
    Rousing himself, he snatched the bucket from outside his door and readied himself, stripping off his armour before washing and donning civilian clothes. Today was his company's day off; Haven's forces rotated to ensure that each regiment had at least one free day every seven days.
    He left the fortress, tipping his head slightly to the guards on duty as he passed through the double gates and out into the city. Spicy odours of food and perfume and the shouts of stall owners briskly flogging their wares hit him like a battering ram almost as soon as he was past the threshold of the great fort. For all effects and purposes, it was like walking into a different world. In the city there was none of the strict discipline and exhausting drills they had to endure every day, there was only trade; trade of food, of clothes and information. A pair of ladies bearing armfuls of washing stopped by a corner and gossiped noisily. Almost innumerable stores, smithies and taverns lined the streets. All around there was the buzz of chatter, of which Paul caught fragments as he dodged and weaved his way past the jostling crowds. Haven city was by no means perfect; people argued, accidents happened and late at night drunks roamed the street, but it was a far cry from the horrors of Carvaka. He broke off from the main streets, having learned from experience that the cooler and smaller back alleys often made for faster travel on market day. He exited the weaving and meandering streets at the walls, then headed along a street parallel to the bastions, searching for a gate. Aélynth had forgotten to mention where Melanth was hiding, but Paul suspected that he would be back at the waterfall where Storm and Casanac had cornered him. Since the last incident, the dragon had confided in him that the secluded spot was a favourite refuge for meditation. Though Melanth had not realised it, that little secret had chagrined Paul; after all this time and the things that they had endured together, Melanth still felt that he could not trust Paul enough to share his troubles?
    It only took a few minutes to find the gates. They were flung wide to admit the numerous wagons and convoys of caravans that flooded Haven on a day after day. Traders arrived from distant towns and across the ocean to trade their cattle and fine silks. Paul often had to dance out of the way of a herd of steers as their roustabouts tried to cram them through the slender gates, swearing and waving long birch rods to clear the way of citizens. Dusting himself down after their thunderous entrance, he swore and wished that he had thought to don his armour. Though he had not yet completed his training, the armour would command greater respect from the rough-cut herders and hopefully help him to avoid being trampled.
    He set off into the woods that lined either side of the rough and dusty track that began immediately outside the gate. Keeping woods outside a fortress was considered bad practice amongst the generals, who pushed Sho Hai to have it cut down. Woods gave the enemy cover and resources to build siege weapons with which they might crack the walls of the great bastion, but the Master had insisted that they stay. With them, Haven had a ready supply of fuel for its own forges and homes for the dragons and metamorphs who would be unwelcome hindrances within the city. The woods were also a training area. In a land almost totally surrounded by woods, it paid to train your men to fight and manoeuvre in the close boughs. Unlike the open fields, infantry could not range against each other and charge to the enemies line, and nor could mounted cavalry charge within the trees, which was ideal for Haven as it had few horses or riders trained for cavalry warfare.
    Paul picked his way through the trees until he came to the riverside, then he followed the sandy bank of the stream, avoiding the worst of the brambles and snagging roots. The water gurgled and rippled along its course soothingly, churning up pale yellow foam that clung to rocks and branches that poked from beneath the crystal surface. Hawks shrieked in the air, swooping and diving through a flock of sparrows until one unfortunate met its end, then squabbled amongst each other for the spoils while the survivors winged their way into the distance. He passed a group of women who were washing clothes in the river and a pair of young children who were sitting on the opposite bank, dangling crude stick fishing rods into the water. He felt jealous that they should live so easily when he had suffered, even in his younger years, but chided himself for being so petty as to envy mere children.
    When he caught sight of the waterfall he began to move more stealthily, stepping on rocks so that his feet would not crunch in the loose sand, grabbing overhanging tree limbs to avoid tripping. Melanth was sprawled on the opposite bank, basking in the full heat of the sun and splayed across a huge boulder, his tail swishing gently as he slumbered and brushing the surface of the pool. Grinning to himself, Paul crept closer, circling around the deep pool and beneath the watery curtain, heading for the opposite side of the fall where he would not have to scale the sheer rock He crouched low behind a rough shrub that sprouted from a crack in the granite, then leapt out, yelling as loud as he could.
    Melanth shot up, wings and legs flailing. His limbs, reaching the conclusion that his brain wasn't there acted on their own and in opposition to each other; his legs tried to stand and his wings take flight at the same time, causing him to trip over his own tail and flip almost gracefully backwards, headfirst into the drink.
    "You!" He roared, surfacing with a spray of foam and coughing as Paul almost fell in himself, stood on the bluff and bent double with laughter. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack or something?"
    While Paul was still choking with laughter, his head shot forward and clamped the front of Paul's shirt in his teeth, unbalancing him. His laughter died with a startled choke as he teetered on the edge of the fall for a split second, then he too fell in the deep plunge pool.
