A/N: If anyone is still following this story, I'm considerably impressed. I've gone dark here on Fictionpress for the better part of three and a half years. I've continued to plug away at this story and a few other original projects, but I've been disinclined to post it. I'll spare you the excuses for why I've been absent without leave for so long. Suffice to say, in the time I've been gone, I've written up to Chapter 30 of Dark Rising, and I'm going to try to get those chapters uploaded in a suitably timely fashion. Stay tuned for those and some other projects, but for now, it's new chapter time.
CHAPTER 11
A deep, rumbling growl reverberated in Famratyr's throat, making the horses shy away. Azfelyndoran tensed and curled his fingers, ready to etch patterns of dark magic should the need arise. A few of the tribesmen from Clan Agrona reached for their weapons, but Sir Luccio and Captain Reynaud held up their hands. The tattooed leader of the war band looked to Azfelyndoran for direction, and the dark elf inclined his head. The warrior took his hand from his sword, but he did not relax.
Famratyr sank down into a crouch and hooked his finger into the collar of his tunic, ready to cast it off if he transformed. Azfelyndoran rested a hand on his companion's shoulder. "Easy, you brute. I don't think this will come to blows."
Famratyr scoffed. "Bloody hell, try convincing yourself of that first. You're tenser than I am."
Baron Highcort and Lord Tharmund Mandrake glowered at each other in the shadow of the Shieldwall, the lord's metal hand glinting in the half-light. "You filthy traitor!" Highcort spat.
"Better to be a traitor than a whipped lapdog," Mandrake growled back.
"Lapdog? I assure you, turncoat, I'm no lapdog!"
"I'll bet if I kicked you, you'd whine like one." Mandrake's lips curled in a cruel grin. Azfelyndoran saw several of his men at arms atop the Shieldwall train crossbows on the gathering below.
Steel rang as Highcort pulled his sword from its sheath. "Are you challenging me, you bastard?"
Mandrake drew his own blade and leveled it. "I won't turn down the opportunity to gut you like a fish, puppy." He turned his gaze to those behind Highcort. "Gentlemen, I would advise standing back. I would hate to get blood on your nice boots."
Highcort raised his sword in a fencer's salute. "This will be over soon enough. There is little honor to be gained in cutting down a cripple, so I shall make this quick."
"Wait just a damn minute," Captain Reynaud snapped, striding between the two Shield lords, forcibly shoving Highcort back. "Put your blade away, idiot." He turned back to Mandrake. "I apologize, Highcort is an impulsive fool." Mandrake turned his head and spat, making no reply. Reynaud continued on anyway. "We aren't here to pick a fight with you. Lady Claudia Rosemont made the stipulation that we pass through your keep to exit the north. We have traveled a long way to get here, and we are tired. Please, may we pass through?"
"I know why you're here," Mandrake said. He glanced up and inclined his head to Azfelyndoran. "Hello, elf. What's your take on these southron bastards?"
Azfelyndoran smirked. "Tolerable companionship, as far as Galletians go."
"They give you any trouble?" When Azfelyndoran shook his head, Mandrake grunted and stood aside, allowing the procession to pass. The tribesmen that had been their escort remounted on their shaggy steppe ponies and cantered back to the screen of oak saplings that had sprouted where the armies of Darkness had buried their dead following the battle at the end of the long summer. "Not a very social lot," Mandrake muttered.
"They do not like the Shieldwall," Azfelyndoran replied. "The aversion has been bred into them for centuries. Father has conditioned son, and so on."
Mandrake grunted and inclined his head. "You'll be resting here tonight, I assume. Maybe you and the werewolf prefer to travel by night, but we humans don't have the vision you do. Rest up a little and then come find me, we'll have a few drinks."
Azfelyndoran nodded, and he and Famratyr followed the Galletians into Mandrake's keep. After Azfelyndoran had washed and combed the tangles out of his hair, he descended to Mandrake's expansive wine cellar. The lord and Famratyr were already huddled over a table, a half-empty bottle and a flickering candle on the board before them. Azfelyndoran poured himself a cup and sank down into the third chair.
Mandrake took a long drink. "Do you think Edrick is on the level with this? It's all well and good to go on about peace treaties and trade agreements, but I know Edrick. He's never brokered a deal with anyone when he could just march in his armies and conquer them instead."
"Which to me indicates that he is presently unable to 'march in his armies and conquer'," Azfelyndoran replied. "The situation in the south has him nervous. It seems plain to me that he is only proposing this treaty with Lady Claudia to buy himself time to put down the insurrection among the southern lords."
