Old Jay's Fire And Fury

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Old Jay the bard always said he possessed the clues to reveal a great magic from the past. The following scraps of stories were found amongst his meagre belongings after he passed away.

Fate and Nature

'Bastard son of a murderous beast and a mindless wench. Deserving of only a swift death, less the soul of the father should emerge reborn in the child.'

The words often echoed in the mind of the man who had been but an infant when they were uttered. Swift death, a neat solution to most difficult problems, was the fate of the owner of those words. The death of one that would spill the blood of an innocent. A decision some could justify and most could live with.

Adults had debated his future high above is head. He had understood all that was said but never spoke. Heated discussions had focused on his odd physical appearance.

Several days later an old man had visited his new guardians home, the stone and thatch cottage of Chel Geran and his wife Triana. The visitor had lost both arms below the elbow, which was a common end to the career of warrior and thief alike. The child had stared at the old man, in much the same way that many of the people that had come to the cottage had stared at the child. This man, obviously a friend of his guardians, had spoken quietly but earnestly to Chel. 'Anything is better than nothing. Anything is better than nothing'. Words, just words, but spoken with the sincere desperation of a person who had created a world of cheerful lies and good humoured excuses who suddenly needed the truth to be heard and their words to be believed.

Chel, an easygoing middle-aged farmer, ultimately decided that it was not for him to meddle in the child's life beyond seeing that he was brought up to be able to fend for himself. He gave the child a name common within his family. Unfortunately the inhabitants of Chel's remote mountain village would call the child nothing but Blackwing, so Chel let it become his given name rather than a term of abuse.

'Bastard son of a murderous beast and a mindless wench'. His mother and father. When Chel had eventually earned Blackwing's trust and the infant spoke to him, he spoke of life in the ruined fortress of Bluin high in the mountains. Chel's village lay on the considerably more hospitable lower slopes of the same mountains. Only Blackwing and his parents had lived at the fortress, although visitors often came. Blackwing spoke of the farm animals they kept, of the pets he had, of the night the warriors crept into the fortress and slit his parent's throats as they slept.

Chel had opened his eyes that bit wider to stop the unexpected moisture collecting in them from forming tears and had looked into the child's eyes. He had looked for an expression of the feelings of sorrow and loss that separate the human from the inhuman. He realised immediately he was wrong to do so as the child was still just that, a child.

A child that spoke of his father, the Black Dragon of Bluin who could shift between human and draco form at will, in the same manner that all children speak of their fathers. How he was when he was happy or tired or cross. Blackwing talked about his mother, 'who couldn't change' as he had put it. Chel had known her as Jen, a girl from the village, who had left many years ago to live at the fortress of Bluin. At the time it had been food for the village gossips, but he never had time for those people and had no interest in their stories.

Blackwing had hidden in the shadows as the assassins struck. He had climbed into a disused chimney breast, a favourite hiding place, as they ransacked the fortress. He had watched them leave with his family's possessions in the packs of three ponies.

The Black Dragon of Bluin had returned to his normal draco form upon his death. His wife Jen's dead body lay by his side, open eyes staring blindly at the ceiling. The child spent many hours waiting in the large hall where the bodies lay. Eventually he had started walking down the mountainside. He was found in a mountain pass by a group of merchants and travellers two days later.

The child was near death and the merchants undoubtedly saved him but it is unknown as to whether this was done through compassion or greed as Blackwing's strange appearance would certainly be worth something to someone.

Two of the travellers in the company had grown up in this mountain region, a man called Engel and a woman called Rinn. They were travelling together to the city of Lock. Both were priests of the Order of Dealle, both heard the child say he was from Bluin Fortress, both guessed instantly who he must be and they had exchanged knowing glances before affecting an air of indifference towards the merchant's new find. The child was put in the priest's care until Lock was reached, as none of the merchants trusted their companions not to steal the child for their own profit.

Later that night the two priests had stood facing each other out of reach of the firelight of the makeshift camp. Engel had explained to Rinn why the child must die and she had agreed to end its existence in Dealle's name. Engel had led Blackwing away from the camp, followed closely by a silent Rinn.

'Bastard son of a murderous beast and a mindless wench. Deserving of only a swift death, less the soul of the father should emerge reborn in the child'. Engel's words were not for Rinn's benefit, but were muttered rather to steel Engel's nerves against the task at hand. Rinn had raised her long wooden staff, had breathed in deeply, quietly, deliberately and had swung the staff in a wide arc. Engel had fallen to the ground dead. Rinn returned to the camp with the child, packed quickly and rode away with a soundless Blackwing sitting in front of her.

She brought Blackwing to Chel, a man who in her words was 'the master of his own little world' in the village of Sleakeep. Sleakeep had little that outsiders wanted and outsiders had little that Sleakeep wanted. He would be able to look after the child while the merchants conducted their inevitable hunt for Rinn and she had wanted to lead them as far away from the child as possible.

'Deserving of only a swift death, less the soul of the father should emerge reborn in the child'. When people looked at the child it was not his soul that caused them to breathe in sharply, to unconsciously rest their hands on their dagger handles or to utter common curses (or self-blessings depending on their nature). Blackwing's inheritance was plain for all to see, and not as easily hidden as souls of any taint are.

His little torso was like that of any child except at the shoulders, where the lightly tanned skin became mottled with patches of harder leathery flesh whose colouration ranged from dark tan to black. As the patches approached the top of the shoulder they joined and became the only visible flesh. From each shoulder, where a slender child's arm should have been, stretched a leathery black wing. "Just like a bat", Chel had thought to himself and then immediately felt ashamed. He knew that if he held up his own simple existence for comparison against that of even the least amongst the draco he would feel the same sense of insignificance he felt when looking up at the stars.

The bone structure within the child's arm bore some resemblance to a normal human arm. The upper arm was of normal size; the forearm was noticeably elongated. The hand at the end of the forearm had a human-like thumb, an index finger and a middle finger, all of which were covered in the same leathery black flesh. The forth digit stretched out as long again as the forearm and carried the webbing of the wing to its tip. The fifth digit, a humans smallest finger, was only slightly shorter than the forth. It could sit folded in tightly with the forth digit or flex away to open the entire webbing of the wing to its full width.

Blackwing the child was prone to stretch as tired children do and was keenly aware of the effect flexing his wings to full span had on the people who came to talk to Chel in those first few days. Chel knew that if the child was to be raised in the village then the village must accept him and must protect him with their silence. So he talked to everyone and he listened to everyone. There was talk of sending the child away and there was talk of cutting his wings off to make him 'normal'. Chel listened to them all and made them all feel as though their parochial advice had been given the consideration normally reserved only for the words of the Prophets of Dealle. Rinn had chosen well and no harm was allowed to come to the child. Jen's son had come to live in the village and that was an end to the matter.

Chel's own children, two sons and a daughter, were slightly older than Blackwing and they teased and tormented him. They also protected him so fiercely that only the most foolish person, young or old would dare to mock the latest addition to the Geran clan.

