Dragon Resurrection

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To everyone who asked about the premise, took a business card, checked out our website, and purchased a book or two…we thank you.

The Initiate

Faster. The word kept repeating in the rhythmic pounding of his heart. Though his feet made no sound on the road – lions’ pads were Heaven-sent for such work – he felt the thudding in his chest could be heard over ten ruined city blocks.

Faster. Don’t look back.

And so the griffin Penrhimage ran, clutching his blanket-wrapped burden close and hard to his leather-covered chest. The soft auburn hair of a small boy-child could just be seen above the ragged folds. He had come across the boy while scouting; unconscious, bleeding, left for dead in the middle of the street. He hadn’t had time to check how serious the boy’s injuries were. Whatever the case, he only knew the child mustn’t be left behind to be found by – by them.

His senses spiked sharply and he skidded to a silent stop, ears twitching and nostrils flaring. His keen blue eyes studied the darkening city shadows ahead. There was something there; there was always something there. He trusted his instincts. He raced in the light whenever he could, no matter how dim; the beasts and their handlers hid in the dark. Making a quick decision, he bolted down a side street, desperately searching for another lit path that would take him out of the city.

The child stirred suddenly in his arms and made a small, painful sound. Penrhimage grimaced slightly and wrapped a portion of the blanket tighter around him, praying that he wouldn’t awaken. Although the evening was cool, sweat poured down Penrhimage’s face and his hips burned. He wasn’t used to running on two legs, but his wings were bound by his pack, and he couldn’t slow down to fix it now. There wasn’t enough time.

He glanced at the horizon; darkness was descending. The largest remaining chunk of the moon would be rising soon; although he avoided shadows, the moon-bit’s light would be too bright, bright enough to cast his own shadow…bright enough to give him away. There were demons in the night; beasts that did not belong. They hunted, and fed on those like him and the one he carried. They had to get away. Now was his last chance, if he could clear the city in time.

Faster.

There was a stitch in his side, but he ignored the increasing pain in his chest, daring not to look too hard at the shadows he passed for fear they would move and give chase if he acknowledged them.

Then he heard it – a shout, close by, followed by eerie canine keening, and then by the unmistakable ring of steel-shod hooves slipping on the ancient concrete. Penrhimage knew what they were. They were the Fomorii and their demon dogs, xa’abrii salthounds. They were out of realm, the stuff of Celtic legend, and they brought their nightmarish culture with them.

Feathered and taloned hands gripped the child tighter and he reached down inside himself for a last burst of speed. Only a hundred more yards and he could stop running.

The beasts had him in sight; at the moment, they were faster, gaining ground with their elongated strides…but they were no match for the griffin’s desperation. Penrhimage cleared the final road that marked the edge of the city and its oppressive void of magic. Screeching as much in victory as in challenge, he leapt into the air, a ballistic rise to gain as much height as possible, to take him and his charge out of range of the weapons levied in their direction.

The hounds bayed angrily, but they could not pass, and eventually they and their hunter-masters melted back into the shadows. Gasping, Penrhimage fell against the trunk of a twisted oak and allowed himself the luxury of ten seconds’ worth of respite. There would be no rest until he and his charge reached the safety of the Laws Keep.

When his heartbeat had slowed, he readjusted his burden and continued his run into the night. The moon-bit had risen, and his shadow streamed behind him, but he was beyond the edge of the city now, and the darkness was simply an absence of light. Still, he didn’t look back.

PART ONE

The Remembrance

Prologue

The Dawn of Dragons

History does not long entrust the care of freedom

to the weak or the timid.

– Dwight D. Eisenhower

Every legend has an evil side.

There are histories and stories of the world that are long gone and forgotten. There are tales that rest deep in the souls of mankind and Dragons, tales of power, and tales of the wrongs done upon each other. So sit ye down and listen to a history that should have remained long forgotten – but must be remembered to turn the darkness to light.

