Dragon's War

CHPT. 1
Argen picked himself up slowly, wincing at the pain in his side. Small pebbles and rocks tumbled off his back as he straightened and clutched at the bloody tear across his ribs.
“How,” he thought, “how can he fight like that?”
Suddenly, he leaped to one side as a white-hot ball of fire landed where he had been. The explosion sent him reeling, and the force of the blast seemed to jar everything loose in his body. Dust and smoke covered everything, and he could barely see beyond his hands. He looked around frantically for his blades, which he had lost after being thrown to the ground the first time, but the smoky air obscured everything past his outstretched arms. He felt more than saw the next fireball coming, and he tried to cover his face as it landed right at his feet. The concussion sent searing waves of pain through his already battered body and flung him several feet in the air. For several seconds after he landed he couldn’t seem to make his legs and arms work right; they flopped around uselessly, working against his every effort to regain his feet. As the dust and debris settled, he watched helplessly as the short, red-haired figure approached. Argen’s brain worked frantically, trying to make his numbed limbs work, fighting the growing urge to change form, knowing it was his only hope of surviving, fearing the power it would bring.
V’Thorne, the man who had been his traveling companion, stopped a few yards away, staring at him with an angry, haughty expression. Red, wispy hair stuck out of his rounded head. Great, red-shot eyes seemed to bulge out of sunken sockets, and long jowls emphasized the wide, down turned mouth. His neck was as thick as a bull’s, and his clothes, apparently old and worn, were mismatched and ill-fitted.
“Come, Argen,” V’Thorne said casually, as to a friend met on the road, “What do you gain by hiding from what you are?” The man raised his hand, and a glowing sphere appeared in front of his palm. Argen stared at the sphere, his defeat, his death, and something in his mind snapped. He could not die. He needed to find out so much; so much of himself was hidden in his mind. He would not die here, now.
A roar, animalistic and savage, seemed to rush up out of some deep well inside of him, and it felt as if liquid fire flowed along his veins. A flash of doubt marred the Dragon’s prideful glare, and he sent the glowing fireball straight at Argen. With an almost convulsive jerk, Argen swung his arm around and sent the fireball flying with a concussive burst of energy. The shorter man started, taking a step back, and his own attack sizzled past his left ear, exploding far behind him. Argen felt as if he was being ripped apart, pain and heat rippling across his prostrate form.
Suddenly, a colossal, painless impact flipped him over on his face. He clawed at the ground, realizing that his hands had in fact grown into claws. His face contorted, elongated, and sprouted horns and scales. His lips peeled back, revealing rows of long, serrated teeth as strong as tempered steel, and releasing the horrendous roar of a Dragon that shook the earth and knocked the shorter man off his feet. Argen’s body grew, slowly at first, then with increasing speed, layering itself with impenetrable ebony scales and elegant, deadly spikes. His head towered over the ground as his neck became longer, and a long, crested tail thrashed from side to side as it grew from his now massive bulk. As if Nature itself stopped to witness his transformation, there was a deep silence. Then, in one glorious moment, and with a mighty bellow, Argen’s great, webbed, jet-black wings shot out of his back, blotting out the sun. He beat them triumphantly and roared his challenge to the sky as he reared back on his powerful hind legs. Finally, he settled to the ground and opened his eyes. V’Thorne staggered backwards at the sudden, piercing gaze that locked onto him, the crimson orbs that burned with a deadly malice. Then he smiled, a mere curve of his lips, and his body swelled. His skin shimmered and became a plating of scales, and his head reared back to transform into a long, serpentine face. V’Thorne’s figure flowed into the form of a Dragon, quite unlike Argen’s dramatic and sudden change. Done with his transfiguration, he snarled menacingly at Argen, who roared back with sweeping gusts from his wings. Then, suddenly, they rushed each other. V’Thorne ducked under a strong swipe and tried to clamp his teeth into Argen’s neck, but Argen swiftly turned and lashed at him with his tail. The blow landed solidly on V’Thorne’s side, and there was a terrific cracking as the bones in the rib cage snapped. The smaller Dragon screamed with rage and pain, staggering back from the assault. It roared defiantly, but its movements were slow and hesitant. Argen waited, growling viciously as his enemy snarled at him. Without warning, V’Thorne lunged for Argen, but he was too slow, and Argen easily smashed the Dragon’s head to the ground with his powerful foreleg. He quickly flipped V’Thorne over on his back and ripped open the exposed throat with his razor-sharp teeth, then stepped back and watched as the dying Dragon’s movements became weaker and weaker. Finally, there was no movement. A thick fog gathered around them, hiding the two great beasts, but when it faded, nothing was to be seen except a lone figure, apparently searching the ground for something. Finally, the figure bent and picked up two blades, sheathed them, and slowly walked towards the road that led to the nearest town.