Rinn did not return. As the child grew, keeping him out of sight of strangers became more difficult and Blackwing became accustomed to wearing a cape in public. Sleakeep had its share of old warriors and adventures that had survived the dangers that the burning blood of their youth had driven them into. Blackwing's new guardian enlisted their help to teach the child all that he, an uneducated man could not.

'Less the soul of the father should emerge reborn in the child'. Chel knew little about souls. On some level he knew everyone was responsible for their own but a world hostile to those who are different could blacken and destroy the souls of the very vulnerable. Chel had always watched the child looking for the character traits that could only have resulted from his unique lineage. He was more intelligent than were most people that Chel knew, including himself, but this was not surprising considering the company Chel kept.

Blackwing's strength was always equal to that of child twice his age. Chel saw no difference between Blackwing's temperament and those of his new brothers. All three fought bitterly over whose turn it was to clean out the barn and all three appeared suitably ashamed when they were caught stealing apples from a nearby orchard. All things considered, if Blackwing was 'his father's son' then in Chel's estimation the Black Dragon of Bluin could not have been the devil people had said he was.

As Blackwing had grown he had spent more and more time at the Bluin fortress where he could shed his cape and be himself. The fortress became his escape, his training ground and eventually his home again. His brothers were also accustomed to staying up at the fortress for weeks on end. Hunting in the mountains held more appeal for them than following cows as they plodded slowly towards the barn to be milked.

As an old farmer that had lived a quiet and happy life, Chel would have wished for no different a life for his sons. This could never be possible for his son Blackwing, as there would always be those who would seek to kill him simply because of his appearance. Blackwing's future held either countless battles until the day he died or else sorrowful seclusion in the ruins of his mountain fortress.

A third possibility did exist. Fresnel Dor was the self appointed Lore Master of Sleakeep. His pedantic nature and nasal whine quickly grated on most peoples nerves but Chel who had known Fresnel all his life was completely immune. Fresnel was not a bad man. He loved books, he loved scrolls and he loved puzzles. It was just ordinary people that would never figure in the history of this land that he didn't have very much interest in. He wrote their letters and kept their records and in return they paid enough to allow him to pursue his studies.

After their initial curiosity most of the village eventually dismissed Blackwing as just another deformed child, a view encouraged by Chel to curb idle speculation as quickly as possible. In a private conversation with Fresnel, Chel had asked what could be done to help the child. Fresnel could not resist such an intriguing puzzle.

He could find very little information on the subject. Without disclosing anything about Blackwing he set his own questions before the Lore Masters of Lock. This was a group of individuals every bit as obsessive and as strange as Fresnel. Some of the Lore Masters thrived on the hunt for knowledge, others craved the respect and admiration of their peers which they gained by presenting new information during their semi-formal meetings. As a group they did not attract the more mercenary elements of the students of Lore who found their needs of every type could be better served by installing themselves in the service of rich and powerful Lords.

Several months later Fresnel eventually established beyond a doubt (at least in the minds of the Lore Masters of Lock) that the knowledge he sought was held by the draco and the draco alone. This did give rise to the third possibility for Blackwing's future. He suggested to Chel that it would be interesting to see if the draco would accept the child as one of their own and perhaps teach him the ability to shapeshift into a completely human or completely draco form. When pressed Fresnel did admit that there was also the possibility that a dragon would see the child as an abomination or worse as a human and tear it limb from limb. Even if the child's existence was made known to a dragon it may have sparked a hunt which, if rumours of draco intelligence and resourcefulness were to be believed, would have ended in the child's death.

In essence Fresnel had succeeded in establishing nothing for certain but he left Chel's house feeling as though this puzzle had been solved conclusively and he could finally let it lie, such was Chel's gift for making people feel that what Chel wanted was what they had wanted all along. Fate and Nature would take care of the foundling until he was ready to chose his own path. The spectre of death and its minions would have no place in this child's life.

As Blackwing became a young adult, and Chel could see by his demeanour that the fortress that had once been his place of freedom was becoming his prison. The foundling had outgrown the simple people of the village and since he would never be allowed to have a normal life amongst them he had become more and more reclusive. Chel chose this time to relate the little information that Fresnel had uncovered many years before.

The Black Dragon of Bluin had played host to many of his kindred when Blackwing was a child. Blackwing had told Chel of black dragons that circled high above the fortress. They landed in the courtyard and changed into tall, raven-haired men and women. These visitors often talked long into the night with his draco father. As a child Blackwing had asked Chel if he could be taken to see them. Chel had simply told Blackwing that he did not know where to find them.

Even if Chel knew where Blackwing's kindred lived he would not have brought the foundling to them. It was possible that Blackwing and Jen had been tolerated because they were safe under the protection of the Black Dragon of Bluin, in the same manner that the good people of Sleakeep had tolerated Blackwing solely because he was under Chel's protection. Chel could and would protect Blackwing in Sleakeep with his life, but he could not protect Blackwing from a dragon if he had ten lives to give.

The balance of power had shifted. If it had been required Chel, an old man now, could call upon Blackwing to fight his battles. Chel was reluctant to ever do so unless the miscreant was due the certain death that a fight with Blackwing brought. The likelihood of stories of a winged fighter attracting mobs of fearful yet murderous peasants and glory hunting adventurers was too great to allow any adversary or hostile witness to leave the battlefield alive.

Chel attributed Blackwing's willingness to kill without any discernible troubling of his conscience down to his ability to focus on the practical outcomes of any given situation rather than on the grief of the soon-to-be bereaved. This pragmatism had also allowed Blackwing to come to the conclusion that he had to leave the fortress and seek his kindred even before Chel had told him about Fresnel's research.

Blackwing had one last favour to ask of Chel. To reduce the risk of his wings being discovered whilst on the road he needed to reduce the amount of contact he had with people. He asked Chel if Micha, Chel's second son could join him on his journey. Micha had his father's way with people, a talent that Blackwing lacked, preferring blunt words and a sharp blade to get his own way when necessary.

Chel saw on Micha's face that he was going no matter what he said. So he swallowed his fear, shrugged and told Blackwing to 'See that Micha returns safely or else there will trouble.' Chel had often said this before the three brothers went out on hunting trips. This time he knew that if something did happen, trouble may be too small a word to describe the cyclone of pain that could tear apart Chel's world, leaving only shattered fragments that would never fit together again if there were missing pieces.


The pages upon which this tale had been written were torn from the memoirs of Ferla Geran, the only daughter of Chel Geran. The first page had the title 'The Bluin Cloak by Ferla Geran of Sleakeep'. Several hand written copies of the memoirs had been made, one for each of Ferla's children. On discovering these loose pages Jay had spent years searching for one of the few remaining copies of the book.

It started as a search for a good story, but it became an obsession. Jay collected anything and everything connected with the Bluin dynasty. He had been convinced he had found something of great value amongst the scraps of stories he had accumulated. When pressed he would refuse to reveal what he thought he had found, he would just smile and say 'You'll see, one day soon you'll see'. He never found a complete copy of Ferla's book. No-one yet knows what secret he believed he had unearthed.