This is the tale of the evil that came upon the land long before the rise and gracious rule of the Council of Twelve. Hear ye now the lore of the wrongdoings of the Old Dragons, and of their magical, ill-gotten spawn, which became known as the False Dragons. Their conceptions were rooted deep in the past of the old days, the days before the Council, the days before the creation of the Dragon Mother Kierkegaard. It was the unwritten history, the forgotten history, the first terrible history of the race of Dragonkind.

The Dragons and mankind had been put together, with the defined purpose of co-existing in peace and to mutual benefit. It never quite happened – not in the way it was truly intended to be. Dragons were the second creation, first only after man. They knew this; it was part of their lore. It was meant to bring them honor. They interpreted it otherwise. Headstrong and arrogant they were, and the Dragons resented this position, believing themselves to be the better of the two races. And so they set out with jealousy in their hearts and found ways to overthrow the rules of men.

Back then, the Dragons had no real special abilities. They did not spit fire, nor have a potentially poisonous bite, as stories are wont to tell, and their size was not nearly as large as that of a farmer’s cow. But they were vehement in their want to rule over men. With their ferocity they were endowed with the ability to strike sheer terror in the Humans. Fear was their single most profound weapon, and they used it to their advantage. Although not all Dragons proved themselves to be ill-tempered or of corrupt natures, their few actions of good were not remembered once the majority laid siege against mankind. Before long, barely within a generation, the Dragons ruled all.

At first it was believed that some Dragons were the omens of luck, health, love, and fortune. But, unfortunately, bad deeds are remembered more clearly than good, and those others who were the harbingers of destruction ruined any possibility of a peaceful co-existence.

One commonality all of the Dragons shared was the lust for Human flesh, in more ways than one. The Human race quickly found itself hunted for both food and folly. Beautiful Humans were less likely to be eaten, but more likely to wish for their deaths as opposed to the alternative. Rape of Humans, equally female and male, became a game to the Dragons, for there was an unspoken competition to produce the most spawn. It was a steady, horrifying practice of the Dragon race.

Before long, Humans began to take drastic measures to find ways to destroy the Dragons. They were more than successful, especially when they pandered to Dragonkind’s eye for beauty – it was the one weakness they could exploit. They tricked and trapped the beasts with tasty offerings of maidens, conveniently secured to stakes. The Dragons misunderstood the reasons for the offerings, believing the Humans had finally capitulated to the better race. They couldn’t have been more wrong. Terrified villagers and hunters, who were later hailed as Dragon slayers, waited as the Dragon would come to snatch the maiden, and the predator became the prey. It took nearly a thousand years, but it was in this way that the Old Dragons became extinct.

For those who were born of a Dragon parent, there was no quarter, no mercy. The spawn were cursed for something over which they had no control, the sins of their parents. While the Dragons were alive, the original Dragonspawn were protected from the wrath of ordinary men. Once the Dragons were eliminated, they were targeted; regardless of age, or purity of character, they were hunted down and sent into the next life.

Or so it was believed.

Even though the Old Dragons were gone, they’d left provisions of protection for their spawn. As the False Dragons were slain, their bodies disintegrated and reformed in another realm, a parallel world from this one in which they were to wait for the Dragon who would lead them to their revenge against the Human race. They believed that someday they would have their turn at ruling the world. So they settled into a castle between the mists, turned themselves to stone, and waited…

There was a brief moment when time and history stood still, and the legends of these Dragons and their spawn were forgotten. This was because the race of man was not meant to survive without the Dragons. Mankind soon followed the great reptiles into their premature extinction. The world was cleansed in fire and water to make way again for the new.

Primary among this new world was the invocation of the powers of magic. Initially there were two, the old magic and the Dragon magic. The power that was present of the forgotten past was resurrected into the old magic, which existed to inspire all Dragons and Humans. Those who could feel it would be able to control it, and those who couldn’t would be amazed at those who could.

The Dragon magic was created to thwart the chances of history repeating itself. Open rape was no longer a threat from a Dragon. Resistance to the advances of one was all that was necessary to protect the one in peril. This magic was endemic in all Dragons and eventually transferred itself to those who were the legitimate children of the Dragons. New Dragonspawn had emerged among the Humans. These were not born of rape, and were joyously hailed among both populations of beings.