CHPT. 2

Argen moved up the street almost mechanically, attracting quite a few stares from the comparatively colorful and lively citizens in town. His boots dragged on the cobbled street, occasionally catching on a stone and sending him stumbling for a few steps. The week-old tear across his ribs had broken open many times on the road, and blood, both dried and fresh, stained his pants and tunic already riddled with rips and stains from weather and wear. His long white hair hung in matted clumps, obscuring his dirt-smudged face. He had a vague comprehension that he probably smelled like a goat, but he had long since stopped caring.
Suddenly, he was bumped into from behind. Without thinking, he drew his sword and whirled, clutching the person by the throat and slamming them against the wall. The man, pinned a foot off the ground, was apparently a merchant judging by his clothes, and he stared fearfully at Argen with his mouth opening and closing silently. Argen blinked a few times and set the merchant back on his feet, sheathing his sword as he did so. The man blubbered thanks and retreated back into the crowd, disappearing from Argen’s mind as quickly as from his sight.
Argen stood in that spot for some time, his mind buzzing dully with indistinct thoughts. He had no recollection at all of the past few weeks. His memory was full of holes, ending abruptly right after he left the village of Selam and encountered a small, red-haired man named…what? His thoughts seemed to shy away from the man’s name, and Argen soon stopped trying to remember it. He didn’t even realize he had started moving again until he found himself in front of a large tavern. He stood before the doors, his face partially illuminated by the light from the windows. He didn’t know how long he waited there, but just as he had made up his mind to go inside, the doors opened, and two burly men appeared just long enough to toss a young-looking girl out into the street. She landed right at Argen’s feet and, ignoring him completely, proceeded to curse the bouncers out in a wide and impressive array of dialects and languages. The doors closed, and the girl stood slowly, grunting and wincing at various aches from her landing. Finally, she straightened, sighed, and turned to Argen with a crooked smile. The scent of ale reached his nose, and he saw that she wasn’t too steady on her feet.
“Here now,” she said in a light, slurring voice, “what you doin’ in the street at this ungodly hour?”
Without waiting for him to answer, she stumbled over to a water trough and noisily dunked her head into it. She then retched over the side and dunked her head again. When she came back with her short, dark hair dripping, she seemed less drunk but just as cheerful as before.
“Sorry ‘bout that, mate. Needed to clear me head after that little brawl in there. Those bloody echtari don’t like me pretty face in their bar. Gives ‘em a bad reputation with the inspectors, you know? Plus, you never know when some blockhead on the street’ll decide to take advantage of a young, pretty girl like me self when she’s too drunk to stand straight, eh?”
Her strange accent and affable mood seemed to raise Argen’s spirits a little, and he tried to say some form of greeting. All that came out, though, was a mumbled phrase that he barely understood himself. The girl’s eyes, while before had been slightly clouded by drink, turned sharp and piercing suddenly, and she stared at him before grabbing his arm and half-dragging him down the street. After a few minutes, she turned off into a deserted alley and faced him.
“You mustn’t say such things out loud in public where anyone’s ears can hear, understand?”
He nodded numbly, wondering what he had said to upset her.
“Now,” she took a deep breath and said, “say what you said earlier. Quietly, mind you.”
He thought back for a moment, then said carefully, “He was a Dragon. V’Thorne tried to kill me, so I killed him instead. He said I was a…was…” He trailed off, his eyes widening as what he just said finally registered in his mind. “Oh, gods,” he breathed, sinking to the ground. The girl stood to one side of him, eying him suspiciously, as if she thought he would attack her any minute. Suddenly, she cleared her throat and forced a laugh.
“Alright, mate, first thing’s first. We’ve got to clean you up, and then we can sit down somewhere and talk about-“
“He said I was…a Dragon.”
She started a little, then forced another laugh.
“No, mate, you can’t be a…one of those. And don’t say such things, got me? Others might not take you for drunk like I’m doin’.” She reached down and helped him up onto his feet. Argen opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again as he considered. He was in no shape or mood to correct her, besides the fact that he had no way to prove his identity beyond changing into a Dragon right then and there. It wasn’t important, anyway. Once he left town, he would probably never see this girl again; why should he care if she believed him or not?