Famratyr hiccupped. "Aye."
"So long as we know that it won't be long before the bastards turn around and stab us in the back," Mandrake said, refilling his cup.
"Then we shall be ready for them. Certainly with a knife of our own."
"Well, be careful. You're headed straight into the lion's den. The other Shield lords, what's left of them, have been rattling their spears at me. Maneuvers on my borders, war games, all of that." He threw back another cup of wine. Azfelyndoran idly wondered how much Mandrake and Famratyr had drank before he arrived. "Patron's beard, they all just want to see my head on a stake. I can't stand their damn high and mighty attitudes! I did what I had to do. I'm no better and no worse than the lot of them. They made one choice, I made another. I can't…"
He reached out for the bottle to pour himself another cup, but Azfelyndoran gently laid a hand on Mandrake's wrist. The lord bristled for a moment, but the anger that flashed across his face quickly abated as he let out a sigh. Azfelyndoran slid the bottle across the table, out of Mandrake's easy reach, and refilled his own cup. "I have always found the idea of the choice fascinating. Dark elves and werewolves are never given the choice between Light and Darkness. It is more than a philosophy or a religion to us, you realize. The Darkness is what we essentially are. Should I choose to, I could turn my back on the philosophy of my people. I could even fight on the side of the Light. But I could never truly leave the Darkness. That you humans have the choice to commit yourselves to one side or the other, whenever you choose to, as many times as you choose to, is really quite incredible. I sometimes wonder, however, that many of the races able to choose between Light and Darkness choose the Light."
"Because their great grandfathers chose the Light," Mandrake said. "And their great grandfathers before them. You speak of this like we get to make some grand choice, but most people never go through the trouble of questioning it. They are born in the Light, and that's where they stay their entire lives. They never think about what they believe in." He stared down at his empty cup. "To be completely honest, if Kalaryndor had not forced my hand, I'm not sure I'd be any different." He snatched the bottle back from Azfelyndoran and poured out the remainder of its contents. "You both be careful going forward. I'll send some men south with you. If things heat up, we'll cut your way back north."
"Don't bother," Famratyr said. "Azfel and I would stand a better chance slipping away on our own. We hid out in the Galletian frontier for months. If Edrick's backstabbing comes sooner rather than later, having a company of soldiers might only hold us up." He stood up and wobbled back and forth. "I think I'm going to go have a walk before bed."
Mandrake reached behind him and pulled another bottle from a wine rack. "Have another drink, elf?"
"I think perhaps I had better make sure Famratyr does not hurt himself."
"Suit yourself." Mandrake titled his head back, drinking straight from the bottle. Azfelyndoran glanced around the room at the empty bottles pushed neatly against the walls. He had known Mandrake had a fondness for drink, but it seemed that in the intervening months after the battle in the shadow of his castle walls, the lord's dependence on liquor had only grown worse. When he returned to the north, Azfelyndoran made a note to speak to Lady Claudia about it. They needed Mandrake on the Shieldwall, and they needed him in possession of sound judgment.
He had carefully avoided mentioning that Claudia was sailing south to Sybalia. Only those who lived close by Blackgard knew about her sojourn, though the news would spread. Mandrake would not approve of such a venture and make his disapproval known. He was not known for his discretion, and Azfelyndoran was hesitant to make that common knowledge this far south so soon.
He found Famratyr leaning against the ramparts of the highest tower, his head slumped and shoulders hunched together. Azfelyndoran moved to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder. "My friend, you have been uncharacteristically quiet. Normally when you are in your cups, we cannot stop you from speaking."
"I've just been thinking about some things."
"Thinking!" Azfelyndoran said with a gentle chuckle. "Heavens no, you shall tilt my entire paradigm on its head." Famratyr gave a rueful smile but otherwise did not rise to Azfelyndoran's taunt. The dark elf immediately recognized something was amiss and leaned in closer. "Truthfully my friend, if there is something bothering you, do not hesitate to tell me. I shall help you as best I can."
Famratyr shook his head. "I'm not sure you'd understand. It's a wolf thing."
"Perhaps I cannot understand, but in the telling I could help you understand."
"Thanks, Azfel." Famratyr heaved a great sigh. "It's something Ingvild told me when I was up north, the reputation I've been getting among the packs."
"I never took you for one who put much stock in your reputation."
"Normally I don't. But this is troubling me. They're calling me the 'wolf with no pack'. Is that true?"
"I thought you said I would not understand the intricacies of this, as I am no wolf?" Azfelyndoran smiled. "But as far as I can see, there is truth to the claim. You run with both Valfreyr and Byrlind's packs, though you count yourself as a member of neither. You exist outside of the hierarchal system of a pack. Surely there is allowance for that in werewolf society."
