Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

“Kronn,” Riverwind said plaintively, “help me stand.”

It was difficult-Riverwind could barely bend his knee, and his numb foot had trouble supporting his weight-but Kronn took the Plainsman’s hand and pulled him upright. Plowing a furrow in the ash pile as he dragged crossed the cavern floor. He stopped when he reached the rope, then turned. The Plainsman still faced him, smiling.

“Goodbye, Riverwind,” Kronn said, his voice trembling.

“Farewell, Kronn-alin. You have been a good friend.”

Swallowing, Kronn turned toward the cavern wall. He slung his chapak across his back, grasped the rope with both hands, and began to climb.

Riverwind watched him ascend, his face grave. It took the kender several minutes to reach the ledge. Finally, Kronn scrambled nimbly onto the stone balcony, looked down at the cavern floor, and waved his arm above his head. Riverwind raised his hand in reply. Then Kronn was gone, walking swiftly back down the obsidian tunnel.

Sighing, the old Plainsman turned back toward the egg. He looked at it silently for nearly a minute, then crossed the warm ash pile, walking swiftly to its side. “Goddess give me strength,” he whispered. “Guide my hand.”

Slowly, deliberately, he raised Brightdawn’s mace high above his head. He held it poised a moment, then swung downward, striking the egg’s ruddy shell.

The Kenderwood was very close, only a few scant miles away. Malystryx glared down at it, her blood burning with hate. She could see Kendermore clearly now, still blazing brightly in the midst of the wide, lifeless meadow. Beyond it, still far in the distance, her keen eyes spotted the fleeing kender, shadows flitting westward through the skeletal woodland.

“You will not escape,” she hissed at them. “I will make this forest a holocaust. You will die screaming my name.”

Her wings pumping mightily, she began to rise, gaining altitude so she could swoop down on the Kenderwood and blast it with her breath. The ground fell away beneath her.

Then, suddenly, a violent shock jolted her, nearly knocking her from the sky.

She fell a thousand feet before she recovered enough to move, then struggled to keep herself aloft. Her wings strained, the membranes snapping taut, as the Desolation spun up toward her. Finally she arrested her fall, flapping to put empty air between herself and the ground. Blood pounded in her ears, and she screamed balefully, her head snaking about to gaze upon the burning mountain, many leagues behind her.

With great effort she focused her mind, reaching toward Blood Watch. Yovanna, she thought. Someone is with the egg. Protect it.

Yovanna’s mind eluded her, however. She reached out, searching, but she soon realized her servant was dead-and then she knew that the fire serpent she had set to guard her nest was dead too. The egg was unprotected.

Another shock hit her, and she dropped again. This time, however, she recovered quickly, then rose higher. A bright star of rage burning within her, she turned back the way she had come, streaking away from the tinder-dry forest. The kender fled behind her, forgotten.

The egg would not break. Again and again Riverwind struck it, Brightdawn’s mace rising and falling as he beat a cadence of frustration upon its shell. Though its surface looked and felt like stiff leather, it was as hard as iron, refusing to crack even when he swung the bludgeon with both hands. His arms blazed with pain from the exertion, and he fought valiantly to keep from losing his balance as his benumbed leg tried to give way beneath him. The mace’s flanges bent, and its head began to loosen as he pounded. A loud, thunderous boom sounded with every blow.

“Give, damn you!” he snarled through clenched teeth. He could sense Malystryx’s wrath bearing down on him, growing with every hammering stroke. She would be here soon, emerging through the rift, thirsting for his blood. If the egg didn’t break before then, he would fail.

He could not-would not-let that happen.

Shouting incoherently, he brought the mace up with both hands and slammed it down with all his might. The force of the blow knocked him off his feet, sending him sprawling. The mace flew from his hand as he fell, its haft splintered. He writhed on the ground, gasping for breath, for long moments before he found the strength to turn his gaze toward the egg.

A long fissure marred the shell. Thick green ichor seeped from it, darkening the ashes where it dripped.

Riverwind stared at the crack a moment, then heaved himself upright and stumbled toward the egg. Steel rang as he jerked his sabre from its scabbard. Carefully, he wedged the sword’s tip in the fissure and leaned upon it hard. The membrane within the shell resisted for a long moment, then yielded. His sabre slid into the egg.

Green, sticky albumen spewed forth, soaking his anus. It stank of brimstone and putrescence, but he fought back his rising gorge and kept his grip on the hilt of his sword. Singlemindedly, he sawed the blade back and forth, slitting open the egg along the length of its shell. Then, weakened by his efforts, the shell burst, breaking open and drenching him from the chest down in slime. The ichor poured over the ashes, soaking them. Riverwind’s sabre trailed strings of albumen as he jerked it out of the egg.

Then, ulcerating out of the ruined egg like suppuration from a festering wound, the embryo slid free. It landed with a wet smack at his feet.

He stared at it, gagging with disgust. The baby dragon was nearly four feet long, from nose to tail, but it was completely helpless, not yet fully formed. Its body was shriveled and dark, shaped like a tadpole that had just begun to turn into a frog. Its legs and wings were useless stumps; its eyes were large and dark, covered by thin, ruddy membranes; its mouth gaped wide, revealing a single, barbed egg tooth. The baby wyrm twitched wretchedly, fighting to stay alive. Riverwind sank to his knees beside it, his guts wrenching with nausea.

At that moment, a deafening scream rang out from beyond the shaft in the cavern’s ceiling.

Red fury filled Malys’s mind as she dove toward Blood Watch. The last shock had wracked her body, filling her mind with pain. The egg, she knew, was destroyed. Her child was dying, helpless, and she couldn’t save it.

But she could avenge.

The volcano loomed before her, incredibly close. She spread her wings wide, slowing her descent slightly. Then the stone trembled as she landed next to the entrance to her nest. Moving with crazed purpose, she climbed into the shaft and began to wriggle through it toward her lair. Scales tore from her body as she slithered, ripped loose by jagged stones, but she ignored them, pulling herself along with claws that shredded the rock like loose earth. She heaved herself forward until she saw the dim orange glow of firelight beneath her. Snarling, she took the last fifty yards to the end of the shaft at a single lunge.

She caught herself at the lip of the shaft, talons driving like pitons into the stone. Her head snaked downward, her golden eyes flaring with rage as she stared down at the floor of her nest, far below. She saw the ash pile, stained green by the egg’s juices. She saw the egg, split nearly in half and dripping with slime. She saw the embryo, quivering miserably on the ground. And then she saw the old Plainsman, kneeling beside the baby dragon’s side, sword in hand. He looked up at her, his lips curling into a victorious smile.

Malystryx shrieked, shaking Blood Watch to its very roots.

Riverwind only heard the first few seconds of the dragon’s screech, then the noise burst his eardrums, deafening him. Pain roared in his head, but he kept his eyes fixed on Malystryx. She clung to the rocks high above, her mouth open wide. An avalanche of stone showered out of the rift as the shaft behind her collapsed from the force of her rage.