“Ready, mate? Let’s find you a bath. I could smell you before those thugs tossed me outside.” She laughed as she helped him out of the alley and down the street.

CHPT. 3
Argen stepped out of the room he was sharing with Dara, carefully shutting the door behind him; she was still asleep, and he hated disturbing her. She looked so innocent when she was asleep. He chuckled at the thought as he remembered how “innocent” she had been last night. He wished she believed him about who he was, though. She had asked a number of times who he really was, where he had come from, and he had finally told her everything he knew about himself-which wasn’t that much. But she had stared at him as if he had sprouted horns (which he knew he could do if he needed to) then laughed and told him “of course she believed him” and “what made him think she was making fun of him?” He had finally threw his hands into the air and decided to drag her outside and show her exactly what he was, but she had chosen that moment to snuggle against him and whisper suggestive things in his ear, and he lost track of most of the rest of the night after that. He scrubbed a hand through his now short-cropped hair, sighed regrettably. She had had him cut his hair a few days after taking him in from the street, and he still felt off balance with it so short. She also suggested coloring it, but he had adamantly refused at that, and she had shrugged and moved on. He still caught her, though, looking thoughtfully at his hair when she thought he didn’t notice. He headed downstairs and nodded to the innkeeper, who smirked at him in a knowing way. He felt his face heat. Surely they hadn’t been that noisy last night, had they? He shook his head ruefully and paused at the doorway. For some reason, his thoughts returned to that day, more than 3 months ago, when he had finally realized who he was…

He sat alone in a corner of the tavern, his mug of ale untouched as he listened to the conversation going on a few tables over.
“I swear by the 7 gods that there was a Dragon in these parts,” one man said enthusiastically to his companions, “I saw him myself, I did. He had red hair that looked like a living flame when he moved!” A Dragon, Argen thought. These fools are probably all drunk.
“And I say you’re full of bad ale, Dek Flannigan,” another man said scathingly, bringing a chorus of chuckles from most of the table. “The only Dragons ‘round these parts are swimmin’ around in your drunken mind. Careful, though, and don’t drink much more, or they’ll drown.” This time, everyone at the table erupted in laughter, clapping each other on the back and stomping their feet. Argen smiled mirthlessly. If only they knew…
Suddenly, Dek lunged for the other man, sending the table flying and both of them rolling on the floor. Soon, the others were involved in an all-out brawl. Argen silently slipped out of the tavern and headed down the road towards the edge of town.
It was a small town and not very populated, just the way he liked it. Too many people could see that he was no ordinary person. Standing at around 6’ 2”, much taller than most people in this region, he would catch many people’s eyes if he wandered around a city. His shoulder-length hair was a snowy white in color, unusual for someone who didn’t look much older than 30. How old am I, though? He didn’t remember anything past a few years ago, and that day was seared into his mind in fire and blood. His thoughts fled from the memory even as he continued walking in silence. He also dressed for life in the wilderness. A sturdy leather tunic and heavy breeches kept most of the elements from his person, as well as a cloak for the few valuables, such as food, he kept in various pockets.
The strangest things he carried were two blades: a strangely shaped short sword that hung from his belt, and a long sword strapped to his back. Both were jet black in color, and they gave second thoughts to most brigands that thought him an easy target. All of these factors made Argen an uncommon sight in a large city. He stopped in the road, looking about at the quaint buildings. He had been in a village like this once before. It had been long ago, but he remembered. The memory, drenched in chaos and murder, rose from his mind’s depths, and they washed over him.
Memories drifted up of villagers running past him, away from him, as he had come walking into town, destroying houses as he passed them, slaughtering innocent men, women, and children. He couldn’t help himself. The urge to kill was too strong to control; it was like an ant trying to stop a falling tree. Argen’s hands clenched as he stood in the road, and he tried to push the memories away, but they continued to flood his mind. The town guard had tried to stop him, and they were decimated as he cut through them, laughing at the carnage he was inflicting.
Finally, he had stopped, paused for a moment without any reason. He casually bent to clean his sword with a rag on the ground. He had then seen the lifeless body of the girl at his feet. The “rag” was a strip of her dress. His hands were stained with her blood, and he had remembered the screams, screams she had tried to stop him with, screams he had ignored as he cut her throat. He remembered falling to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably, finally releasing all the energy pent up inside of him, energy so destructive that it threatened to tear him apart, was tearing him apart. Flames shot from his body, incinerating everything around him. He was dying, but he couldn’t stop. The past had merged with the present. The future was no more; he would destroy himself, he would end it all…
You must stop!