[ June 11, 2003, 01:17: Message edited by: Bluin ]

 

Off To See The Wizard

Fresnel smelt really bad. Fresnel always smelt bad. He knew he smelt really bad today because he was conscious of his persistant cat pee like odour, punctuated by occasional vinegar like wafts of old sweat. Normally his friends would have persuaded him to bathe long before he had reached this state by using semi-serious threats to throw him in the nearest river. He and two companions had spent the last three days travelling through the wilds to the Slieve Rab mountain. Priorities had changed. Fresnel's companions were more concerned about keeping out of harms way than they were about speculating which animal had crawled into his backpack and died.

He had started the hike up the mountain path alone at two o'clock that afternoon, headed for the cave mouth a thousand foot up on its heavily forested northern side. A cart track wound its way back and forth up the the mountain making the ascent easy. Folds of rock shielded the inner cavern of the cave from the mountain breeze. In the stagnent cave air even Fresnel was aware that he smelt bad. Really bad.

'So tell me why I should not kill you,' came a voice from the shadows, 'and if I hear anything that remotely sounds like an incantation your next words will be your last.'

'Tell me why you should kill me,' replied Fresnel, 'and I happen to be too scared to remember my own name never mind a bloody incantation.'

'Your name is Fresnel Dor.'

'Yes, very good,' said Fresnel, peering into the gloom, ' and why am I here?'

'I don't know, but I am sure it has something to do with your associates camped beside Cale's Brook.'

'Where?'

'The stream at the bottom of the mountain.'

'Yes, right again,' said Fresnel, his eyes having adjusted to the darkness were fixed upon the recumbant form of a dragon cloaked in the shadows at the back of the cavern. 'If you know who I am then you should know why I am here.'

'Your journey here has been brought to my attention by my employees. You did not tell any of them the reason for your trip and I suspect you were not entirely truthful with them about your real identities.'

'You have had people spying on us?' said Fresnel, trying stall for enough time to stop fear and now paranoia from making him blurt out the wrong thing and thereby get himself killed.

'You asked the head of my local malitia where I could be found.'

Fear, paranoia and a pinch of stupidity too, the pressure was getting to much for poor old Fresnel, he would have to tell the truth. His mind, on the cusp of a minor panic attack, finally reminded him that he had come here to do that anyway.

'I am here on an errand for the Black Dragon of Bluin to seek the aid of the Black Dragon of Tillers Reach ', said Fresnel, the slightly nasal quality of his voice robbing the statement of any authority it may have possessed.

'The Black Dragon of Bluin was murdered many years ago. Have you come to taunt me about the death of my kin or have you come to kill me too?'. The growling voice reveberated from the cave walls, its malevolent echo carrying the unspoken threat to Fresnel from every direction.

'I am here on behalf of his child' shouted Fresnel and then froze. Shouting at a dragon is not good for your health. Fresnel winced as each echo repeated the crime, and he quickly rehearsed apologies in his mind, some involving throwing himself on the ground.

Silence. Lots of silence, and then too much silence. Fresnel spoke.

'I - '

A man in black leather armour stepped out of the shadows thirty feet from were Fresnel stood.
Fresnel looked back at the dragon which remained motionless in the shadows, just watching.

'I'm so-'

'You are here on behalf of his son', said the man, 'the child still lives?'

'Huh?' said Fresnel.

'My nephew, where is he?'

'Ah,' said Fresnel.

'Why did he not come to see me in person?'

'But,' said Fresnel, pointing to the dragon in the shadows.

'It is just a rock fashioned to look very dragon like, a statue of sorts. You would be amazed at the number of fools who come up here and bombard it with spells and missiles. I let them have their fun and when they are exhausted I have my fun.'

'How very sporting of you,' snorted Fresnel, forgetting that he was still talking to the same dragon that was about to send him to the abyss minutes before.

'We can't all be great heroes like yourself.' sighed the man. 'Would you like to come out from behind that rock now.'

Fresnel disappeared, or at least the image that Fresnel had been projecting disappeared. He stuck his head around the granite wall of the cavern entrance. After a few seconds waiting to see if anyone would attempt to remove his head from his body he stepped into the cavern proper.

'Hi,'said Fresnel. 'How did you know that was not me, I sensed no divination magics?'

'I could smell you just inside the entrance and naturally your avatar did not have any scent at all.'

'Dragons have a good sense of smell then?'

'Unfortunately.'

Although they were still quite far apart Fresnel could see that he carried no weapons. He was tall, heavily built and had short black hair. Fresnel had reached the grand age of fifty. He knew the man he faced was hundreds of years old, but he appeared to be no more than thirty. Fresnel sat down on a large boulder which formed a natural bench a few feet into the cavern.

'So does the child still live?' said the dragon.

'Yes, he has been living in Sleakeep for almost fifteen years and has grown into a fine young man. He did not come to see you in person due to the possibility of you killing him on sight. I can only create one avatar so I came alone to seek your help. You were not supposed to know that he was camped nearby so even if you refused to help you would still not be able to do him any harm.'

'Is his name Micha or Fal?'

'Your spies are good,'said Fresnel, 'Fal is just a travelling name, his real name is Blackwing. Do you have a name other than the Black Dragon of Tillers Reach?'

'Blackwing, how original men are, calling the child Blackwing is like calling you big nose.'

'Many people have,' sighed Fresnel.

'I have several names, Lord Tuneve is one of your so called travelling names that I use in these parts and is as good as any.' The dragon looked at the ground to allow himself an uninterrupted moment to think.

'A fine young man,.' said Tuneve eventually, half to himself. Then he looked directly at Fresnel. 'I met Blackwing when he was an infant, before my brother was murdered, he is a man as you say not a dragon. He ages like a man and must therefore think like a man in order to make the most of his short life. I know without having to ask you what you seek from me. He belongs amongst mankind but mankind will not accept him as he is. He wants to know how draco change to human form so that he can do the same.'

'Proverbial nail on proverbial head,' agreed Fresnel.

'I forsee difficult times ahead. It is unlikely that I can help Blackwing in mastering the ability to change to human form but your journey has not been wasted. I can provide him with the means to make a comfortable life for himself and I know a few illusion magics which make people appear to assume a new form without them actually changing.'

'Druid magics are no good, he does not want to change into a bear and illusions only last a short period of time due to his natural magic resistance. He doesn't want to look like a man, he wants to be a man. He is looking for those things that money can't buy' snapped Fresnel.

'Things that money can't buy,' repeated Tuneve, with a slight smile, 'He is his father's son. Do not be annoyed with me Fresnel, many have sought the knowledge you now seek, myself included. Draco do not learn to change any more than a catapillar learns to become a butterfly. There is no book explaining how it is done, there are no instructions. If Blackwing has the gift then he has it, if he does not then he will never have it. I will leave here this afternoon and contact those that may be able to help. You will bring him to me in two days time at six o'clock in the evening, I will know more about what can be done by then.'