    "It's going to take me hours to get that warm again." Melanth said, playfully dunking him under the surface while Paul struggled against the offending claw. From further down the bank, the children who were fishing started giggling, watching the pair's antics. The dragon released his friend and slithered out of the pool, claws clacking on loose rocks. He arranged himself to sun on the beach, and watched as Paul too clambered out of the cold water.
    "Is something bothering you?" Paul asked, stripping off his soaked shirt and wringing it out on the bank. "You only ever seem to come here when something is weighing on your mind." He watched the dragon's reactions carefully, watching for fleeting frowns of fallen expressions that might reveal that Melanth was lying. He was surprised however when Melanth smiled; raising his lip so that the points of his teeth were only just visible.
    "I am meditating on the last day's events." He said, lying his head down on the warm sand. "Or at least meditating as much as this be-damned headache is allowing me. I saw things, in the final moments, just as the spell was fading. A great many memories were revealed to me; some that I was aware of and did not understand, and others that eluded me entirely." He sighed, before continuing slowly.
    "Eternity, my mother, appeared to me in this vision, and in my dreams later that night. She showed me things, such wondrous things that I can not begin to understand. Through her visions, she showed me a part of her involvement in this giant mess." Melanth turned his head to regard Paul, his eyes glimmering with sorrow and pride. "It was she who got us involved in the war, the Dragons I mean. We all knew that something had to be done to curb your king's bloody rampage, but for the longest time our Seers, the greatest and wisest among, us could not agree on one course of action. They gathered at a sacred place where a stone was kept; an artefact said to have been a gift of the gods when the first of our kind were just beginning to crawl from the rivers. This stone, this Narrasiah as we call it in our tongue, was used by both factions in the philosophical debates as to whether we should go to war or hide as we had always done." As he continued, Melanth virtually radiated pride. "She broke it, shattered the stone. It was all she could do to end the arguing that threatened to split out kin. It was a sacrilegious act, but something had to be done and none were prepared to contest her might. She rallied us; all who remained and bade us make our way to Haven. Many who are here now are here because of her words, spoken through the council of the Seers before they were killed. She herself was too near to the time of laying to lead us, and secreted herself in her lair while she planned and schemed for the future- guided all the while by the visions that plagued her so." Melanth grinned to himself.
    "I never knew that Sol was a Seer." He said in an amused tone. "He's going to have some explaining to do to Seamus and Sho Hai."
    "You had one hell of a mom." Paul chuckled, glad to see Melanth so happy once again.
    "She was a real hell raiser." Melanth said "She had the Seer council up in arms so often many of them wanted her stripped of her position. None of them dared however. She was old, and powerful. Old enough to have seen most of the Great Wars, and even knocked off a couple of the Bespoken before it was all over. Most of them thought she was dead until she appeared out of the blue about ten years before all this started to happen..."
    Sensing that Melanth was finished and needed at least a little time to piece together what he had seen, Paul walked a short way off and scaled a tree. He sat on a branch for a while in silence, watching the water cascading over the rocks. The rush of the water, twittering of birds and chatter of the women further down the stream were the only sounds to reach his ears; so different from the rumble of carts and shouting that his ears still expected from his days in Ironhold. Compared to that place, Haven, war or no war was a veritable paradise.
    "You must miss her." He said finally, breaking the silence.

- 24 -

Part 25

    Melanth sighed and rose to his haunches. He seemed to be looking at something distant, high up in the sky.
    "I can't miss someone I never knew Paul." He replied distantly. "All of my family died on the sword a couple of days after I hatched. Brothers, sisters, all of them. The only one who might still be alive is my father, and that is only because males leave after the female had laid her eggs. Even if I could hope to find him he wouldn't know me…"
    Melanth stood and stretched, spreading his wings wide enough to encircle the bank on which they stood. He waited politely as Paul climbed down out of his tree, watching his friend carefully. Paul knew what Melanth was thinking; of all the people he could have been partnered with, Paul was probably the best match. It seemed improbable that the two should share such similar backgrounds. They were both orphans, both came from societies that had been persecuted and had both been thrown into a world where it seemed that the only ones who didn't know what was going on were they themselves. Especially in these last two days when so much was being revealed to them, Paul had began to suspect that it was not just some random fluke of chance that had led the Hermit to him. Eternity had been wise, had foreseen the events that were to take place. Perhaps she had also plotted that Paul and Melanth were to meet? He had suspected as much since hearing of her meetings with Sho Hai, and he knew that Melanth too was starting to question whether their meeting had been fate or arranged…
    "The sun shines brightly today." Melanth said, changing the subject with a faint smile. "It seems a shame to waste such a glorious day dwelling on matters out of our control and beyond our ability to change."