As mankind flourished with the Dragons among them, their beliefs and trusts in each other became one. It was then that Avalon was found and the pure magic therein was set free. This was a white magic, dependent upon the forces of nature, yet a power of its own will. But this magic was palpable by all who came in contact with it. It could be taught to anyone. To become part of the school or religious order there was enough to learn the magic it harbored. This Avalon magic was the peoples’ power.

But with all the goodness of truth, faith, justice, and power, there is always evil. Somehow, a tainted form of the old magic was brought forth. Those who used it or were touched by it knew right away the darkness it created. It quickly became known as the dark or black magic. Although it was equal to the other three in the magnitude of its power, the magic proved itself to be easy to use, and hard to counter.

Time was reset, starting over again, with a new order of Dragons and men to find their way together. Kierkegaard and her mate, Thaddeus, had been the first of the new Dragons. Kierkegaard, who was true to the new order, was ready to accept mankind as the benefactors of the world, and help them when it was necessary. Thaddeus disagreed. The pairs’ views on the world, Humanity, and the role of the Dragons had differed greatly, causing a rift between them that had ended with their mortal deaths.

But everyone knows that back then, Dragons were immortal, or were supposed to be. Both of the Dragons had risen from their flesh states to that of the true immortal spirit. This was unacceptable to the magic that was there to safeguard the new order. The pair of Dragons was filled with the power of their transformations and given back the mortality of flesh. But that was not entirely acceptable either, so both were elevated to the ranks of not quite immortal, but very near to that. Their transformations signified the next new era of the world. It was then that Kierkegaard created the Council of Twelve, gaining a truth and trust of Dragons among mankind.

The legends of Kierkegaard and the Council of Twelve would transform the history of man. The permeation of Thaddeus’ evil would show them their vulnerabilities. Both Dragons continue to fight, but not here. They are warring on several planes of existence, in many ways, and through many temporal and unfathomable realms.

Thaddeus was expelled once before, to that Realm of Transition, to a forgotten castle between the mists. It was in his long captivity there that he became aware of the old forgotten histories. Encased in his amphora, he was introduced to the False Dragons. Although embedded deep in stone monoliths, they had the ability to search the realms as the barest hint of shadows. It was just enough, and yet it was too much.

Frustration dogged Thaddeus for ages. The realm was not easily reached and the castle was well hidden. No one ever came in, nor happened close by. The touch of a Human hand was all that would be necessary to set him free. He waited, counting the long centuries as they passed. Then one day the light touch of a lost bird gave him the freedom of a shadow, enough to leave the confines of the amphora.

Although his corporeal body unavailable, he traveled the magical realms as best he could, as an impotent wraith, searching for someplace to hide. He wanted a place to go, once he was freed, and he wanted it to be a place where he could take the False Dragons with him. They were of like minds with regards to the Human population and he planned to have them as the front of his army when he returned to the affairs of mankind.

It didn’t take long for him to become bored with his travels through the planes. He was not much more than a dark voyeur, with very little power. But what little he had, he used with terrible consequences. As a shadow, he had seduced the witch Morgan Le Fey, getting her with child. It was the most he could do.

And then, one day, a Human hand touched his vessel, and he was accidentally set free...

Chapter 1

Yesterday’s Dragons

Time has healed me, but time has not made me forget.

– Janis Heil

A single candle wavered on the bedside table, sputtering faintly in the still air of the royal chamber. The light flickered over the occupant of the large bed, shrunken and still. At last, it appeared he was finally dying. But before he departed this life, there was one more thing to do.

The old king raised a weak, trembling hand to gesture at the knight who kept vigil at his bedside. The knight put aside the scroll he was reading and rose to his feet, grasping the proffered hand; his weary face was suddenly alight, for the old king had been sleeping so heavily for the past few days that it was hard to rouse him even for a sip of wine, and the knight had begun to accept that his liege might never awaken again. But now, it appeared the crisis had passed. He clenched the king’s hand joyfully, but did not speak, for he could not; his king, though, had never had an issue with his muteness.