"Somewhat. But it's either a very temporary arrangement or because a wolf has violated a social taboo. Wolves don't usually go without a pack for as long as I have. Generally, they die before too long." He sighed again. "But what's weird is that I don't feel like I don't have a pack. You and Lady Claudia, and Jason and Zhaggo and the others, you're my pack. It's just you're not… werewolves."
"And does that truly matter?"
"I don't know. It doesn't matter to me."
"Then I should think it does not matter at all."
Famratyr smiled. "Thanks, Azfel."
The dark elf found himself smiling back. "Of course. Now, put all the nonsense about packs and whether or not you have one from your mind. We have a job to do. It will be just you and I, Famratyr. Lady Claudia cannot save us if negotiations turn sour. All we have is your teeth and claws, my magic, and our wits."
"Your wits, you mean."
"I think you have it within you to be very clever, Famratyr. However, it is simply a different form of cleverness than my people generally acknowledge."
"Thank you, Azfel."
And Azfelyndoran felt his smile grow wider. How strange it was, that for most of his life he had regarded werewolves as little better than base animals, expendable soldiers to be thrown at the front lines of the enemy to be cut down. When he had met Famratyr a little over a year ago, and the two of them had forged a relationship of convenience as they were hounded across the Galletian frontier before meeting Lady Claudia. The two had bickered incessantly, and sometimes even cruelly. Yet in such a short time, Famratyr had become his closest friend, and their verbal sparring had gone from out-and-out fighting to mere taunting and then finally to something resembling playful banter.
Three years ago, Azfelyndoran would have considered it a grave insult to his person to have a werewolf consider him as part of his pack. Now, he was honored.
Jason held his torch higher to create a wider circle of light. Zhaggo walked ahead of him so as not to have his night vision ruined, his claws clicking on the stone floor of the tunnel. "How much further?" the swordsman asked. They had to be a significant distance underground now.
"Not long. We pulled back our mining operation to what we considered a safe distance, and we passed that a while ago." Zhaggo shrugged. "We've mostly stopped digging. We don't want to disturb it or make it angry."
Behind him, the troll he had named Left gave a small lowing sound, clearly wanting to be anywhere but here. Her tall, broad shoulders nearly brushed the roof of the tunnel, and her thick, four fingered hands dragged along the floor.
Jason's free hand tracked down to his sword hilt, not that it would do any good against what waited below. They continued down the sloping tunnel and finally emerged into a gigantic chamber that must have been at the very heart of the mountain. Jason's torch guttered in a draft, and the small circle of light it provided only served to show how insignificant it was in the great vaulted space. He could not see it, but he could somehow sense the vastness of the cavern, stretched out around him in all directions. Zhaggo made a reptilian hiss as he came to stand at Jason's side.
"Where is it?" Jason asked in a whisper.
"Take a look around," the goblin replied. "The damn thing just about takes up the whole floor."
Jason gave a soft whistle that echoed through the chamber. Zhaggo bristled. "Now you've gone and done it." Left moaned again and shrank back. There was not much that could make a fully grown troll nervous, and Jason had seen Left make suicidal charges against a fully massed enemy war host, crashing into the front lines completely uninhibited by fear.
There was a sound of metal scraping over stone, like one hundred swords being dragged along the ground. A deep basso rumble filled the chamber as two glowing orbs appeared in the blackness. "Little creatures, I hath tolerated thy scrabbling in the mountain's veins. But now thou dost invade mine own hall! Doth thou seek my treasure for thyself? Dost thy greed know no bounds?"
The voice made Jason's very bones rumble. The way it rasped showed that it had not been used in recent months, and the growling intonation came from no throat that was remotely human-like, despite speaking an archaic form of Galletian. The glowing orbs moved closer and the scraping noise grew in volume. "Well? Dost thou possess a tongue to speak? Thou shalt answer my questions, base creatures!"
Zhaggo looked at Jason and nodded. The swordsman steeled his nerve and stepped forward. "I mean you no offense, and if I have offered any by trespassing in your… hall, then I am truly sorry." He swallowed and tightened his grip on his sword.
"What is thine name?" the creature growled.
"I am Jason of the House Valentine, heir to the duchy of Mounteblank in the land of Galletia. I am the sworn protector and knight of Lady Claudia, sovereign queen of Darkness."
"Knight!" the creature roared. "I know of thy kind, knight! For countless years knights hunted and slew my brethren."
"I am not like them."