    "I still haven't seen the city from the air." Paul said, taking the dragon's hint. "Perhaps that would be something to do?"
    In response, Melanth lowered himself to the ground, and waited while Paul climbed onto his neck. It seemed suddenly strange to Paul that such a large creature, one who could crush him with a single swipe of a paw was essentially under his aegis. Though the dragon was by no means a fool, Melanth was of roughly the same level as a child; he had poor judgement and a short temper that if not for Paul's advice and restraint would have landed him in trouble many times. Melanth trusted in him to make decisions that could affect the course of the two's lives, decisions that he was not capable of making by himself.
    The dragon flapped skywards, circling over the trees to gain height. Below them, the same children who had laughed at their antics were watching with something approaching wonder. Rods forgotten, they stood shielding their eyes with raised hands, watching as Melanth rose further into the sky.
    With a sudden movement, Melanth veered sideways, rolling through the air and plunging into a steep dive before levelling out just above the trees, hurtling at breakneck speed towards the walls of the city.
    "Whoa! What was that for?" Paul managed to cry out. Because the dragon had no saddle he was forced to hang on with his legs or risk falling to the ground.
    "Just testing your reflexes." Melanth smirked as he shot over the walls. Buildings flew past at dizzying speed and Paul began to feel queasy.
    The last of the buildings fell away as the passed over the lake. The marina on the opposite shore was clearly visible, and that appeared to be where the crazy lizard was heading. He was gaining altitude too, rising once again to allow Paul a view over the vast expanse that was Haven.
    Though Paul had wandered many of the streets at ground level, he had never imagined that anything could be so large. The city stretched away into the distance, almost completely encircling the entire lake. At both the southern end, where the great river flowed into the lake and at the northern end where the lake emptied into a huge valley bridges had been erected; massive arches of stone that linked the two sides of the city and lashed the mighty walls together. The city had long ago outgrown the confines of even these huge constructions and spilled over into the surrounding countryside as scattered settlements and homesteads. From the air, Paul could see the black beetle-like figures of his comrades, training in the courtyard of the fortress below. The dragon began to descend, still heading for the marina, though his pace had slowed much. He seemed to be immensely enjoying the rare opportunity for the two to spend some much earned quality time together, and often vocalised his pleasure with cheeps and whistles that Paul had never expected to hear from such a fearsome creature.
    Melanth wheeled suddenly, dropping one wingtip into the water and sending up a spray of foam that caught Paul full in the face.
    "What was that for?" He asked, spluttering and wiping away the flecks.
    "You were drifting off. I though I would wake you up a bit." Melanth said. He rolled again. The sky was his toy, the air a playground he sailed through effortlessly.
    He slowed on his approach to the marina, back-winging with a noise like the lashing of a whip. Traders scattered and watched in annoyance as he came to rest with a flurry of wings on a wooden railing, which let out a high pitched shriek and bent under his weight.
    "What do ye think ye doin' ye crazy beast? Shoo!" Shouted one burly fisherman, whose punters had fled as Melanth approached.
    "Shoo?" Melanth cried in mock annoyance. Standing on his hind legs he raised himself to his full height, using his wings to balance. Paul had to throw his arms around Melanth's neck or face a long fall to the hard boards below.
    "I protest good sir; I am not a bird to be 'shooed' away." He said, shooting Paul a sidelong wink. With Paul still on his back, he hopped off the railing and went to stand inches from the fishmonger's face, casting his shadow over the now panicky looking man.
    Though most of the crowd had begun to back off, Paul spied a few grins amongst the sea of faces. It was a little known fact that dragons had a sense of humour, all be it not something that could be immediately recognised as such by the vast majority of people. Paul reminded Melanth of this with a slight kick in the sides; it wouldn't do to cause an incident that could throw dragons against human within Haven its self. Taking the hint, Melanth lowered himself to all fours again and extended a foreleg to aid Paul in dismounting, but in a final gesture he leaned close to the man and snorted hard enough to blow his hat off. Once the crowds calmed down trade began again in earnest. Paul walked amongst the stalls, wondering if it would be worth spending a few coins for some of the more interesting items. Melanth followed him, curious and mildly interested in a bored sort of way. His presence was imposing and his size crowded the open stalls as people crammed against their fellows to avoid jostling him. He marvelled at items of jewellery and sniffed at the various exotic meats that hung from some of the more solid constructions and were being offloaded from ships, turning up his nose at many of them.
    "If any gnoll ate these he would be a cannibal." He stated flatly to one pie seller, making many of the customers spit out mouthfuls.
    Paul would have stayed longer, but it was clear that the dragon was growing impatient and bored. He had seen many exotic items; spices, fine silks, jewellery and even a stall selling weapons. He had only a few coins on him, the rest of his pay as a soldier of Haven having been left on the belt of his armour, but what he had rapidly disappeared. Rice was a bland meal, and after seven weeks of eating nothing but that he had felt inclined to treat himself.