The king took a deep, wheezing breath and coughed hard enough to shake the mattress. When he was able to speak again, he whispered, It’s time, Reno. Bring Alastair to me.

The knight’s bright eyes dimmed at this pronouncement, but he nodded and was off like a shot, returning minutes later with a beefy man of middle age, his fair hair balding and face red with the effort of racing up the stairs to answer the royal command. The man dropped to one knee beside the mattress and touched the king’s arm to let him know he was there.

The king’s eyes cracked open to regard him, then closed. Rise, my friend.

The man struggled to his feet. Thank you, sire. What can I do for you?

The king’s breath whistled in his sunken chest. His lips tightened as he considered his words, then his eyes opened and he appeared to make a decision.

I need to ask a favor.

Of course.

I’m going ask an unusual thing of you, Alastair, and I ask for your obedience, no matter how…odd my request.

I understand. What do you wish of me?

Hm. The king coughed again, and Alastair and the mute knight quickly piled pillows behind his head and back, raising him to an easier position to breathe. They waited until the king took another breath; this one sounded ominous, with a rattle they recognized all too well.

Alastair, the king whispered, you must find her. Please.

Alastair sighed sadly. He’d been expecting this; he didn’t need to be told who the king was asking for. It had been years since the last search had been conducted, and after that fruitless effort, all orders – and all mention – had ceased.

Milord, he said gently, no sign of her has ever been found. She is gone.

The king nodded, wheezing. That’s because she’s not here. She was taken from this time and this place, by the…by the Dragons. Do you understand? She is not of this time.

Not of…? Alastair looked helplessly at Reno, who confirmed the king’s words with a curt nod. Alastair blinked at that, but cleared his throat and continued. Well, er…if she’s…she’s out there somewhere, then who’s to say that… He sputtered faintly as he tried to form words, and the king’s faded old eyes narrowed as he watched the struggle.

You are of the Dragon Arkady, are you not?

Yes, but –

And you and your brethren are sworn to me and mine as protectors, are you not?

Of course we are, but –

"But what, Alastair? Quit your mouncing and tell me."

Er, milord, should I bring a physician, or perhaps a priest…?

The jaundiced grey eyes kindled suddenly. "If I wanted a fucking physician or a fucking priest, I would have asked for either, but I didn’t, I asked for you! The king’s voice rose angrily, and he suddenly appeared stronger than it had been in days; he pushed himself up from the pillows, waving away Reno as he jumped forward to assist. Though dotard I am, I am certainly not mad, and I am not leaving this world without knowing that the protectors will continue their duty to my family! Now promise me!"

Alarmed, Alastair grasped the old man’s cold, withered hands in his. I promise, milord! Please, do not strain yourself!

It’s too late to worry about that, man. The burst of anger had faded, and the king groaned as his strength leaked away like water from a broken bucket. Help me, Reno, he ordered the mute knight, who sat down on the edge of the mattress and gripped the knotted old shoulders, keeping him upright.

Now, then, let us start again. The king’s cold, swollen fingers squeezed Alastair’s, then gently pushed up Alastair’s sleeves to display twin tattoos of green Dragons encircling the man’s wrists. He coughed suddenly, hard, and blood sprayed from his mouth; he turned his head to the side and Reno gently wiped his mouth with a cloth.

Please sire, you must rest –

The king shook his head and covered Alastair’s tattoos with his own palms. Alastair MacLovatt, knight of the Arkadian Brotherhood, I charge you and your descendants to locate and protect my lost Queen. Tell your children and your children’s children, as long as it takes…search for her, find her, keep her safe. His voice faltered; he swallowed heavily and a single tear rolled down his cheek. If…the stars align, reveal yourself to her…tell her I love her and I will wait…I will wait until those aligned stars fade...and guide her back to me… His grip loosened and his hands slid away from Alastair’s wrists. Reno eased him back onto the mattress and touched his face with a gentle hand, surreptitiously wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

Alastair’s eyes brimmed with tears as well. By the blood of our mother Arkady, I and my kin will continue to protect and serve the Guardians of Men. With all my heart, my lord Arthur, I accept your charge and vow that we will search for Queen Tatiana until the end of our days and unto the end of the earth. So shall it be.