'Is there something else that you want?' continued Tuneve.

'What do you mean ?' asked Fresnel.

'Oh, perhaps courage for yourself, more intelligence for Micha, say, I believe they are traditional requests?'

'I am shaking because you and your statue were messing with my mind, and I am sure Micha wouldn't want you to mess with his mind. I don't suppose there is a secret door in this dump concealing rooms with large fireplaces, food and comfortable beds?'

'I am afraid not.'

Apart from a levelled, well swept floor and the giant statue there was nothing man made in the cave.

'Why do you live in this dreary pit,' asked Fresnel.

'I have several names and several homes, this one I use for entertaining uninvited guests. I can rain merry hell down upon any army of thieves and vagabonds as they struggle up the mountain path and then flee leaving the survivors nothing to steal or destroy'

'Makes sense, I suppose. You don't want to meet Blackwing before you leave?' enquired Fresnel as he stood up.

'No, I do not wish to raise his hopes before I have found out all I can and I need time to think. It will give Blackwing a chance to think as well. I will see you all in two days. Farewell.'

Fresnel squinted as he emerged from the cave's darkness into the late-afternoon sunshine. He started walking down the path. He liked walking on rough ground, were he was forced to concentrate on nothing more complicated than not falling over for hours at a time which was bliss to a man with a compulsion to reanalyse every word of a conversation. Fresnel had behaved like hero today, much to his own surprise. He wasn't sure how yet, but he had a feeling that today's work should just about exempt him from ever having to do anything brave ever again. The Geran boys owed him, they owed him plenty, 'Throw me in the river,hah, I'll throw you in the river!".

______________________________________________
Would you like to see more of Old Jay's collected tales? Yea or nay, please let me know.

[ June 03, 2003, 02:30: Message edited by: Bluinn ]

 

It's very good. An intriguing tale I'd like to see to the end

 

I didn't finish it all, but I will say that if someone is bothering to put spaces between every few lines to ease the eyes and to check grammar and spelling, well, I look forward to having the time to read this.

 

Definitely one of the best things I've read in a while, and that includes some printed materials! Please, do continue, and soon!

 

Patience

The four-post bed in which Fresnel lay was luxurious, it was elegant, it had carved oak uprights and heavy linen curtains but something wasn't right. He could feel a draught from somewhere. He pulled and tucked and smoothed at the closed curtains but the draught was still there. He could not tell where it was coming from, he could only feel the tingle of the cold on his face and the chill of the air as he breathed in through his nose. He heard the clatter of cooking pots, then birdsong and gradually he became aware of the low hissing sound of running water making its way over a stony river bed. 'Oh God, I'm still here.'

It was never clear which god Fresnel beseeched for help at times such as these. It would have to be one that knew the answer to the question 'why me?' which often followed his most heartfelt petitions.

He stuck his head out of the flap in his tent and squinted in the bright morning sunlight. He could make out Micha standing a little way from the camp with his back to the tents answering the call of nature (a small gorse bush had obviously placed the call this morning).

Fresnel wrapped his blanket about himself and crawled out of his tent. He headed towards the smoking remains of last night's camp fire, poked at it for a bit till he found a few red embers, added some kindling, poked at it some more and blew on it until the kindling was alight. Realising that he was about as settled as he was going to get for now he allowed a comfortable fug of misery to form in his mind an stared gloomily at Micha who was currently returning from the direction of the stream.

'I tripped over the cooking pots this morning, did I wake you?' asked Micha.

'Mnm.' replied Fresnel, indicating that it was too early for coherent correspondence and that Micha should leave him alone.

'You look white as a sheet, are you alright?' continued Micha.

'-uure a sheet' mumbled Fresnel.

'I can't make out what you are saying, do you want some water?' asked Micha, whilst offering Fresnel the bottle he had just filled in the stream. Fresnel took the bottle, drank deeply and returned it.

'Better?' asked Micha.

'Cold', said Fresnel. 'Cold water, cold tent, cold to my bones.'

'Never mind, today's the day, and there's some rabbit stew left over from last night.'

Rabbit stew leftovers for breakfast shouldn't belong on anyone's list of silver linings as far as Fresnel was concerned, but at least Micha was right that Tuneve was due back that evening. They had been at the camp beside Cale's Brook for two nights.

Fresnel had only slept outdoors during the middle of Summer when he was young. It was still early Spring and his body no longer ran on the same heady mix of raw honey and raw emotion as it had then.

He had felt so cold during the first night at Slieve Rab that he had woken before dawn and had been unable to get back to sleep. He had shivered under his blanket unwilling to suffer the even colder conditions outside the tent in order to re-light the fire. He spent the rest of the day reading, cooking and dozing when he eventually warmed up enough to sleep.

Blackwing and Micha had gone hunting the small furry animals that Mother Nature had made too tasty for their own good. On the way they had gone up to the cave to see the statue. It turned out to be an almost entirely natural rock formation. Some dedicated artisan had painstakingly enhanced the natural rock's inate draco features. Like a creature slowly forming out of the chaotic, billowing shapes of storm clouds, the rocks that formed the beast's blurred outline were carefully fashioned to bring the illusion into a sharp enough focus to deceive the eye. A creature had emerged from its stony egg sac, a creature now brought to life by the shadows dancing in the light of Micha's torch.

'Your relatives sure are ugly,' said Micha, stretching to raise his torch to just under the stone dragons right nostril.

A flicker of a smile from Blackwing let Micha know that he was back from whatever memory that the statue had invoked.

'When you introduce me and Fresnel to your relatives you should say 'This is my brother Micha and this is dinner, just to see Fres' face.'

'What if they are hungry?'

'It will probably be quick and painless death for old Fres…, unless they like stuffing. I'm going to scratch my name on the statue.'

'Why don't you leave your address as well.' Micha's dagger hovered above the dragon's outstretched front leg.

'Nooo. That would be foolish. I'll leave Fres' address.' Micha's dagger returned to his belt unused. Despite all the damage that the statue had sustained due to its unknowing enlistment as Tuneve's decoy, there wasn't the slightest vestiges of artwork created by trainee vandals who were under the impression that anyone gave a damn where they had been.

'I reckon Tuneve keeps it clean, it wouldn't do its job nearly as well if it were painted pink.' said Micha as he backed away from the creature and held his torch aloft as though he were trying to visualise the dragon with a new coat of paint.'

'I'd be scared.' said Blackwing.

'Only because it would probably be a lady dragon,' responded Micha.

'In which case you would probably take a run at it,' chided Blackwing.

Micha tilted his head back and scanned the giant head before him in a moment of quiet contemplation.

'I like her high cheekbones, but she's really not my type. Sorry girl.' Micha placed a kiss on the palm of his left hand and placed it on the forepaw of the statue, then turned and headed towards the cave entrance. 'We still haven't caught dinner yet, come on, let's go.'