    Mid day was fast approaching, and as such the crowds were growing thicker. Now that the foreigners and traders had all set up their stalls, the natives were flocking the marina to buy their wares. Even Melanth began to get jostled by the sheer press of bodies; Haven's citizens had lived too long amongst his kind to fear them. In the end Paul climbed back up onto Melanth's neck, sitting sideways and watching yet another ship come to harbour.
    The dragon carried them out of the marina and away from the raucous traders, eventually walking across the causeway that linked the floating market to the shore. He wandered amongst the smaller buildings and streets talking absently to Paul. The streets on this side of the lake were narrower and often lined with trees. There were fewer shops and no carts to trample the unwary. From what Paul understood, this was where the majority of Haven's citizens lived. Aside from the great iron foundry there was no real industry here. The opposite side of the lake, where the fortress was, was the main area for such things. Most of the granaries and supply stores were located close to the fort in case of attack where they could be defended more easily. The only reason that the forge was on this side of the lake was that the iron would sink boats and the slender bridges could not cope with such a heavy produce.
    "I have longed to see the gardens of this city." Melanth said happily, negotiating a corner. "I have heard much talk of them from my kin. It would seem that they are something of a legend in these parts."
    "Then let us see them." Paul grinned, slapping the dragon's neck. "I have seen what I came to see, it is only fair that we should now do what you desire."
    Melanth trotted through the pleasant streets, letting the soft scents of the flowers of the garden guide him. Paul was content to watch the daily bustle of life within the city proper, surprised at how much it differed from the life in Ironhold. Here, people were happy to work, knowing that it was for the enrichment of their own lives and the lives of those around them. Back at Ironhold, those who worked at all regarded it as a chore.
    The city gardens surrounded the main plaza. Though Paul had never seen them, the inhabitants of Haven were very proud indeed of these marvels. The gardens were a sanctuary for rare and exotic plants. Bright, colourful birds were housed in enormous aviaries; coils of metal wrought with cunning precision that spiralled nearly a hundred feet into the air and supported huge stone blocks inscribed with the names of all those of these lands who died during the first, ancient war. Even when they were still a way off, Paul, from his vantage on the dragon's neck, could see these blocks, laid horizontally between the four spiralling aviary-pillars. The houses parted as Melanth rounded a corner, opening out into a long, sandstone lane. Ivy covered most of the stonework, and that what was visible was very old indeed. Trees overhang the path, casting a thin, cooling shade and adding to the seeming tranquillity of the place. Few people wandered amongst the winding paths, and those who did were silent, pensive.
    "It's very quiet." Melanth noted as they left the lane, coming out into an open area full of trees and grass. Paths of similar sandstone were laid on the ground, so visitors would not have to walk on the grass. "Not even the birds sing."
    Paul listened carefully. The only sounds were the gentle trickle of the fountains and whistle of wind in the boughs of the trees. The clicking of Melanth's claws rudely interrupted the stillness of this place as the dragon moved silently, sometimes sniffing at odd looking plants. Paul jumped down from his neck. He was shivering, though the sun beat down hard on his back He was beginning to suspect that he had been here before.
    "It is strange…" Melanth said stopping dead still. He gave all the impression of one who was afraid of heights, knowing that they had to cross a rickety bridge yet being too afraid to even put their feet forwards. "There is something else in this place, I do not see it nor hear it, but I feel it never the less. It is like a shower of liquid ice flowing beneath my scales. There is memory here; memory of things too terrible to imagine."
    He tried to step forwards again, but was repelled and sent reeling as if he had just walked into an invisible wall. He growled to himself in his throat.
    "I can not bring myself to go any further," He said; apparently puzzled, but a waver in his deep voice gave away the fear he was concealing. "My will is undone," He murmured, giving up his futile struggle to progress. "What evil is this so close to our home? It is unerring that such a force should be so close and remain unchecked…"
    "I do not think it is evil." Paul said, now sure in his mind that he stood directly above Mau-Set's torture chamber. Had Sho Hai not said that the chamber lay below the city square, and that dragons avoided the place? "No, not evil," He repeated. "More like remembrance I think. Evil things happened here, terrible things as you thought but that was long ago. The spirits here only remember, or so I was told."
    Melanth stood stock still and half lidded his eyes in thought. He seemed to be expanding his senses outside his body, sensing and listening intently as if expecting a reply. Finally, he raised his head to the air and took a long, drawn out sniff of the gardens.
    "Dragons are not meant for this place," He said slowly, as if reaching a conclusion. "My kind live for the moment; we are not meant to remember such things." He snorted, taking one last look about the place, savouring the moment. "Let us go. This place unnerves me, no matter what you tell me about what happened here. Foul or fair, this lovely sanctuary to nature that your kind has erected is no more than the sugar coating of the poison!"