So shall it be, murmured the High King of Britain. He smiled faintly. Thank you, he added, and, closing his eyes, he took one more breath and set his soul free.

♦ ♦ ♦

The summer sky burned with the heat and flames from the huge Beltane fire on the forgotten English hillside. Or rather, not forgotten. The centuries-old ritual had lost its true meaning in the age of industry and techno-babble, and was now a brutish, vulgar freak show for tourists and fanatical nonconformists. It was something to appease the perverted whims of the masses and convince them to part with their money.

A shadow that was not quite all shadow circled the polyester and aluminum tents full of pyramids, tarot cards, talismans, fetishes, and crystals blessed by fake witches, warlocks, and cosplay pagan followers. It reached out hopefully, longing to touch a slender spine of true magic in the hearts of those in attendance. No one reacted to its gentle, persistent probing. No one heard the call. They were cold to the shadow; cold, as if dead to its touch. Disappointed, the shadow moved on.

A crammed tour bus choked up the long dirt road and vomited another load of eager sightseers onto the crushed-down grass. The shadow slipped through them expectantly, but these people, annoyed because they were nearly an hour late, rushed and stomped up the lane, raising a cloud of frustrating dust.

Desperate now, the shadow moved through all of them again. One believer would be enough to keep the Council alive for another year. It only took one. Just one. But that one was not here. The chill of oblivion crept through the shadow.

The fire burned on, and the gaudy ceremony reached its climax, quickly dying out to cheers and applause. Cameras and video recorders had captured every moment. The crowds moved en masse to their waiting tour buses, chatting and laughing about the ceremony, reveling in its far-fetched audacity. Not one of the revelers knew what had truly transpired.

Their disbelief had shattered the shadow’s world. And they, in turn, knew or cared not what they destroyed with their doubt. Their own world – in fact, their very lives – would distort and crumble, disappear, and eventually be forgotten.

Forgotten...

The shadow screamed in frustration and agony. It raced after the crowd, beseeching them to return and see; see the truths, the glories, and the realities of the past. But it was all to no avail, for the centuries of false truths had shoved the shadow and its kind into the nether regions of the dimensions, causing its voice to be heard no more in the world of men. The shadow slowly faded away, choking on the dust from the road and the smoke from the fire, still pleading for someone, anyone to hear it. But no one did. The cold had won.

♦ ♦ ♦

We’ve done more harm than good. Haven’t we? I mean, look at what’s happened.

Yes, look at what’s happened. You righted a great wrong...You saved the Round Table from civil war. Trust me enough to know that you’ve done a rare and wonderful good for this time, and because of your selflessness and your desires, the Golden Age will continue...But you cannot stay. You are needed in your own time.

I don’t want to.

You must go.

Why do I have to go? I like it here.

You can’t stay. Perhaps one day you can come back.

Oh, all right, I’ll go.

Then go. And remember what you’ve learned here. Believe.

Believe? In what? Who are you?

(Silence. The misery of resignation. The sensation of a cataclysmic, transrealm shift. The feeling of helplessness. The prickling sear of unredeemable cold. The terrible pleading scream of oblivion.)

[Come back! Please! We need you! Believe! That is all we ask! Believe in us!]

Don’t go!

Miles away, a woman jolted awake, startled at the sound of her own voice. For a minute, her eyes roved around the bedroom, and she didn’t know where she was. Scrubbing at her bleary eyes, she sat up in her bed and reached to turn on the bedside light, only to find it already burning brightly.

She’d been dreaming, and already the dream was sliding out of her conscious mind. But she remembered the presence of a man and the feeling that she’d spoken with him before. He was someone she’d known but couldn’t quite remember him, but she remembered the sudden feeling of doom at the sound of a Dragon.

