Michael Stackpole - When Dragons Rage

“Please. Tell them we will advise of conditions once we see what is happening, but that it does not look good.”

“As you wish.”

Suddenly, the dragon reared up. Its wings spread wide, its head rose and let out a ghastly shriek—equal parts outrage and hatred. Its head came back down and its gaze swept over Nawal. Kerrigan found himself holding tight to the balcony’s balustrade, wanting to flee, but too terrified to do anything for fear he would be noticed.

With its forepaws clutched to its chest and wings stretched up and out until the tips almost touched above its head, the dragon lumbered forward. It moved as a fowl might, swaying from side to side, its tail jauntily bouncing behind it. It knocked over a few banners, and squashed a few gibberers, but those were just the ones who had been upset by the pounding of its heavy tread.

The dragon passed in front of the Aurolani lines, then hopped almost as a vulture would, approaching Nawal as if the city were carrion. A few arrows arced out, but they bounced harmlessly off thick scales. The dragon loomed larger, the battleground dolmen barely reaching its breastbone.

Its head lowered again, but any hints of benign intent died as its eyes hardened and its mouth opened. Kerrigan actually felt the heat before he saw flames, then all he saw was a roiling torrent of living fire. It struck the eastern gate and wall hard enough that masonry cracked and stones shifted even before they began to glow. The massive oaken gates blew in like shutters before a cyclone and then, in an eyeblink, became ash stains spread deep into the city.

The people who had been on the wall had begun to run, but it mattered not at all. The dragonfire sought them and herded them. Tendrils curled around them, turning them into living torches. It sprang to find another victim and another. The flame ran along the lines of joinery in the stonework, nibbling at block edges, making them drip turgidly down the walls.

The roar that accompanied the flames came as a blessing, for though it assaulted the ears, it eliminated the terrified screams of the dying. After far too long, the roar slackened into cold silence. The dragon’s head came up and its jaw opened in what Kerrigan could only take to be a grin.

At that moment the mage felt certain of only two things. The first was that he would not live to see the end of the day. The second, and far more important, was that he’d never seen a more beautiful sight in his life; for the dragon’s smile abruptly shrank and its head dipped below the line of the half-melted wall. The body jerked back, hopping clumsily, and it turned with the same craven posture as that of a whipped cur.

All from a shadow passing above it.

As big as the purple dragon had been, the cruciform shadow that passed over it was able to darken it entirely. Kerrigan looked up and caught sight of a black form, then the sun blinded him. He ducked his head and rubbed at his eyes, then looked to the south, following Alexia’s pointing finger.

The new dragon soared effortlessly to the south and Kerrigan thought, for a moment, it might be heading to Caledo. Then one wing rose and the other fell, bringing it around in a lazy turn. It leveled out and pumped its wings once, speeding north again. Straight toward the city. Straight toward this tower !

The Black Dragon slowed as it approached and spread its wings wide. Red stripes curved from its belly up the edges of its midnight hide. Huge claws reached out for and grabbed on to the palace’s south tower, crushing stone as they closed. Debris fell to the ground, ricocheting through the streets below. The dragon closed its wings around the tower and clung to it tightly.

Kerrigan found himself pressed with his back against the tower wall. His terror would have shamed him, but Alexia stood beside him and Bok was crouched, peering out through the stone posts in the balustrade.

The Black’s massive head loomed over them. A red forked tongue licked out. Tiny droplets of spittle did flick off and one burned a plum-sized hole in the stone next to Kerrigan’s head.

The Black opened its mouth, but no fire issued forth. Instead, in a voice far too tiny to belong to such a creature, it spoke to them.

“I am Vriisureol. I can resolve the problem here.”

Somehow Alexia found her voice and took a half step forward. “You can rid us of this other dragon?”

Vriisureol’s eyes blinked. “If you see Procimre as the only problem, Alexia of Okrannel, then songs do not lie in telling of Okrans courage. No, I would rid this man town of Procimre and the army. At a price. My price must be met.”

The princess’ chin came up. “And what would that price be?”

Vriisureol’s eyes half closed. “I require Kerrigan Reese.”

Will turned slowly and deliberately showed the dragon his back. “Hey, you, you have any idea who I am?” The cloaked figure gave no sign he’d heard the question.

Crow growled. “Will, what are you doing?”

“I’m fixing to get good and angry.” He glanced at the older man. “I don’t know how I did what I did in Bokagul, but would it hurt if that happened here?”

“You’re not bleeding, Will.”

The thief drew a dagger. “I can remedy that.” Flicking his left hand down, he shucked his mitten off, then wrapped his hand around the dagger’s blade. He looked at the cloaked figure again. “I’m the Norrington. That’s THE Norrington. You know the prophecy. Now do you and Gagmar want to be tangled up with that?”

Laughter came from the cloaked creature, and sibilant echoes of that laughter slithered back from the dragon. “This does make it more interesting, Norrington—infinitely more interesting. It does not change the outcome, however. Turn the Truestone over, and you will live to play out your prophecy. Perhaps.”

Erlestoke straightened up and shrugged his cloak off. He pulled off the harness with the fragment of the DragonCrown and let it dangle from his left hand. “This is what you want, right?”

“Throw it here.”

Will’s mouth went dry. “You wouldn’t.”

The prince smiled at him. “You can bet your mask on that.”

Erlestoke let the stone fall to the crust of snow. The light played a green-gold cross through its depths. The cross gave Will the impression that he was being watched. He could feel power pulsing off the stone and felt something inside himself begin to throb in sympathy.

The prince cocked the quadnel, primed it, and pressed the muzzle to the stone. “Gagothmar might not have wanted to clean ashes off this, but how will he feel about piecing it back together?”

The thief grabbed Erlestoke’s left arm. “You can’t. Don’t do it.”

“We can’t let them have it, Will.”

The cloaked figure shrugged. “Do it. Even one of the vaunted dragonels couldn’t shatter a Truestone, not in that setting. When it was fashioned into part of the Crown, it became even more vital than it was before. These mountains could fall on it and it would survive.”

Crow rested his left hand on Erlestoke’s right shoulder. “I don’t think he’s bluffing, Highness.”

“Alas, neither do I.” In one smooth motion the prince raised the quadnel, aimed, and the firelock fell.

Will ducked from the blast. As the white smoke cleared, he saw that the cloaked figure was down. The gibberers had broken and were running. “Great shot!”

“For all the good it will do.”

Will couldn’t understand the resignation in Erlestoke’s voice until he saw the figure slowly struggling back to its feet. “What is that thing?”

“Relentless.” The prince sighed. “We all really appreciate your traveling this far to rescue us. I dearly wish things would have worked out better.”