    He turned and left with such haste that Paul had to run to keep up, shooting down the sandstone alley as though the demons of Deadside were snapping at his heels.

- 25 -

Part 26

    It had been told to wait.
    The Shadow was not impatient. It could never be impatient, not having spent as long as it had in Deadside. It had spent millennia of doing nothing and expecting nothing. It even admitted to its self (if shamefully) that it had spent most of that time pretending to the best of its abilities, to be dead. However, it objected to being locked up again, held hostage from the light and the sky it had come to love once more. It had been weeks since it had undertaken its mission to slay the survivors of the Bespoken, and in that mission it had been successful, even feeling a warped kind of pride that it had lost none of its own legendary lethality.
    Eternity had plans; that much was obvious. Somehow, from beyond the grave, she was coordinating, acting behind the scenes. The Shadow saw this as meddling in affairs that it considered beyond Eternity's ability to manage, but since its arrival here it had stalked one of the last groups of dragons in this part of the land. The reports it had overheard and eavesdropped on from the scaly beasts told that the majority of their kin that remained had fled to a fort in the northern lands. The Shadow strongly suspected that Eternity had a hand in that. The dragons were a notoriously disorganised but proud species, and only Eternity; one of the most cunning of their kind could have persuaded them to make the long trek.
    Eternity had even talked the Shadow into doing her bidding.
    The Shadow sat and brooded, thinking back to the spirit that had tried to possess it what seemed like months ago. It still had not answer as to the nature of this mysterious foe. Perhaps it was a restless spirit, stirred up from the eternal slumber by the unrest on this mortal plain; Eternity had hinted as much, but only a truly calamitous event could stir the undead, and this weighed on its mind. It was unhappy with the current arrangement, but it was also reluctant to jeopardise the dragon's plans, even though it was dubious as to the nature of such plans.
    As it sat, sullen and silent in its lair, save for an occasional sigh and longing glance at the entrance, its only wish was that Eternity had told it what she had planned…
    Melanth only stopped running when they were once again by the shore of the lake. The clear waters glistened bluely in the mid-morning sun and seemed to cleanse him of the mad compulsion he had felt to flee from the evil gardens. Paul caught up with him, staggering and panting he stumbled over to his friend, propping himself up on the dragon while he recovered his breath.
    "Sorry," Melanth said sheepishly. "I thought it would be best to get away quickly, I almost forgot that you were with me."
    "It's alright," Paul panted. "I need the exercise I think."
    The day was still relatively young by the time they decided to move on again, not wanting to miss dinner. Melanth took a more controlled route this time, gliding lazily over the bastions that guarded the entrance to the lake from the river. The bridge its self was stick thin; a wonder of construction. Seamus had told them that the graceful arch was held in place by its own weight, and that not a scrap on mortar or cement had been used in its construction. Though this did nothing to encourage Paul as to the safety of the bridge, thousands of people crossed it and its twin at the other end of the lake every day.
    Melanth landed with a clatter in the courtyard, startling a pair of horses that were being led into the stables. The familiar smells of food wafted on the breeze, making their stomachs rumble and their mouths water. Lunch was a short affair, with Aélynth and Darnell arriving mid-way through the feasting and taking seats beside Paul. The two had been exploring the city much as Paul and Melanth had, and Aélynth was now carrying an armful of fine silks and odd, foreign looking clothes.
    "You know what they say about women and clothes…" Darnell said, rolling his eyes just before Aélynth pushed him off his seat.
    When they left the hall Melanth was not in the courtyard, nor was he perched upon the barracks roof as was his usual haunt. Casanac jumped down from the armoury battlements, her stealth taking all three by surprise.
    "Sho Hai called him away," She said, sniffing them all in turn in greeting. "I do not know why."
    "That's odd," Aélynth said, looking at Casanac critically. "He didn't say where he was going?"
    "No, Sho Hai just appeared and whisked him off to the command building without even a word."
    "Oh well, we'll find out what it was about sooner or later."
    Darnell coughed lightly.
    "Well, we can catch up with Melanth later, but for the present the alehouses have special offers on, what with it being market day and all, if you take my hint that is."
    Aélynth grinned, indicating to a lichen covered stone building, nestled in between a tannery and a bakers. A chipped wooden sign swung above the weathered wooden door and intoxicating smells issued whenever it was opened.
    The three filed inside, mouths watering with the succulent smell of roasting meat and baking bread. The tavern was a single large room, with circular tables scattered about the floor. A counter was lined across the far wall, manned by a stalwart innkeeper who stood exhausted under a barrage of orders for drinks and food. Waitresses were flitting between the tables carrying dishes and mugs seemingly far too large and heavy laden for their slender frames. All of the tables were packed. In a corner one group was chanting a bawdy drinking song, all of them well gone in their cups though the day was only half done. The air was alive with the chatter, shouts and lewd lyrics of the patrons, who did not seem to notice that three entering and taking seats at the bar.