Argen gasped and looked around wildly, but the road was empty except for him. Reality rushed back, and he realized that he was still in the small town where he had rested at the tavern. Breathing heavily, he blinked away the throbbing behind his eyes and continued down the road. He had spent his time after that day searching for who he was, what he was, and he had found out just a week ago. He knew why the undying thirst for violence coursed through him. He was a Dragon, the most hated, despised, and feared being alive. He had to find somewhere that was so secluded, no one would ever find him, and he could die in peace. Well, he thought bitterly, not in peace. A thousand deaths lie on my soul: nearly all of them the victims of my ancestors. Where else but Hell to contain the likes of me? Argen shook his head and continued out of town. He’d think about that later. Just as he was entering the surrounding forest, he heard someone calling behind him. He turned to see a small, red-haired man running toward him. When the man reached him, he extended a meaty hand to Argen and said cordially, “Hello, friend! My name’s V’Thorne. I’ve come from pretty far away, and I noticed that you look like you know your way around, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to travel with you for a while.”
Argen stared at V’Thorne for a moment before turning away and saying shortly, “Actually, I do mind”
“But I’m great company, and-“
“I prefer to travel alone.”
“You’re missing out,” V’Thorne said enticingly, “I’m a wonderful cook.”
Argen sighed and continued on into the woods. V’Thorne hesitated for a moment, then fell in behind him. “Look,” he said, “how about this? I cook whatever you kill, and you lead me safely through these here woods.”
“You don’t want to stay with me.”
“Now that’s an unusual thing to say. You look like you know what you’re doing.”
Argen didn’t say anything, and V’Thorne continued.
“Where are you from, anyway? I’ve never seen anyone quite like you.”
The pair kept walking, and neither of them had raised their voices, but Argen soon noticed that the birds had stopped singing. He also felt uncomfortably warm, which surprised him; Dragons aren’t supposed to feel heat or cold, are they?
“Now, I can say that’s not an area of expertise for me.”
Argen blinked. “Did I say that out loud?”
“Yep. So, does that mean you’re a Dragon, or what?”
Argen considered killing the red-haired little man, but decided against it. What harm could come of one person knowing who he was? An image of a burning town flashed through his mind, but he pushed it down ruthlessly.
“Yes. I’m afraid I am a Dragon. That’s why you can’t travel with me. It’s too dangerous, and-“
He cut short as the heat around him intensified, and he looked down at V’Thorne in surprise. The man’s hair was moving as if on fire, and his shoulders shook with silent laughter.
“So,” he said, in a voice much different than before; it was crueler, more malicious. “What do you suppose happens when two Dragons meet on the road?”
Argen drew both of his blades, but V’Thorne raised his hand and sent a shock wave of energy towards him. The blow was so powerful, it sent Argen hurtling through the air and crashing into a tree, collapsing under him. He raised himself on his hands and knees, but V’Thorne, quicker than Argen thought possible, rushed up to him and grabbed him, throwing Argen high into the air. Argen hung there for an instant, trying to move, trying to see, trying to think! But V’Thorne appeared above him and sent him crashing to the ground with a powerful blow of energy. Argen landed with incredible force, flattening most of the trees in the area and sending clouds of dust into the air. A pile of debris fell around him, on him, and he lay there catching his breath.


Argen shook his head, trying to clear his mind. All that was long past, and he faced a new future. With Dara, he thought warmly. He stepped outside and into the heat and noise of a large city. It had seemed much bigger than he had remembered the night he met Dara, and he still felt slightly overwhelmed at the sights and smells of his immediate surroundings. Colorful people and animals swirled past in a blur, and he could barely take a step without getting bumped into or nearly run over. Until recently, he had always avoided heavily populated places, only visiting small villages for food or rest. He lost himself more times than he could count, occasionally becoming so frustrated that he stood in the middle of the street and jumped up and down to try to find a recognizable landmark. Finally, after passing the same fruit stand for what had to be the fourth time in an hour, he heard a familiar voice calling his name. He turned with a grin to see Dara pushing her way through the crowd towards him. She was beautiful in uncharacteristic breeches and short tunic that fit well enough to more than hint at her figure. Strangely, he felt a momentary pang of jealousy. Was the shopkeeper behind him eyeing her? What kept any man passing by to get an eyeful while he could only stand and wait for her? The thought made him decide to head towards her and meet her halfway. When they finally reached each other, she gave him a knowing look, which he replied to with as innocent a look as he could pull off. Smiling dryly up at him, she took his arm in hers, and, leading him to the other side of the street, she stopped at the entrance to a medium-sized shop. When Argen saw the sign hanging over the door, he groaned, making Dara laugh out loud. In bold blue letters surrounded by pictures of tailor’s scissors the sign said “Kallam Clothing Store.”