That was yesterday. Today Blackwing wasn't talking. Micha wasn't laughing. Fresnel was just staring into space. Nothing was wrong. The next move was out of their hands. Everyone was tense. There was nothing that needed to be said. Idle chatter would just pluck at already taut nerves.

They had packed up their camp and travelled half a mile south to the edge of a copse of trees near to the cart track leading up the mountain. All three helped build a new fire and then they settled down to wait. It was almost noon and the fire wasn't needed, but tending it gave them something to do and provided that calm and restful feeling brought on by watching fire relentlessly char, crack and consume all it embraces.

'Micha, get into the trees. Fresnel follow him.' Blackwing's command came in a flat deliberate tone. Micha followed Blackwing's unflinching gaze back down the hill towards their old campsite, across the stream and into the fields beyond. He grabbed his bow and Fresnel's sleeve, yanked the startled man to his feet and steered him towards the tree line.

'What was all that about?' hissed Fresnel as he and Micha had stopped behind the stout trunk of an old silver-barked ash tree.

'Get behind your own tree and stay hidden.'

'Why?'

'Look back down at our old camp.'

Fresnel looked. He saw a horseman crossing the stream at the ford close to where their camp had been. The rider had three other saddled but riderless horses in tow. The procession was still to far away to make out any details.

'The horses have probably been sent by Tuneve for us.' whispered Fresnel.

'I know,' said Micha. 'Why are you whispering?'

'If they are our horses we should be going down to let him know where we are, not be hiding like thieves.'

'He knows where we are, our smoke is easily spotted if he is looking for it.'

'Why is Blackwing sitting out in plain sight?'

'I need someone to draw that rider close enough to get a good shot.'

'You two have done this before! I'm going to tell your dad when we get back.'

'Look, did Tuneve say anything to you about horses? No. Did he say the meeting was at midday? No. Something is wrong. Now put a stone in your sling and follow my lead.'

'Damn anti-social way to behave if you ask me,' muttered Fresnel to no one in particular while staring into the pouch of smooth stones attached to his belt. Micha held is tongue, now was not the time.'

The rider slowly advanced up the gentle slope from the stream towards the cart track. Blackwing sat quietly beside the fire, his back resting against an old moss covered tree stump, his head down as though asleep. The rider advanced to within sixty feet of the fire. Blackwing still did not stir.

'Hi there!' shouted the rider. Blackwing looked up, stared for a moment then beckoned the stranger to approach. When he was within thirty feet the rider stopped and waved.

'Hello friend,' said the rider.

A hiss. A crack. The rider tumbled from his horse. The horse sidestepped away from the motionless body, looked, started, turned and ran, causing the rest of the equally spooked animals to bolt in the same direction.

'What the hell just happened?' asked Blackwing in the same flat tone as before. Micha emerged from the trees and shrugged. Blackwing wheeled around to see Fresnel heading for the prone body at a sprint, his face red with rage and hurling unintelligible abuse at the top of his voice.

Blackwing caught up with him just as he was about to land a kick to the stranger's already bleeding head.

'I'll kill that sonn'fa*****! I'll kill that sonn'fa*****! Let me go, get off, get off me now!'

__________________________________________________


p.s. Thankyou.

[ May 29, 2003, 07:28: Message edited by: Bluin ]

 

That was damned good. I really enjoyed that, I can't wait for your next part

 

Keep it coming! This is holding me over until I get my copy of HP:OotP in the mail (from amazon.com thru SP, mais bien sur)!

 

Duty

Stoal’s eyes opened and then shut again as a massive pulse of pain thumped inside his head. Thump…thump…thump…,every time as bad as the last. He waited. He breathed slowly and tried to stay still. Thump…thump…th-ump…th-ump. The waves of pain became less intense and were joined by a constant, dull ache. He opened his eyes again.

‘That bad get is waking up,’ said Fresnel through clenched teeth.

‘Enough Fresnel, go help Blackwing with the horses,’ snapped Micha. Fresnel cast a narrow-eyed look at Micha, and then headed of to where one of the horses had already been tied up.

Blackwing was trying to entice the other three horses back into captivity by holding out a ‘handful’ of grass. This age-old negotiation between human and horse always ended the same way, but the rules of conduct dictated that a suitable amount of time must pass before the animal responded to the stranger’s overtures. Of course as soon as one horse had acquiesced the others would rush in to see what they were missing…

‘I’m not going to hurt you, ’ said Micha to the injured middle-aged man. He sat down on the opposite side of the fire to Stoal, who was slumped against the old tree stump. Stoal just stared back, his head bobbing slightly as it rode on the waves of pain. Each heartbeat caused a fresh surge of blood to thump in his skull.

‘You’re going to be alright, I’ve bandaged your head, it isn’t as bad as it looks.’ Stoal continued to stare at Micha for a few moments longer, then looked down at his shirt. White cotton and large bloodstains. Thump. Stoal’s head jerked back up, his eyes closed as he fought to stay afloat. His head returned to its gentle bobbing, his eyes reopened and he stared at Micha.

‘Minor scalp wounds always bleed a lot,’ reassured Micha. He had heard it as a child. He didn’t know if this was true. It was probably wasn’t but it was better than telling someone with a blood soaked rag pressed to their head that you’d never seen that much blood in your life.

‘I’m sorry that you where hit. It was a sort of accident.’ (The sort that people cause on purpose thought Micha). ‘You see you were the bloke who told us that we would find the Black Dragon of Tiller’s Reach in that cave up there.’

Stoal waited, (-thump-) bobbed, then tilted his head slightly to one side.

‘Well, the thing is, you also told the dragon so that he could set an ambush.’

Stoal’s eyes widened a little, he looked into the fire then back at Micha.

‘And you see, well, old Fresnel there, he’s got trust issues. He was tricked into walking out in front of a horse and cart as a kid, ended up with broken bones and a punctured lung, so Dad says. And then there is you, walking him into an ambush, now that was bad. And you see, you also set me and Blackwing up to be killed, and you can probably see how much Fresnel loves me. Well, I reckon he’s been chewing on what you did for a day or two and I think he got a bit cross. You seen how grumpy he was, that’s all your fault, he was having a great time up until you tricked him.’

Stoal looked down at his hands. They were tied together on his lap.

‘And then you turn up again and he got mad and threw a stone at you. I think he was aiming for the horse. Its perfectly understandable don’t you think?’

Stoal was still looking at his hands.

‘Oh, we just tied your hands so that you wouldn’t leave without giving us a chance to talk. Do you feel like talking? No? That’s fine, we found Tuneve’s letter in your pack, please thank him for the horses and the directions for us if you see him before we do’.

‘Lord Tuneve,’ said Stoal quietly, trying to speak without moving his jaw.

‘What about Lord Tuneve’ asked Micha, getting a bit closer to hear better.

‘Name is Lord Tuneve.., not Tuneve.’ Said Stoal with obvious effort.