    "What is it you want?" The exasperated barman said gruffly, passing a pair of flagons to a waitress who hurried off with them. "Make it snappy too I haven't got all day."
    "Three of your finest" Aélynth said, slapping down a handful of coins on the counter with equal ire. "And none of that watered down stuff either, like what you gave to Jameson last week."
    The barman winced visible, taking a kinder tone.
    "No offence lass, no offence." He mumbled meekly, placing three foaming mugs before them. He then bustled off, avidly ignoring the three and refusing to make eye contact with Aélynth.
    "That was rude." Darnell said, casting her a dark glance. "You could have forgiven him his fault; you can see he's had a trying day."
    Aélynth snorted into her mug.
    "I forgive him his temper, but not the watered down ale. Apparently, Jameson didn't either." She finished with a smirk.
    The three drank and talked, wondering what the next few weeks would have in store for them.
    "I don't like the prospects we're facing." Darnell said, slurring his words slightly after his third mug. "If what the scouts' recon is true, we're going to have to beat a hasty retreat or stay here and get our asses kicked."
    Aélynth looked at him in disgust.
    "You won't be going anywhere except your bed if you keep drinking that fast." She warned.
    When finally their cups and money pouches were empty, the three began making their erratic progress back to the fort. The sun was just beginning to set as they meandered up the main road and through the gates, Darnell tripping twice. Paul's head felt light and was spinning pleasantly as he fell onto his bed, ready to retire for the night. He felt relaxed, if slightly sick.
    "Should have called it quits at six mugs…" He murmured before falling asleep.

- 26 -

Part 27

    He was woken rudely by a sound that could have come from the denizens of Deadside themselves. His head imploded in a pain that felt like his ears were being pierced by red hot pokers. His throat was sore and dry, his tongue thick. He tried to open his eyes, but the light hurt them abominably.
    "Feeling sore?" Melanth's voice asked in conversational tones, running his claws along the glass again which responded with another god-awful shriek.
    "For the love of Arim close the curtains!" Paul shouted, flinging his sheets over his head and stuffing pillows into his ears."
    "Why?" The dragon asked, hints of humour colouring his voice. "I've only just started having fun."
    Melanth was poking his head through the window, grinning gleefully at Paul's discomfort. "That should teach you not to drink so much."
    Drinking water seemed to help with the pain in his head and moisten his throat. Melanth watched with an aura of smugness while he buckled on his armour.
    "C'mon, you're late. Seamus is waiting for us in the yard." He snickered before disappearing from the window with a swish of his leathery wings.
    Paul ran down the stairs and out into the yard, stuffing his sword into his belt as he ran, nearly tripping as he did. Seamus was standing impatiently with the rest of the squad, tapping his foot. A second squad was lined behind his own. Paul guessed that the rest of the company had already been dismissed to the days training. He made profuse apologies for his lateness.
    "Slept in? Pull the other one. I already know from these two that you lot were in your cups last night." Seamus chided. Paul shot a scathing glance at Aélynth who grinned and shrugged.
    "Anyways, back to business." He continued, throwing a nasty glance at the hung-over three. "As you are aware, we are expecting first contact with the enemy within the week. It seems that they have been slowed by a particularly dense patch of forest. Preparations for this first engagement are underway and the soldiers stationed here have been briefed and informed of the situation as of this morning. Still, we need more time to ready the general population." He strode out in front of the assembled soldiers, taking a piece of chalk from a pouch on his belt. He crouched and began scratching a diagram on the stone floor.
    "To this end, our mission for today is to cut the enemy's supply lines and force them to either retreat and link with the larger force, or hold their position until more food arrives. As we all know, an army marches on its stomach" He grinned. This raised a few chuckles from some assembled.
    "We will fly in low and quiet. With any luck we will be undetected until we strike. Our targets are the supply wagons and any beasts of burden the enemy may have with them. Hopefully this will be a small number of large beasts, due to the constraint of moving large numbers of creatures through a forest." He ducked down and scratched on the flagstones. He drew a large arrow surrounded by a shaded area; the enemy in the forest. He continued to scrape with the chalk. A set of arrows appeared, feeding into the larger one, indicating the supply lines. "We will scour the forest here, well behind the main force." He said, circling the smaller arrows. "Any supply caravans we see are to be destroyed on sight. We will have to be quick though. Hellwings will be as quick as dragons to react once we make our presence known, so we will have to make a clean getaway to make sure were not followed. I will take command of the drunkards here; Raoul will take the second flight. Let's kit up and move out. We will intercept the enemy just after sunset, and we will pause once for a break at about mid day. Dismissed."