"Thou dost come bearing no proof of that, and yet thou dost openly carry thy blade!"
"I am certain that my mere blade would be useless against one as mighty as yourself."
"Thou presumes to buy thy life with empty flattery?"
Jason's knuckles turned white on his sword hilt, and he didn't doubt he was going more pale by the minute. "Hardly empty, I should think. Might I know who it is I address?"
A massive, triangular head slithered into the small circle of torchlight. The flames made its black and red scales glitter, and the few teeth visible in its large maw glistened. Each one was easily as long as Jason's outstretched arm. The beast blew a puff of hot air from its nostrils, and the force of it nearly knocked Jason from his feet. It was all he could do to remain upright. He hoped that his trembling was not too visible. The great beast flared a ruff around its neck, a leathery fold of skin tipped with small spiked protrusions. Small, of course, was a relative term, as each spine was no less than a hand span in length. "Thou shalt address me as Svarog the Black!" the creature growled. "Last of the dragons!"
Jason did his best to meet the dragon's piercing gaze. Each of the dragon's exhalations threatened to knock him from his feet. The sheer size of the beast! Zhaggo had said that the goblin miners had determined the slumbering dragon was massive, but this was certainly more than Jason had expected. Svarog's head leaned in closer. "Come now, son of man. Bring thy sword to bear and strike me dead as thine ancestors struck down the rest of my kin."
"I'm not here to kill you."
"Do not lie to me! What other purpose couldst thou serve? The goblins take the silver from my mountain, and now they have sent a human to kill me and take my hoard! And what is thy profit on it, son of man? How hath small-minded men proved themselves great now that my people all lie dead?"
"I don't want a fight!" Jason roared. "By the Mother, don't you listen?"
"So go on!" Svarog jeered, turning a deaf ear to Jason. "Do it, Jason of the house of Valentine, heir of Mounteblank! Kill me and prove thyself a great man to the queen thou dost serve! Thou shalt be praised as a hero, and thou shall know thou hast purged this world of the last of the dragons. Is that not how heroes are made?"
"Maybe you're right," Jason said, drawing his sword.
"Don't be an idiot, Valentine!" Zhaggo cried.
"In the stories my nursemaid told me as a boy, the brave men killed dragons." He tossed his blade on the stone floor at his feet. "But I don't want to be a brave man."
"Oh?" Svarog rumbled. "Then what dost thou desire to be?"
"I want to be more than a brave man. I want to be a great man."
"And what sets a great man apart from a mere brave one? Bathing in the blood of my kin?"
"No, you've got it wrong. Brave men killed dragons." Jason kicked his sword into the shadows toward Svarog. "Great men rode them."
"Thou darest propose such a thing?" Svarog snarled. He drew in a deep breath and roared, loud enough to make the mountain walls tremble. The force of the roar blew Jason's hair back and he reeled for several paces. "In what world doth a son of man such as thou art dream he is worthy to ride Svarog the Black?"
"I think you talk too much," Jason said just loud enough for the dragon to hear. Of course, he still had to nearly shout to be heard over the dragon's tirade. "And I think you're confused because I didn't try to kill you. You've been alone down here for a long time and you're angry. I can understand that, or I think I can. But underneath all of that anger, you're scared."
"I know no fear!"
"And now you're lying." Jason knew he was treading on dangerous ground, and it would take just one misstep for Svarog to completely lose his temper. And from there, it would be just an instant before Jason was devoured. "You're old and you're alone and you're angry, but more than that, you're scared. You're afraid that someone is going to come down here and do to you exactly what happened to the rest of the dragons. And yet, even though you're scared, a part of you longs for that, the release that death would bring. You're the last of your kind, and you're not sure you want to be anymore. If I knew I was the last human, I'm not sure I'd have it in me to keep going. Hell, even if I was the last member of my court."
Svarog hissed out another rush of wind, and Jason motioned for Zhaggo to lead Left away. This business was between him and the dragon. He waited until the goblin and troll were safely back up the small passage to the vaulted hall, and still Svarog had made no sound but the scratch of his scales on the stone floor. "I know another like you. Not a dragon, but he's the last of his kind too, and he's lived for a long time. He let that isolation and the passage of years drive him mad, and he is even now chained in a dungeon to protect the rest of us from him, and to protect him from himself. So I ask you, is that what you want? To slowly go mad? As I understand it, the dragons vanished centuries ago. You've been down here for a long time."
"Thou dost speak boldly for a small, soft human."
"Damn right I speak boldly. Because I see you for what you are, Svarog the Black. You are a coward."