Chpt. 4
“No, mate, you look good,” Dara laughed as Argen fiddled with the large black hat that seemed to spread out on all sides like a dish. They were at another clothing store-The fourth one this week! Argen thought ruefully. She had picked out the majority of his clothes today, despite his every protest, while he had scanned the multicolored stands with halfhearted interest. He liked black. He kept telling her that, and she kept picking out the brightest and most eye-jarringly colorful clothes with unwavering dedication. So far, Argen had acquired 6 tunics of varying colors and styles with breeches to match each one, 3 pairs of shoes that wouldn’t be able to hold together for anything more than wear around the house, and one jet-black cloak which he was wearing. He had bought himself after an extended argument with Dara about whether or not Dragons were affected by heat or cold. Being a Dragon, Argen considered himself to be fairly knowledgeable about what affected Dragons and what didn’t, but according to Dara, he was neither a Dragon nor a particularly bright person in general. She had finally given up, but not until she had made him buy a “matching” hat to “keep him from looking completely ridiculous.”
Argen found himself adjusting the absurd thing yet again and forcibly pulled it off. Dara punched him in the side hard enough to make him grunt, and he carefully put it back on, grumbling under his breath, “Dara, I look ridiculous in this.”
“You look fine.”
“Do you see anyone else wearing this abomination?”
She opened her mouth, but closed it again after a quick glance around them.
“No.”
“Then why am I wearing it?”
She paused for a moment, then sniffed and said, “Maybe you’ll set a new trend.”
Argen stared at her, then began laughing. Dara gave him an icy look, but that only made him laugh even harder. Finally, she threw up her hands and stomped off towards the back of the shop. Argen kept chuckling as he tried to make his hat sit on his head better. He knew she would calm down in a little bit, and maybe he could talk her out of making him wear the thing. Besides, he had learned that their arguments usually ended with a very nice reconciliation in their room the following evenings. He had never looked at a woman in that way before, and, truth, he did not look at Dara quite in that way either. He felt strange when he was with her, as if he forgot how to act when she walked into the room. He was surprisingly self-conscious with her, yet at ease too. The combination was enough to make his hair stand on end.
He had been with her for nearly half a year now in this town. They had gotten to know each other nearly as well as people could know one another, yet she still refused to accept his claims that he was something other than human. Oh, she discussed Dragons with him, what they like to eat, or wear, or even their relationships with the opposite sex! Had the woman no shame? But every time they talked, there was a twinkle in her eye, or a wry twist to her mouth, indicating that she was doing little more than entertaining a fancy of his. As if he was a child! His mood soured a little, and he walked to the front of the store and leaned casually against the doorframe. As he peered outside, a light rain began to fall, shadowing everything in grey. The sound of it calmed him somewhat, even with the occasional thunder and flash of lightning. He stared into the rain as it fell heavier. Soon it obscured most of the rest of the town. Well, he and Dara might get a little wet getting back to their rooms, to say the least.
“Some weather, huh?”
Argen barely managed to hide his surprise. She had come up behind him without him even knowing! He eyed her sideways. She was staring out at the rain, too, but he would bet everything that she had been looking at him for some time before speaking. He studied her from the corner of his eye. She was beautiful. He knew that, but now, he seemed to see her for the first time. Her eyes were a clear blue, like the sky, and they seemed to harden or soften depending on her mood. Her cheekbones were high, but not too pronounced, and her lips were somewhere between pouty and full. Her mouth had that shape that said she knew something mischievous no one else did, or saw something funny where nobody understood the joke. Her shoulder-length hair was straight and brown, common in this part of the world, but it only emphasized her other features, making her seem almost exotic. She wasn’t short, but her delicate-appearing frame made her seem so. Anyone would be unpleasantly surprised if they considered her to be easy prey, though; she had more knives hidden about her person than Argen thought possible, and probably more that he didn’t already know about. He himself had gotten a nasty shock when he sneaked up behind her one day with some flowers and nearly been skewered. He fingered the thin scar on his side unconsciously. “Do you still feel that?” she asked worriedly. He looked at her for a moment, then pulled her close to him. “No, I don’t. I barely felt it when it happened.” He smiled down at her. “Those knives of yours are pretty sharp.” He meant it as a joke, but she bit her lower lip and avoided his eyes. Instead she fussed with his hat, muttering, “Next time you scare me like that I’ll make sure you do feel it, flowers or no.” He gently grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands down. She opened her mouth angrily, but he said quietly, “I love you.” Her cheeks colored, and she glanced around to make sure no one was around, then smiled warmly and replied, “I love you, too.” Then her smile heated, and she said in a throaty voice, “The rain looks to be lessening. Perhaps we can make it back to our rooms now? I’m feeling a tad too hot out of doors, and in these clothes-“ She broke off with a laugh as he hurriedly pulled her out into the rain and down the street.