    The soldiers saluted and broke up, frantically gathering equipment and weapons. To add to the confusion, the dragons arrived and landed in the courtyard amid the chaos. Sol had briefed them on the wing, much as Seamus had the humans and given them their instructions. The dragons tossed their heads impatiently, stamping the ground and flicking heir tales in anticipation of the fight to come, whilst their riders struggled to saddle the great beasts in time.
    Paul slung a pouch containing a couple of days worth of food over Melanth's neck and raced to tie the buckles of the equipment harness. Though Melanth refused to accept a saddle, he allowed Paul to tie an equipment harness to his neck. This harness contained maps, a compass bandages and a sharp knife. Paul climbed up the dragon's foreleg and seated himself on Melanth's neck, grabbing the cool leather straps of the harness and bracing himself for takeoff. The others were nearly ready. Trent, Osuoli and Suyvetho were mounted on their respective dragons. Suyvetho carried a bow, similar to that which Aélynth held whereas both Trent and Osuoli were armed with long hafted spears that could be used much like a lance on a horse. The rest of those gathered carried the black bladed swords that were a hallmark of Haven. Paul studied his own blade with mild interest, admiring the stealthy and effective craftsmanship. No runes or idols adorned this blade, no decoration of any sort that was common of such weapons. It was a weapon of war, a weapon of killing, nothing more.
    Melanth rose to his hind legs and reared skywards, emitting an ear-splitting roar to signal his readiness for the fray. The other dragons made similar gestures, urging their riders to hurry.
    "Eager for a fight eh?" Paul joked, hanging onto the harness with white knuckles as the dragon reared again. Melanth snorted but did not otherwise reply.
    When Seamus finally thrust his sword skywards to order the takeoff, Melanth leapt into the sky so quickly and vigorously that Paul threw his arms around the dragon's neck. Once airborne the two squads quickly arranged themselves in the distinctive wedge that was both an intimidating display and a tactical formation. Seamus took the lead, followed by John and Trent. Darnel Osuoli and Paul trailed at the base of the formation, travelling in the slipstream of the leading three. Suyvetho flew above the formation with his bow, ready to counter any foes that dived out of the sun. Aélynth flew below, an arrow knocked and ready, a grim expression on her face.
    The air was chill even though the sun shone brightly above the clouds, and Paul was soon thankful for the thick, padded armour he wore. The wind at their backs carried them swiftly out into the green ocean of the Endless Boughs. Flocks of birds took wing as they passed, startled from their nests by the fleeting shadows and glinting claws, only to be swept up in the slipstream and sent tumbling through the air.
    "Stupid creatures," Melanth commented, watching the birds disappear into the canopy. "I never did like birds, especially pigeons. Very dumb creature is your average pigeon, and clumsy too. They're a disgrace to avian kind."
    They flew until well past mid day, Melanth taking his lead from Sol and Paul's buttocks growing steadily number as the day progressed. They skimmed low over the treetops, so low that the branches of the tallest trees brushed Melanth's belly. Sometimes they would pass over a meadow or wild pasture and creatures would scurry for the cover of the trees or herds of wild cows or horses would flee with panicked noises. Paul was on the verge of falling asleep as he had done many times on the journey to Haven when Seamus called a halt. The flight broke formation and spiralled down to the forest floor, descending with branch snapping cracks through the canopy.
    Paul dismounted, shaking leaves out of his hair. The forest was cramped for the dragons, and to his amusement Sol had managed to wedge himself between two trees. Whilst the dragons set about ripping up trees to make a suitable space, he joined Seamus and the rest of the company in a scant meal.
    The meal was a frugal affair, eaten silently. Hours of rough flying had stiffened joints and chilled faces, and the humans were simply content to warm themselves by fires that the dragons generously ignited. Seamus went between the two flights, speaking in hushed tones and making sure that everyone understood the plan to the letter.
    Paul sat with Aélynth and Darnell, his back resting against Melanth, who was taking the opportunity to catch up on lost sleep. They spoke rarely, and always in muted tones. Each knew what was going through the other's heads. They were nervous, nervous about the battle to come, concerned for their own safety and the safety of each other. Paul had begun to wish that he was a dragon; the dragons lived for battle and glory, but, perhaps more importantly they were bloody difficult to kill. Even with his armour, Paul was made of skin and muscle. In other words, things that are easy to cut. He thought of the dragon that lay beneath him, all armoured sinew and scales that could turn aside even the mightiest of blows. He could not help feeling jealous.
    The break was short and they were soon on their way again. The howling of the wind occluded all sound except the steady thump, thump of Melanth's wings. The horizon before them was dark, almost black as though a distant storm was unleashing its wrath upon the enemy they too sought, and this lightened Paul's heart. Melanth was uneasy however, and took the storm clouds as a bad omen.