Dragon? Not a Dragon, but the Dragon. How did she know it was a Dragon? She shook her head at herself; she just knew.

The Dragon...A great, shining green Dragon had been calling to her for help. No, not to her specifically...to all mankind. And he’d disappeared.

Don’t go.

The words came upon her with sudden clarity. The man was urging her to go home. The Dragon screamed for her to come back. Both meant the same thing, to be there, in the right place at the right time. And to have faith...

Merlin. He’d told her these things long ago. But he wasn’t in trouble. His voice had been calm. The other, however...Why was he calling for her? She needed to be somewhere...and she wasn’t.

Don’t go.

Believe in us. Believe.

Come back.

Faigan.

Her feet were on the floor and she was reaching for a pair of sweat pants before she knew what was happening. Never again would she take a dream for granted. She knew what the dream meant – it was the true end of a journey for her that spanned the centuries. The Council had existed on the barest of threads for so long, and now, stretched beyond its capabilities, that thread had finally given way.

She moved as swiftly as she could through the flat and out the door, folded herself into her car, and raced out toward the country, not sure where she was going, but letting her heart be her guide. A few hours later, she stood before the remains of the Beltane fire, poking a stick through the cold ashes.

He had been here. Faigan had been here, calling for help. She threw the stick and jammed her fists into her pockets. And I wasn’t here for him. She raised her face up to the full moon and closed her eyes, feeling her energy drain away and sorrow replace it at a rapid rate. Her hand absently stroked her abdomen, which was bulging in late pregnancy. Now there will be no Dragons for you to believe in, little one, she thought miserably. I’m sorry. Oh, God, Faigan, I’m so sorry.

Can I be helpin’ ye at all, then, lassie? said a gruff, yet gentle voice.

The woman started and looked up behind her. I’m fine, thanks, she assured, forcing a confidence she did not feel. Actually she felt sick – sick at heart. The Dragons were gone.

The man was still there, his forehead puckered in worry. I’m fine, she repeated. I missed someone who was here, that’s all. He – he was very important to me. She sighed and turned to walk away, stumbling on the rough path.

The large man’s strong hand caught her elbow. Easy, lass, he cautioned. Slow down. A fall might hurt the wee one you’re carrying.

As she regained her footing, the woman took in the man’s appearance. His thick, sweat-slicked blond hair, thrown all over his head like a pile of old straw, was getting into his eyes. Plainly dressed, he seemed like nothing out of the ordinary, simply another latecomer to the Beltane fires. She tore her gaze from the man, looking sadly back at the fire pit. Nothing stirred. There was nothing left. They were lost. Tears burned her eyes.

Can I help ye back to your car? the man asked.

No, she sighed, shaking her head. I’ll be fine. But thank you anyway.

She turned away from the cold ashes and deliberately made her way to her car, tears slowly running down her face. While she believed the Dragons still had a hold on the world, she’d also believed that there was a chance that she’d be able to find her husband again. But now the Dragons were gone, and so was her chance. There was nothing more she could do.

The man watched from the cold firepit as the car sped away, and then looked toward the sky. Where are ye? he whispered. Why can’t I hear ye anymore? He glanced again toward the now empty lane. Ye were looking for them, too, weren’t ye, lassie? They called ye here. As if in response, the wind rose, ruffling the hair on his forehead and whistling in his ears. He looked down and saw an odd rock and picked it up. There was no surprise as he rubbed the dirt from it and saw that was a green Dragon scale. He was here, he thought. And he did not find what he needed.

But I have. I’ve found her at last.

He pocketed the scale, looked around one last time, then sighed heavily, turned away from the pit, and headed toward the dirt road. A boy of four years waited there, sitting calmly on a large cream-colored draft horse. The mare idly lipped at the mashed grasses at her feet. Patting the horse’s neck, the man pulled the mare’s head up by the headstall, gently murmuring to her that she had plenty of food waiting for her back at the barn. Both ears swiveled forward at his voice, and the mare nosed him eagerly. He grinned up at the boy.