Chpt. 5

It was well after noon and the rain had stopped as Dara shifted under the sheets, watching Argen get dressed. He was a large man, so most of the clothes at the shops didn’t fit him well. In all, she had only managed to get a few decent-looking tunics and shoes, but he still insisted on wearing that horrible black cloak whenever he went outside. It made him look evil, like he was up to no good. She tried to talk him into leaving it here many times without success, but she still glowered at his back as he swirled it around his shoulders.
“It really doesn’t suit you, you know,” she said as bitingly as she could. Which wasn’t that biting; she never could be much more than firmly disapproving when she was around him. It made for some frustration when he chose to do something that she didn’t like. Her mother had always told her that if you didn’t heel your man in from the start, he’d drag you along wherever he went, even over a cliff. She thought she knew the truth of that now. Before meeting Argen, she had always regarded men as blind to most of the subtleness of life, with women in particular. According to her mother, the three basic needs of a man as he saw it were a mug, a maid, and a meal, not necessarily in that order. She had learned differently with Argen, but it still seemed awry that he should be able to tell her what he was going to do today, and her to stay and relax while he was out. She didn’t know which was worse, her agreeing to stay, or her actually wanting to stay, to do what he asked and make him happy with her. Like a child! She gave over staring at him and flopped back onto the pillows. He turned to regard her with those dark eyes and smiled in that infuriating way, like he knew she was mad at him and knew there was nothing she would do about it. She scowled and pushed him with her exposed foot as he was in the act of bending over to lace up his boots. The result was him landing flat on his face with a grunt. She started to laugh but realized with a pang that he could have been hurt. She jumped out of the bed and knelt by him, cradling his head in her hands…until an unsuccessfully hidden smile crept onto his face. Then she let go of him so fast he nearly fell on his nose again. She purposefully dusted her hands and, pretending to be satisfied, climbed back into bed, growling sourly as the knife from under her pillow poked her in the back. He thought he was funny, did he? “You’d better not expect any pity from me if you get yourself in trouble today,” she muttered. He grinned at her again and she threw her pillow at his head as he ducked outside. As soon as he left, she bounced out of bed and dressed in a flurry of clothes, hardly slowing to tuck away her knives in their proper places. In minutes, she was winding her way through the city’s crowded streets, keeping well behind a familiar, black-cloaked figure. As much as he claimed to be able to take care of himself, she remembered the shape he had been in when she had first met him, and he didn’t much look like a bruiser of a man even after months recuperating. He usually left his two peculiar swords at their room and, though he wore a decently large dagger at his belt, she had doubts about him surviving the thugs hiding in the street alleys, especially at night. Plus, he didn’t know all the ins and outs of this city like she did. That was one of the reasons she was still alive today; she knew what passages to take if she was attacked. She also knew of a few capable friends around the city. She had frequently hidden in their houses until either morning came or the thugs had simply given up. Argen, however, would seem like rich, easy pickings, and that cloak didn’t help matters. Only people with money wore cloaks that fine, and usually only nobles wore black. Of course, Argen didn’t care about that. He could look out for himself. Dara cursed softly under her breath. The fool would get a knife in his back if he wasn’t more careful. The thought sent a shiver up her spine. No, she would never allow that. No one had the right to hurt him. Except her, that is. And only if he proved to be especially mule-headed.
