The Castle Of Hape. Caves Of Fire And Ice. The Joining Of The Stone

Her mesmerization gripped and immersed him, transported him until, at long last his body began to change into the dragon form, his legs to swell and shape into a coil that writhed and swelled, his wrinkled fingers to lengthen into heavy claws, his long nose and sharp chin to elongate further into dragon face. The wounded eye was larger, a dragon’s ruined eye, and blood flowed from it anew. His coils filled the cave and pressed Kish back against the stone wall. She caressed the cold dragon flesh with pale hands, stroked the creature’s leathery wings that pushed against the roof trying to break free.

All across Ere from dim, deep caverns and dark fissures, the dark listened to Kish and strove and sought out for its kindred spirits, for presences beginning to wake after generations of sleep. These rose as a stench would rise from moldering bodies; and each, waking, joined the next: the spirit of the Hape, the worm gantroed, the ice cat, creatures shunned by animals of light. Now their essences sought to become one, joining with the spirits of dark Seers, joining with the darkness that rode within Kish and within Dracvadrig and RilkenDal, within all who moved in evil across Ere.

Slowly Dracvadrig slid toward the mouth of the cave, until he filled the opening with swelling coils. Kish slipped onto his back. He slid out and down the cliffs side, then lifted his heavy wings and beat drunkenly skyward, into the heavy wind.

They headed south, Kish’s icy hands caressing dragon mane, her thoughts leaping ahead to battles, to the disciplining of her cults, to the destruction of the young Seers who meddled with them. Her anticipation of that destruction was eager and keen.

*

Zephy looked up from poulticing the chest of a sick child, shivered, and didn’t know why. She could bring no vision, but was awash with unease suddenly. She shook back her hair, frowned, all her spirit filled with foreboding; kneeling there by the child, the steaming poultice forgotten, she sought Thorn in her thoughts.

Thorn sensed what she sensed and hid his sudden fear from the men he was drilling; cultists, so slow to learn battle practices.

But now suddenly these men stood confronting him with sharper attention. They seemed wider awake. He stopped his lesson and examined the change in them. Their expressions had become suddenly alert, their minds alert. Some looked no longer docile and obedient, but now looked defiant. And then they began to chant, a harsh whisper that carried across the camp.

“She comes.”

“The warrior queen comes.”

“The warrior queen speaks to us.”

“She moved across the winds to us.”

Zephy’s thoughts touched his mind, cutting across the chant. What is it? What’s happening?

I don’t— But the chants faded abruptly. The scene before Thorn faded as if a sudden fog engulfed the campground. Another scene, of battle, took its place. They Saw the city of Zandour, Saw new troops attacking from the sky, dark warriors mounted on horses of Eresu. Winged ones harnessed and bitted and driven with whips—and driven by some strange compelling power that held them more captive than any harness could do. Then the winged ones were dwarfed in the sky by a monster dragon come out of cloud to dive with them down upon Zandour’s troops: The earth bound horses screamed and fell under its claws, under blows from the sky, their riders slashed by the swords of skyborne riders.

The dragon swept low over the city, licking out flame so the city began to burn, a house here, a barn, wherever its fiery breath caught. And astride the dragon rode a pale, tall woman slashing and killing with a heavy sword. The dragon swept low against the walls of the ruling house of Zandour, once Hermeth’s home, and the walls fell as if eggshells had crumbled. On the hillside, the marker of Hermeth’s grave was ripped away with one glancing blow, and Hermeth’s moldering, frail bones ripped out and scattered and trampled into dust. And then, as suddenly as the vision came to Zephy and Thorn, it vanished, for Kish spun a blocking force around Zandour to confuse and terrify the Seers further.

The horror of that destruction, then the sudden absence of any vision, was felt like a shock across Ere; was felt in the far, high deserts as a final challenge that started with the scattering of Hermeth’s bones. There on the desert a band of wolves paused with raised heads to listen, to watch, their lifted faces stern as they stared away past the brutal sands toward the countries below the rim, toward Zandour, whence the vision came.