‘Quite right, of course it is,’ said Micha. ‘Very important personage is Lord Tuneve’.

Stoal, leader of the malitia of the small village of Torsen, closed his eyes again. His head bobbed to a slow inaudible beat. Was it his fault? He had followed Lord Tuneve’s orders. He was still following his orders. He knew nothing about Blackwing, Micha or Fresnel. His lord’s trap had been set as it always had been. It was sprung the same way it always was. For years this simple deception had protected his lord, and in return his lord had protected and provided for Stoal and the rest of his village. This time the deception had been brought to light and Stoal had paid the price. It was always the Stoals of this world that paid the price. That price bought food and security for his family. Was it his fault?
_________________________________________________

Based on a record in the Journal of R. Stoal, tenant farmer and Captain of the Torsen Brigade. (The Torsen Brigade is believed to have been a small informal village militia.)

[ May 29, 2003, 06:10: Message edited by: Bluin ]

 

Very nice, but I must say Blackwing is obviously the protaganist (otherwise I'm about to look like an arse ) but seems he has taken a bit of a back seat. I don't know if your going to bring him into more depth later in the story, but I thought I would just shine a light on the matter.

 

Go East. Pick up Book.


Clouds were gathering in the afternoon sky as the group dismounted to rest at the side of the track. Micha led his horse over to a small roadside well at the base of a low field-boundary wall. He knelt down on top of its rough whitewashed stone surround. He cupped his hands, scooped up some water and slurped at it as his horse tried to nose him out of the way.

‘Read it again,’ he said while scooping up some water to splash on his face.

Fresnel pulled Tuneve’s letter out of his pack, sat down on the grassy verge with his back to the boundary wall, and began rereading it aloud for Micha’s benefit. Micha could read, but letters had a habit of squirming about on the page and gave him a headache if he concentrated on them for to long.

‘Friends,

I apologise for my absence but rest assured it due to my continuing efforts to secure the aid of those who may be instrumental in the solution of the question at hand.

I have instructed a trusted associate to deliver this sealed letter to you along with horses. He is unaware of current events and has been told to leave before this letter is opened.

You must travel to the town of Volach on the shore of lake Foinse. The Marfer farm is close to the outskirts of the town.

Snasta Marfer has a book that belonged to the Black Dragon of Bluin. The book is important to your current research. It has two fighting dragons embossed on the cover, each one biting the other’s tail.

Obtain the book and return it to my associate (you know where he can be found), and make the most of his hospitality until I return.

Please destroy this letter’.


‘Not very keen to leave any trace of his part in this errand he’s given us, is he?’ continued Fresnel. ‘He hasn’t even signed it.’

‘Show me,’ said Blackwing reaching over towards Fresnel without getting up.

‘He has as good as signed it,’ said Blackwing, ‘Look at the design stamped in the sealing wax.’

‘Let me see,’ said Micha reaching down and snapping the letter from Blackwing.

‘Not a very impressive design, is it?’ he said joining the two halves of the seal together, ‘Three dots and a squiggle, its like the one on that board hanging on the wall at Bluin, you know, in the little hall at the back.’

‘I know,’ said Blackwing.

‘Well, we have already come half way to Volach, ten more miles eastwards and we can put our feet up,’ said Micha, trying to lighten the mood.

‘In a tavern with warm food,’ added Fresnel, catching the folded letter as Micha flicked it towards his head.

‘You’ll get all the warm food you can eat when we get back to Torsen and make the most of Stoal’s hospitality,’ said Micha as he led the other horses over to the well.

‘I’d rather eat poison.’

‘I’m sure he’ll oblige you, probably without even being asked.’

Fresnel put the letter back in his pack, laid the pack across his lap and stared up at the dirty grey clouds as they pushed westward towards the descending sun. He could go home now. Blackwing and Tuneve could work out the lad’s future between them. He was just an outsider looking in. It was time to leave before he royally messed things up. He wasn’t out of his depth; he was in the wrong pond altogether. He looked over at Blackwing.

‘Take no notice’, said Blackwing with a smile, ‘There is nothing like having a fearsome reputation to make people treat you with respect. I’m glad you are watching my back.’

On the other hand, thought Fresnel, Chel Geran was depending on him, he could not and he would not, let him down.

[ May 30, 2003, 12:52: Message edited by: Bluinn ]

 

Closing Time

It was dark by the time Snasta left the tavern. He could feel the occasional raindrop being blown against his face and striking his bald head but the rain was not yet heavy enough to be visible. He pulled his hands back up into the sleeves of his brown cloth overcoat and headed home.

As he neared the edge of the town he could see four figures standing in the street, just out of reach of the light from a nearby window. He kept walking at the same steady pace, his boots scraping slightly louder as they struck the path. He could see that it was a group of young men, no more than boys really. Each hooded figure held a beer bottle, which they sipped from occasionally (but not often enough to finish it before it was time to go home).

Snasta kept walking along the opposite side of the street. He kept a preoccupied expression on his face and he walked with purpose. Just before he passed the group he looked up, as though he had just noticed their presence for the first time and made direct eye-contact with the boy that was watching him (whilst holding his bottle to his lips for an implausibly long time). Eye-contact deliberate enough to say ‘I know . Don’t even try’ but fleeting enough to not deserve a response.

He kept walking along his side of the street. He passed just beyond where the boys were standing. A loud burst of laughter came from one boy, which was quickly echoed by another. It stopped equally abruptly and the suspicious silence did its work of filling the space behind Snasta with sinister possibilities. Snasta did not turn around or alter his pace, pretending to accept that the incongruous laughter had been the result of a quick-witted remark made by a guy who had spent the last hour standing in the dark nursing a beer bottle.

He walked on for another half minute listening for anything that would suggest he wasn’t taking this little walk on his own. Overgrown hedgerows replacing neat brick walls at the roadside clearly marked edge of the town. Snasta looked back from the darkness of the laneway into the slightly brighter town street and saw that no one was following him.

Snasta had rolled enough old drunks in his youth to know the difference between and easy mark and a nasty old bastard who was just looking for an excuse to stick his knife in your belly. He didn’t have to let those trainee hoods know which he was, he just had to create the uncertainty and the little weasel’s fear took care of the rest.

The old man followed the lane home. There was no moon that night. In places where the hedge disappeared it was only possible to tell the track from the ditch by the contrast between black and pitch-black. When faced with patches of absolute darkness Snasta shaded his eyes from the weak starlight and let them adjust. Some people feared the dark, hearing goblins in the rustle of every wind-tousled bush. To the old thief he was back in the womb. The real devils of this land operated in daylight so that they could see you coming from a long way away.

He reached his cottage as the rain started in earnest. It would definitely have been called a cottage when it was first constructed. Through age and neglect it had degenerated into little more than a shack. It had holes in the thatch that were covered with wooden boards and it had filthy window frames that were crumbling apart into sodden lumps, revealing countless woodworm chambers. This little building was still referred to as the Maher Farm although all the fields belonging to it had been sold off years ago.