Suddenly, a swirl in the crowd blocked her view for an instant, and when she could see again, the black cloak was gone. She cursed again in frustration, earning a few startled looks, and pushed her way through to where she had last seen Argen’s figure. Gods, how could he disappear like that? He was taller than most people in the city, and his cloak was sure to attract some attention. She scanned the people around her, but only blank faces looked back, then quickly passed. She moved to the wall of a nearby building and threw her back against it, crossing her arms and scowling fit to send many passers-by scurrying away. Just when she was about to give up and storm back to the inn, Argen appeared in the crowd before her, looking straight at her. She gasped, then started toward him purposefully. The nerve of hiding when he knew she was following him, just to make sure he didn’t get into trouble!- The words died in her mind as she got close enough to see the grim expression on his face, his eyes never resting in one spot for too long, one hand gripping the hilt of his knife. She hurried to him, worry overcoming anger, and she unconsciously checked her knives. Had he been merely upset with her for tailing him, he would not be sporting a face like that, a mix of barely constrained rage alternating with an almost resigned determination. Her breath caught; she had never seen him look like that before. His eyes softened for an instant when she neared, but they were iron again right after, and he whispered, “Follow me closely. Whatever happens, do not stay and fight.” She opened her mouth to ask the obvious question, but he placed a finger on her lips, mouthing “later” and she shrugged and gave him a smirk that said “whatever you say.” She did not feel like smiling, though. Argen looked as though he was setting himself up to murder somebody. He led her into a side alley that soon branched off into 3 smaller alleys. He took the left one without hesitation, and Dara stared suspiciously at the back of his head. He seemed to know where he was going. Then again, he could just be bluffing, hoping to find some familiar landmark by chance. She doubted that, though. Argen was no fool, however often he acted that way around her. She told herself to trust him and kept up with his fast stride, feeling for her knives every few steps. They went past numerous passages, Argen always taking the ones that connected to more and never led outside. Just as Dara was beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic, the sunlight hit her in the face and they exited into a wide avenue that cut through a less populated district of the city. Argen glanced around for a moment, then turned to her and said, “Now, go to the top floor of that inn across the street. Wait in the room at this side of the hall. Don’t open the door for anyone but me, alright? I’ll knock twice, then once, and name myself.” She began to tell him that this was ridiculous, but he enfolded her with his arms and kissed her. She stood for a time looking into his eyes, brushed a strand of hair off of his forehead, the dashed to the inn. She would do anything for him. She would do anything for her Dragon.

Argen watched Dara as she ran inside the inn and closed the door behind her. He hoped she did not try to help him. This was his fight. He didn’t even know if she fully understood what was happening. He wasn’t too sure himself. One minute he had been walking along the street, simply enjoying the air, when a man all in white approached him from an alley. Despite the weather, Argen had suddenly felt cold, and he knew, as surely as he had been standing there, that the white figure had meant him harm. He had doubled back, staying out of sight, until he thought he had lost the man in the crowd. Then he had led Dara to a place that he thought would be reasonably safe. At least for a while. Long enough to finish this, he thought grimly. He had hidden his short sword beneath his cloak, and he loosened it in its scabbard. Any edge that he could get would help. He still felt a trifle weak from his battle with V’Thorne, which puzzled him. Suddenly, a scream from the inn dashed his thoughts and sent him flying for the door. That scream, oh Gods, that scream had been Dara’s! He took the stairs three at a time and burst into the room he had told Dara to hide in. There, he found pain.

“Curse you! Curse you!”
Argen couldn’t stop screaming. Dara lay in a pool of her own blood, a dagger between her shoulder-blades. The man to one side of her, dressed all in white, stared coolly at Argen and drew a wicked-looking, curved sword. Argen didn’t give him the chance to use it. He tackled the man, sending both of them through the wall into the adjoining room. Somehow the other man was able to get his foot between them, and his kick sent Argen bursting through the closed front door and imbedding him into the stone of the opposite side of the hall. Argen quickly freed himself and drew his own sword, but the white-clad man flew into him with incredible force, shooting him through the rock wall and outside.
Argen landed kneeling, sliding back with the force of the blow, and charged the other man. Argen was taken over by a blind rage so powerful that every swing of his sword sent shockwaves through the air, but the man in white dodged each attack with tremendous speed. Finally, Argen swung one last time with all his might. The other man brought his blade up and the two swords met with a flash. There was no sound; windows shattered silently, the earth trembled, and a broken blade, jet-black in color, spun through the air and landed point-first in the ground. Argen raised himself up on his elbows, not remembering landing on his back, and stared at his blade stuck in the ground. The other man calmly pointed his sword at Argen and slowly began advancing. At each step, Argen’s anger subsided, being replaced with a growing sense of sadness and despair. He didn’t think of himself, as he had when V’Thorne attacked him; he felt…something strange. Some feeling that he had never experienced before was seeping through him. He blinked, and a tear ran down his cheek. Reason and experience told him that Dragons were incapable of such emotions as sadness and loneliness, incapable of feeling the loss of a loved one, incapable of love. But Argen didn’t care. He had lost the one thing he had cared for the most. He couldn’t save Dara. She would never laugh, never cry, never scold him or tease him, never speak with him again.