"A coward?" Svarog roared. "I shall rend you—"
"No, you shut up and listen to me!" Jason screamed. "You're a damned coward! You've been down here for hundreds of years, too afraid to leave and avenge your fallen kin, wracked by guilt that you survived when they didn't, but too afraid to off yourself at the same time! So I'm offering you a chance. You can leave your dank and cold hall and join me. We will fight for my queen, for the Darkness. No enterprising man will attempt to slay you, because to do so would require they get through me first, and most every man in the north knows that's a damned stupid proposition. So Svarog the Black, are you going to live out the rest of your days in this cave, or are you going to leave a legacy worth remembering?"
Svarog opened his great and terrible maw, bearing his fangs at Jason. As he bent his head closer, however, he paused and slowly closed his jaws. Jason saw the muscles relax as the dragon lowered his eyes to be closer to level with the knight's. The anger that smoldered in his eyes abated to something else, something that reminded Jason of the look he had seen in the eyes of a beaten dog in his youth. "So if I were to come with thee, I would no longer be alone?"
Kelyn hissed through his teeth as he watched the horse ride up to the gate of Blackgard Keep. He strode through the gap and planted himself solidly in front of Jason's black horse. "Just where the hell have you been?" the chieftain snapped. "First the Dark Lady takes off, and then you and the goblin are gone too with not so much as a by your leave! Just 'oh, something's wrong at the mine' and then you go haring off north! Damn it Valentine, I want some answers!"
"You'll have them," Jason said. Zhaggo and Skaggi, in her wolf aspect, came down the mountain trail after him. "I just need you to promise me one thing, Kelyn. I need you to keep your men from doing anything, for just the next few minutes. All right? What's about to happen, I don't want them getting scared and attacking blindly."
"The fighting men of Clan Agrona don't get scared!" Kelyn snapped.
"Can you just do that one thing for me, please? Then I promise I'll explain exactly what I've been doing. I swear it."
Kelyn took a deep breath and turned on his heel. "All right, listen up!" he bellowed to the sentries on the castle walls. "Whatever happens next, stand down until I say otherwise. Understood?"
A few of the tribesmen called back the affirmative, and Jason turned to Skaggi. "All right, send the call."
The werewolf howled, the sound carrying into the mountains. Some ways distant, nearly out of audible range, another wolf took up the call, passing it to a third that was quite far off. Jason sighed. "Now we just have to wait a few moments. Kelyn, what's going to happen will undoubtedly be a bit alarming. If there are any horses in the stable yard, it may be best to tether them."
"We'll take our chances, Valentine."
Jason shrugged. "Don't say I didn't give you fair warning."
"So this issue at the mine, did it get sorted?"
"More or less. The goblins can continue to mine there, but for a few select veins. We may be able to open negotiations on that count in the future."
"Was it an ogre colony? Those bastards are damn territorial. If we need those veins, I suppose we could just resettle them in a different cave. The things are only a little smarter than trolls. I'm sure they wouldn't know the difference—"
"It wasn't ogres," Jason interrupted, but he would not say anything more.
A few minutes later, a great black shape eclipsed the sun above their heads. People in the castle screamed, and the noise of terrified animals filled the air. Several tribesmen leveled their bows and spears. "Stand down!" Jason shouted. "Damn it, we told you to stand down!"
"What the hell is that, Valentine?" Kelyn demanded as the black shape soared over the valley and looped back for another pass. The black shape settled down on a cleared field near the castle's south gate that the tribesmen used for cavalry drills. Svarog snapped his large wings out with a last audible flap before folding them in close to his flanks, using the dexterous claws at their tips to dig into the grassy turf. He drew himself up and stared at his surroundings, his smoldering eyes taking in the land around Blackgard from his naturally high vantage point. Jason estimated that the dragon was likely between sixty five and seventy feet in length from nose to the end of his tail, and when he was on the ground he could draw himself up to about thirty or so in height, using the claws at the end of his wings and his heavily muscled rear legs to balance. His barbed tail whipped back and forth as Jason had seen him do whenever the dragon had landed. After having to keep his tail closely coiled from his years in the caverns under the mountain, broken only by short spells outside to gorge himself on the local wildlife, Jason assumed Svarog was still working out the stiffness in his muscles. The dragon's black, red and silver scales glimmered in the late afternoon light. Svarog flared the spiked mane around his neck and let out a long roar.
"Mother's tits," Kelyn swore. "What the hell is that thing?"
"That is Svarog the Black, last of the dragons," Jason said when the last of the dragon's echoing roar had faded into the mountains. "And my partner."