Inside was little better. It had three rooms altogether, a living space, which included the kitchen, and two bedrooms. There was very little furniture, bare floorboards, no decoration to speak of and a pervasive damp smell. Old Snasta took the flickering stub of a candle from the mantle piece and used it to light a new candle, which he placed at the edge of the table in the centre of the room. A couple of the buttons on his coat were missing and he slipped his hand through the large opening that created and reached into the special pocket he had sewn inside. He dropped the contents onto the table, a few coins, a tinderbox and a brooch made out of green glass. Old habits die hard and if people are careless with their stuff that’s their problem.

He flattened down his coat again to keep warm and pushed open the door to one of the bedrooms. In the bed was Shosoal his five-year-old granddaughter. She was fast asleep under a mountain of blankets. He quietly pulled the door closed again and sat down to examine the tinderbox. It was closed tightly so he took out his dagger and jammed it under the lid. He tried to lever the lid up.

The front door of the cottage exploded off its hinges. The keeper for the door latch was torn from the frame and struck the back wall. Blackwing stood in the doorway. There was no cloak, there was no pretence, there was only Blackwing.

The two men paused, staring at each other for a split second. Then the tinderbox lid popped open.

Blackwing leapt across the table, one hand reaching for the dagger, the other for Snasta’s throat. Snasta was scared but Snasta was reacting. He stamped down against the floor causing his chair to tip backwards. Already in mid air Blackwing’s elbows snapped out to either side, exposing the segments of skin attached to his torso, forcing him to slam down onto the table. Momentum drove him forward, his arms cleared the table and he used both hands to grab Snasta’s wrist as he tumbled forward onto the floor, his shoulder taking the impact. He was lying on the floor beside Snasta holding his forearm in both hands. Snasta reached over and grabbed his knife with his free hand and stabbed at the nearest of Blackwing’s arms. The blade hit the hard black flesh making a small pin sized pit. That was it, playtime was over, Blacking snapped Snasta forearm in two.

Ohh yeah, Snasta knew this feeling all right, his brain had put him on hold while it just made a quick check on how it felt about broken limbs. Soon would come pain, the shaking and the cold and possibly the blackout. There wasn’t much time; he could see the white flesh under Blackwing’s jerkin. He pulled against his restrained arm, rolled in towards Blackwing and struck at his stomach. Blackwing reached out. In what seemed like slow motion his two unwebbed fingers and thumb encircled the tip of the dagger as it started its decent. The blade slipped through the diminishing circlet, its edges cutting shallow grooves as the digits' grip increased. The dagger’s hilt smacked down on the forefinger and thumb and the blade stopped. Snasta couldn’t pull it free. Blackwing looked him in the eye as his black hand twisted the blade, rotating Snasta’s wrist until the old man couldn’t take the pain any longer. Pain. Ohh yeah, here it comes.

Snasta rolled back flat on the floor. His eyes closed and his ashen face contorted as his knees tucked up towards his stomach. Blackwing released Snasta and he rolled again to lie on his side resting on his good arm, moaning softly.

Blackwing stood up. He hurled the dagger at a one of the back windows, it broke a small pane and continued on out into the garden.

‘He’s got some moves for an old man,’ said Micha as he entered the room.

‘Don’t hurt my Grandpa! Don’t hurt my Grandpa!’ screamed Shosoal, standing in her bedroom doorway, eyes filled with tears. Nobody moved, so she ran over to the old man. He looked up at her and managed a weak smile, which vanished as soon as his gaze returned to Blackwing’s face.

‘Take her outside,’ said Blackwing.

‘Sir.’ said Micha. ‘Come on little one, its gonna be alright. The grown ups just need to talk. You get your coat and you can show me outside.’

‘Take her outside now!’ shouted Blackwing, his stare firmly fixed on Snasta.

‘Sir.’ replied Micha. He put his finger to his lips to signal Shosoal to be quiet and led her out into the rain.

‘Don’t you hurt her.’ Snasta grimaced as he leant on his good arm and pushed himself up into a seated position.

‘That all depends on you now, doesn’t it?

Snasta pushed himself back towards the wall so that he could lean against it. For the first time he took a good look at Blackwing.

‘What the hell are you?’

‘What difference does it make’

‘I have nothing to steal’

‘I haven’t come here to steal from you.’

‘I know I have made a few enemies but know this, if you kill me then that little girl has no one else to care for her.’

‘I’m crying on the inside.’

Blackwing walked over to a chest of drawers, pulled one out and emptied it on the floor.

‘What are you looking for?’ asked Snasta as involuntary tremors took control of his limbs.

‘A book with two fighting dragons embossed on the cover, each one biting the other’s tail.’

‘Its not a book,’ Snasta replied. ‘I know what you are looking for. If I give it to you it means my death.’

‘If you don’t it means your death, you family’s death, your friend’s death and the death of anyone who has ever lent you money.’

‘Don’t hurt her.’ Snasta had no fight left. ‘You will leave when you get the dragons?’

‘That’s all I want.’

‘You see that floorboard with the hole in it, lift it up, but stand back, there is a snake under it.’

‘If this is a trick the girl dies and my partners will continue where I left off.’

‘I know, I know, just do it, please.’

Blackwing used his own dagger to pry up the loose floorboard. The snake hissed at the intruder, looked about and then nonchalantly headed for the shadows under the upturned drawer.

The space under the floorboards contained a piece of cloth. In the cloth Blackwing could feel a heavy piece of metal, hoop-like in shape, and approximately 4 inches in diameter. He stood up, unwrapped the parcel and looked at the piece in silence. It was two fighting dragons, each one biting the other’s tail. The piece was made out of silver. The dragon’s eyes were made out of emeralds. One was missing. One had always been missing, even when he was a child.

‘No way you live.’

Blackwing raised his arm, his elbow straightened, his webbed third finger unfolded away from his forearm. Snasta saw the leathery arm swing down, he felt Blackwing's claw like fingernail slice into one side of his throat and tear out of the other. He could taste the blood in his mouth and feel it trickle into his lungs. He could not speak. He could just die as a furious Blackwing looked on.

Minutes passed, the only sound was the the rain beating down on the roof and striking into the shallow puddles outside the cottage. A troubled Blackwing sat at the table with the fighting dragons in front of him. He looked at the silver and the emeralds. On the floor he could see the coins, tinderbox and a brooch made out of green glass. Then he looked around him. Everywhere he looked he could see poverty and decay except on the table where the fighting dragons gleamed in the candlelight. He got up, stepped over the dead Snasta and checked the cupboards. There was some flour and a few vegetables that had passed their best some time ago. He slammed the cupboard doors shut and picked up Snasta’s corpse by the collar of his coat. He dragged him out through the front door, out into the rain and dropped him in the light of the open doorway.

‘Tuneve! You will not test me!’ roared Blackwing into the darkness.

‘Tuneve! Do you hear me!’

‘I will not be played with.’