Your ma send ye to fetch me? he queried. The boy nodded, and scooted backward out of the saddle to take his position on the horse’s broad rump. Shaking his head, the man swung up onto the horse, being careful not to knock the child off.

Did ye see Arkady, Da? the boy asked.

Nay, the man answered, there be no more Dragons. They’ve gone from this place. He touched his heel to the mare’s flank and it obediently set off at a brisk trot.

Did the lady know Arkady, too? the boy asked.

I think so, the man replied. She knew all of the Dragons, he added silently to himself, not really sure how he knew, but confident in his deduction. Somehow, she could hear them too. She must be the one. He pulled back his sleeve just enough to touch the green tattoo circling around his wrist, then glanced back one last time at the empty lane.

By the Grace of our mother Arkady, my promise remains true, and my watch has begun. So shall it be.

Chapter 2

The Speed of Dark

Though he slay me, I shall yet trust him.

– Job 13:15

It was a stormy, depressing morning at the seaside near England’s White Cliffs of Dover. The famed milky walls of chalk, flint, and quartz had taken on a bleak greyish tinge, and the churning water that threw itself against the beach was a purplish-green hue; as it receded, it left slimy tendrils of blackened seaweed on the stones.

It wasn’t a good day for tourism. The Visitor’s Center parking lot held a handful of cars, mostly employees. No one was out on the walking paths; thunder rumbled out to sea, promising another downpour. The beach, of course, was completely deserted.

Almost. If anyone had been walking along the beach, they would have been stunned at the sight of the enormous crystalline Dragon, wings partially spread to keep her balance against the whistling wind, perched atop the tallest point on the Cliffs.

The Dragon’s deep blue eyes, shining like jewels, took in everything – the slimy seaweed, the roiling water, the oncoming storm clouds – and she committed the scene to memory, for she knew it was the last she would behold it. For months now, she had felt the little jolts of magic slipping and sliding into oblivion. Now the crash was undeniable. She worried at first about those who depended on the Dragon magic, and had spent many long nights pacing, wondering how to halt the slide, but to no avail. Now she knew there was no stopping it; the centuries had seen not just the Dragon magic waning, but all the magics of the realm that comprised the powers. This time, though…unlike the past where history was born again, there were no more second chances. This time they were facing Armageddon. And Kierkegaard, the Dragon Mother, was afraid – for mankind, for Dragonkind, and for the first time in millennia, for herself.

The rising wind shrieked and screeched, and Kierkegaard winced imperceptibly as the wailing scales climbed to an almost painful crescendo. Without warning, the oceanic vista shimmered and distorted into a whirling image of disjointed, dispossessed scenes of life, of death, of time – what was, what is, and what may be – a confusing menagerie of faltering existence that would have driven regular folk mad; as it was, its tangled fury made her stomach churn with nausea. Oh, Heavenly Ones, this was it, time was up. She closed her eyes, taking deep breaths to try and slow her hammering heart. Although she knew her time had come, she still felt a fissure of fear – she was going transrealm, and there was no way she could control it.

The splintered scenes elongated, as if the far ends were pulling away from her, breaking them down into nothing more than vibrant streaks of color. Then they snapped with ferocity, like a sling-shot, and reality simply catapulted her forward into the insane chaos.

Her wings unfurled reflexively, grabbing at the air rushing past, but she was still plummeting faster than she could fathom. Dark streaks tinged the leading edges of her scales as the friction super-heated the atmosphere around her. Vapor and smoke streaked behind her like contrails, and she roared in fright and frustration at the futility of it all. Out of nowhere, the ground rushed up at her with horrifying speed, and she landed hard on her side, indenting the surface beneath her. There was a sound of a thousand windows breaking, and the vortex around her shattered into nothingness.

♦ ♦ ♦

What seemed like hours later, though it was only a few minutes, Kierkegaard slowly raised her head and shook it. Her vision danced erratically for a few seconds, then cleared, then blurred abruptly as tears filled her eyes. She was alive; she had survived the fall. She raised her paw to wipe the tears away and gasped sharply as she saw her paw. Or rather, her hand. Her very pale, elegant, long-fingered hand.