    "I have flown some of the roughest skies both sides of the great river and I have never seen clouds such as these." He muttered darkly.
    At first Paul paid little heed to the dragon's ominous words, but as they advanced closer and closer to their target it became apparent that he was right.
    "That is no storm!" Seamus yelled with open mouthed awe. "It's smoke!"
    What had seemed to be storm clouds were in fact massive, choking pillars of smoke pouring from gigantic fires.
    "They're burning the forest!" Melanth roared in rage. "Burning the felled trees to clear a path for those who would come behind them!"
    They pressed on, flying as close to the ground as the dared. Darkness was descending rapidly and the cold came with it, though it was hardly felt. They checked their speed and began searching for a place to wait until the sun was fully set. The dragons' vision was dimming fast, and they began to rely on their riders for their sight. The scent of smoke was thick in the air, Seamus having angled them to attack downwind of their enemies. All appeared to be going according to plan.
    "Into the trees." Paul urged Melanth as Seamus made his arm signal for the second time. Landing the nearly blind dragon through the leaves and branches proved tricky, even for the veteran flyers. Eventually Seamus ordered them to stop trying to reach the ground and simply perch in the branches.
    Paul didn't even bother to dismount; at the speed the sun was setting they would be ready to strike within the hour. He watched the pillar of smoke intently, watching the oily black tongues curl up into the air. He fancied he could hear the steady, beating work of axes carried through the air. The trees of the Endless Boughs could not be burned themselves as living trees will only partially burn, but the enemy was rapidly forging a path through the forest by dint of the blade. The ground behind them was littered with the burnt out husks of trees and tattered hulks of stumps which made life difficult enough for the supply caravans to make this mission worth while. However, it meant that the second and main force would arrive sooner than was hoped.
    Paul felt sick, like he had swallowed a large weight. He was not afraid as such, but he wished he was somewhere else, and not about to fly into the hordes of enemies who were carving their way through the trees. He could see little of their foes from here as his vantage was scarcely higher than that of the enemies', but from the air he had caught indistinct glimpses of dark shadows in the air and on the ground. The sheer number of enemies was staggering; enough to make the untrained man quail but he had been prepared for this, they all knew their places.
    The black of the sky told the tale all gathered needed to know, and so when Seamus ordered them to lift off for the final time it came as no surprise. Their roles were now reversed; Melanth with his acute night vision took the lead and Paul was forced to wait and do nothing, giving his mind far too much time to contemplate all the horrible ways he could possible die. No matter how much he tired to dam them they always managed to seep through treacherously. Melanth flew as silently as an owl. In the near pitch blackness, Paul could only make guesses as to how close they were getting. The sounds of axes and hoarse, inhuman cries punctuated the air. Not even at night did the enemy relent.
    Like something from a child's nightmares. But this was very real. The ruddy red glow of the fires made everything seem steeped in blood, even before the battle. It glinted off Melanth's claws, off the pommel of Paul's sword. Shadowy shapes moved indistinctly, only this time the shadows were longer, darker than when viewed from afar. They were gliding right over the enemy now. Paul was amazed they had not been spotted and the alarm raised.
    "I can lend you my sight." Melanth rumbled, twisting his neck around. "At least then you can see what to strike at." Paul said nothing, afraid to speak lest the enemy hear him. Melanth understood his silent reply. "Get a better hold or you might fall off." He advised.
    Paul complied, grabbing the leather strap and twisting his hand so the strap was wrapped around his wrist. He felt a curious sensation he had not experienced the last time, as though his brain had slipped down his throat, through his buttocks and into the dragon's neck, where it travelled along to his head. Paul's vision became brighter, the darkness replaced by grey and white that pierced the shadows. The shadows that seemed enormous and threatening through Paul's own eyes were revealed to be goblins scurrying through the felled trees and the stumps, blissfully unaware of the dragons above them. There was no colour, because Melanth could only see colour in the daylight.
    "I see the wagons." Paul said, spotting the off-grey shapes a little way ahead. Seamus was pointing his finger at them. "It's time." He said grimly, as much to the dragon as to himself.
    Melanth tipped his wing, descending slowly, flying straight for the caravans. Around them, the others were doing the same, breaking out of the v-formation and forming a line that swept towards their unknowing enemies. Raoul's squad was doing similar, only his was breaking north, heading to cut off any wagons that would try to flee.
    Flame and fury roared from Sol's open mouth, incinerating the caravan, the horses pulling it and the driver, who didn't even have time to turn his head. The line broke up, dragons streaking off in all different directions. Melanth shot past the ruined wagon and raced further up the convoy. A likely target, a row of wagons all neatly lined up presented its self.

- 27 -

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