‘I hear you,’ said Tuneve, stepping from the shadows.

_____________________________

p.s. Morningstar, proverbial nail on proverbial head, but I have reasons. Thanks for taking the time to read it.

[ June 02, 2003, 01:39: Message edited by: Bluin ]

 

Eternity

Micha had turned right as he left the cottage with Shosoal in tow and had walked quickly through the rain to the dilapidated barn at the edge of the farmyard. The barn was almost empty except for a pile of straw and Fresnel, who had been standing just inside the wide doorway. Micha had put Blackwing’s cloak around Shosoal and had made a couple of small rough dolls out of twisted straw and sacking for her. She was a bit too old for dolls but Micha seemed to be having fun with them so she joined in. The tears stopped as she concentrated on lambasting Micha’s puppet with the scolding it deserved.

Fresnel stayed at the doorpost, looking at the cottage. He had been ordered to stay there. He had watched while Blackwing and Micha made their assault on the house. He now watched as Blackwing and a naked Lord Tuneve stood facing each other across the farmyard, heedless of the wind-whipped rain driving down on both of them. Fresnel couldn’t understand what was going on. He looked back into the barn at Micha, who handed his doll to Shosoal and walked over to join him at the doorway.

‘Why have you done this?’ shouted Blackwing, pointing at Snasta’s corpse lying at his feet.

‘I have done nothing, ’ replied Tuneve calmly. Blackwing’s anger began cutting at the mental ties of Self-control.

‘Was he innocent?’ shouted Blackwing far more loudly than was necessary in the small farmyard.

‘You mean you don’t know?’ chided Tuneve in mock surprise.

‘Was he innocent?’ shouted Blackwing even louder. Anger yanked away Caution’s shield.

‘What did crime did you think him guilty of?’

‘Did he kill my father, you useless, conniving turd?’

‘If he didn’t actually wield the knife would he be any less responsible?’

‘Answer the damn question!’ Anger had cut through the supports of Reason’s transcendental platform and was beginning to push…

‘He was the father of one of the thieves that raided the Bluin Fortress. He raised the boy, he created the killer.’

‘Where is the son?’ demanded Blackwing. He could smell the scent of Snasta’s blood. It had flowed into the puddle of water in which Snasta’s head rested and had mixed with the rainwater. The gory perfume was being propelled into the air by the rain’s continuous bombardment. Blackwing breathed it in. His mind whispered ‘More.’

‘You want to kill, you want to destroy, you want to take your revenge,’ replied Tuneve. ‘Fine. I will not stop you. It makes no difference. You can’t see that. If the culprits die by your hand or die from old age it makes no difference. In less than a hundred years they will be dead and the Draco will still be alive. The Draco win. The Draco always win. As one Dragon is consumed so his power flows into another of his kin. That is how it is. That is how it always has been. As we speak an egg lies buried in the depths of the Clavan, the sleeping embryo will one day take her rightful place in the skies above Bluin if she so desires. Nothing will have changed.’

There are unspoken truths in the world of men. One of them is that the burden of the memory of some crimes could not be truly released by the victim until the perpetrator was dead. Those men that knew this truth never spoke of it, having good reason to remain silent. Blackwing had already learnt this truth. The hurt he carried was sometimes painful, sometimes barely perceptible but it was always there.

‘What kind of low-life wyrm stands idle while his brother’s killers live?’ shouted Blackwing, the rain dripping from his black hair and rolling down his face.

Lord Tuneve didn’t deserve this abuse. He was getting impatient.

‘Every man who had a part in the death of the Black Dragon of Bluin is dead already,’ said Tuneve. ‘I’m sorry if that has spoilt you plans.’

‘How are they dead?’ barked Blackwing.

‘By my hand,’ Tuneve snapped back. He pointed at Snasta’s sodden corpse.

‘But only those that had a part. Know this, Draco live for the thrill of life itself and life loves life to live, if it were not so we would be just wyrms. There is no pleasure or answers to be found in death.’ The naked man could see the hate in Blackwing’s eyes, he had better things to do than argue with this ungrateful rat.

‘You only want the power to become a man. Huh, sure you do. And if that also happens to open the way to invoking your Draco form well that’s too bad isn’t it? Too bad for the countless innocent people you will kill as punishment for the life you think they stole from you, too bad for the lives you will destroy in your rush to grab the power, wealth and glory you believe is owed to you. And believe me you will have to rush, for your mortal life is measured in days not centuries. You don’t have enough time. Not enough time to find out that I killed Snasta’s son. Not enough time to learn that I left the Eternal Dragons, which his progeny had stolen, with Snasta as a constant reminder that it was his fault that his only son was dead. I told the man if the Dragons ever left his possession I would know, and I would return to kill him too.'

Lord Tuneve looked down at the torn body lying at Blackwing’s feet and then continued speaking in an equally aggressive but quieter voice.

‘He struggled to hold onto his wretched life right up until the last. So will you when the time comes. And by then how many of my Draco Brethren may have been killed by armies seeking to avenge your reckless and stupid acts if I help you.’

‘You sent me here, you knew what I would find, it is your fault this man died.’

‘My fault! Have you heard none of what I just said! Kill whom you like. It does not matter. Look at your father’s trinket. The Eternal Cycle has no place for a half-breed and I am tired trying to explain the insignificance of your predicament in the greater scheme of things.’

Blackwing snatched his dagger from its sheath and raised it by the blade until it was alongside his head. In the barn Micha’s bowstring pulled back. Tuneve did not move. He simply watched as Blackwing lowered the knife and dropped it in the mud.

‘You won’t help me?’ said Blackwing.

‘I cannot, said Tuneve. ‘Not after this night’s work. You have robbed a child of her only guardian. Maher lost his daughter and her husband to fever two years ago.’

‘Would your answer ever have been different.’

‘No.’

‘Then why this?’ Blackwing gestured towards the broken door.

‘I had to know. And you had to know why you couldn’t have this;’

The air around Lord Tuneve seemed to flex as though in a heat haze, whilst torrents of rain whipped about the farmyard. The shape, distorted by the optical contortions, moved and changed and grew in size until the looming features of the Black Dragon of Tillers Reach could be seen. The haze disappeared. Blackwing looked into eyes so like his father's that…, Blackwing’s head dropped and he turned and walked into the cottage.

Fresnel watched the dragon leave. Powerful legs drove the beast forward. The animal crashed through a wooden fence without breaking its stride. In the open field beside the cottage it accelerated and then pushed mightily skyward as huge wings beat down against the night air.

Fresnel looked back at the cottage. 'No,' he thought, 'not me.' He walked back into the barn.
__________________________________________

More? Please let me know, yea or nay, (the guy's not dead yet ).


[ June 03, 2003, 02:43: Message edited by: Bluin ]

 

More? But of course!

pleasepleasepleaseplease...

 

Definately more!

 

more! More! MORE!!

 

Keep it coming!

 

More, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more and more.

 

Somehow, I think Eze would like to see more