Oh, Gods. She was thra’akine. Her Dragon form had been torn away like an overcoat. She wasn’t Human, but she appeared Human; she was just about naked, somewhat exposed, definitely vulnerable. Without her permission.

She clamped her hand across her mouth to keep from whimpering, and she sat up abruptly. Her head swam as she stared down at her body; her lissome form was clad in a loose shin-length chiton of rough bleached linen, knotted at one shoulder. The side on which she had landed was smeared with streaks of blackened dirt. Her feet were bare, and very cold. She’d never been cold before.

Very carefully, she got her feet under her and wobbled as she rose up on her pseudo-Human feet. Two feet, Gods, she hadn’t been thra’akine for millennia, could she even stand? The ground below her tilted sharply. It was no good; she finally dropped back down, trembling with the effort. She couldn’t, she just couldn’t…The panic swelled in her throat until she felt she was being smothered. It was one thing to be taken from her very existence and thrown into this one, but to be so completely removed from existing, even from her very skin…She wrapped her arms around her body and rocked, keening softly as she fought to get herself under control.

When her breathing slowed to normal, she wiped her eyes again and gasped at the sharp sting; a quick pat confirmed she had cut the soft skin below her eye. She stared at the silvery smear on her fingers, aghast. Blood. It had been so long since she had seen the river of her own life flowing from her body…She tore a piece of the material from the chiton and dabbed cautiously; as a test, she pressed her fingers against the cut, closed her eyes, and reached inside for her power, willing it to stop the welling blood. Of course, nothing happened. She hadn’t expected it to, but the mere thought of this weakness brought tears to her clear blue eyes.

Pressing the small piece of cloth to her cheek, she raised her head and stared at her surroundings. The place she’d fallen into wasn’t the bastion of Hell she had feared it would be. Instead, her eyes took in a large plain of tall, reddish-green grasses, sparsely dotted with tranquil copses of trees. It was a surreal dreamscape, infecting her with its subtle lethargy. She suddenly wanted to sleep, to wake up, to find herself back in the true realm, released from the nightmare she knew she was treading through.

For the first time in years, she felt insignificant and small, and she automatically reached down within herself for the comfort of the others. She received another terrifying jolt when she found nothing but a vast, yawning emptiness. Emptiness! She could sense nothing beyond what she could see with her own eyes. Not only was her appearance altered and her power nonexistent, her Dragon senses – those senses that allowed her contact with other Dragons and Dragonspawn of mankind – were gone.

She was alone. Alone! She was a Dragon with no body, no heart, no soul. She was truly lost in the chaos.

Forgotten. Helpless. Lost. Lost.

Pressing her hands hard to her breast, she sobbed, mourning for the loss of this one gift. Without it, there was no hope for the Dragonspawn that were the Human descendants of the Dragons, an elite race that enjoyed certain privileges, such as a limited form of immortality. They were also gifted with the abilities to call upon Dragon-enhanced powers to use as they saw fit. The Dragon magic protected them, while the old magic strengthened them, and the Avalon magic empowered them. Once upon a time, the Dragonspawn enjoyed great numbers and great adoration, but with the coming of new religions, their popularity began to fade. They weren’t persecuted as the False Dragons had been, but being a Dragonspawn descendant had become vulgar, a dirty little family secret, happily and readily forgotten. There had been resurgence in the power and the belief in the Dragonspawn during the Golden Age of Camelot, but even then, it had still been dreadfully brief.

It was a sudden, gut-wrenching realization of separation from this life to the next, not unlike the pain of prematurely shedding the skin for the bloody core beneath the scales. Kierkegaard threw her head up and screamed, over and over, crying out until she was hoarse. She flung herself onto the ground in complete despair, her hands beating futilely at the soft grass.

A sharp stab on her palm jerked her from her frenzy and she automatically looked around at what caused this new pain. The grass around her was dotted with…She gasped suddenly as she recognized the pieces of what she thought had been pebbles. Scales! They were Dragon scales, her own Dragon scales, scattered