“No…”
He would never be able to hold her again, she would never whisper his name again, he would never make her laugh again.
“No.”
A growing pain began gnawing at him, a sense of utter loss. She was gone.
“No!”
He closed his eyes, trying to stop the flood of emotions, but all he saw was Dara, a smile on her face, her mouth opening to call him, a knife from the shadows, catching her from behind. He watched helplessly as the life, the joy drained out of her eyes, leaving them dark and cold. His name was on her lips. He couldn’t save her…
“NO!”
Argen’s eyes shot open, and a familiar heat enveloped him. The other man had reached him, and he swung his sword at Argen’s head. Argen calmly caught the blade with his hand, holding it firmly as his adversary struggled to free it. Argen tightened his grip, and the blade shattered, crumbling in his fingers. The white-clad man stepped back, fear flickering across his face for the first time. His hilt fell to the ground, and he shot into the air. Argen ignored him, staring at his hand impassively. There was no blood, not a mark on his palm where the serrated edge should have lacerated and shredded the skin. He looked back into the sky only to find that his attacker had changed into a Dragon. Of course, Argen thought numbly. Only a Dragon could fight the way he had fought. It does not matter. Dragon or no, I will break him and scatter his ashes into the wind.
The beast let out a screech and dove straight at Argen, talons outstretched. Argen felt the familiar warmth flood his body, and he closed his eyes and let it suffuse his entire being. Black flames shot up out of the ground around him, causing the other Dragon to swerve wildly, screaming in pain and frustration. It flew back up into the sky, its eyes burning with malice. Argen’s body was engulfed by the flames, and he let himself flow into the form of a Dragon. The inferno died down, and Argen stood where they had danced, the air around him shimmering and steam rising from the ground. He beat his massive wings and, with one great leap, soared into the sky, roaring a challenge filled with loss and vengeance. The burning in his gut grew as he closed in on the fleeing white Dragon, and he drew a deep breath. For the first time, he let loose his dragonfire, black as night, crackling like lightning as it split the very air and struck the white Dragon. It let loose a final dying scream, then was swallowed by the inky fire that melted its bones and turned its flesh to ash.
Argen settled slowly back to earth and stood, silent and still, until finally, a great sob wracked his giant form. He collapsed, his body shrinking as it reverted to his human form, and curled into a ball, shaking uncontrollably with weeping. A chill wind blew, scattering dust along the ground, and the sun sank behind the mountains with a slow, tragic finality.


Chpt. 6


The air was crisp and cool against the faces of the lancers as they waited in formation on the plain. The breeze was just strong enough to cause the black and crimson banner at their head to wave fitfully, showing a wading heron on the front, its colors of the same with the background, but reversed, so that the black top portion of the bird stood against a red field, and the scarlet lower portion against a black. Lance-captain Eron Partiach surveyed the lancers with open approval. Not a stir in the ranks unless by orders, and every order carried out through the strict chain-of-command, carried out skillfully and effectively. The city’s army had not really been needed for a good many years, ever since that incident involving a rogue Dragon nearly obliterating the then small town of Selam. Women still told that story to frighten their children, though no one really believed it now. It had been many years since then. Eron barely remembered his own mother scaring him with that story. Now, though…Eron had always partially believed in the incident, even as an adult. Maybe it was because of his parents constantly reminding him of the fate of bad little boys, the Dragon sneaking into their rooms at night and spiriting them away. Or perhaps it had to do with a strange hole he had found when he was younger; it had been more of a shallow crater, really, surrounded and hidden by a copse of trees outside of town, but the peculiar part of it was that no grass grew in or around it. He had crawled down into it, naturally curious, but at the bottom he had felt a strong emotion welling up inside him. Only, it didn’t seem to be coming from him at all, but rather from the crater itself. It was a feeling of immense sadness mixed with loathing and hatred. He had run home and told his mother, but she had passed it off as a young child’s imagination. Eron had never forgotten it, though.
Now, as his eyes swept along the ranks of lancers, he took pride in the army that he had helped raise, helped train to what it now was. Part of the rumor surrounding the Dragon incident had been that the town’s guard had been severely insufficient in preventing the Dragon’s attack, and so the town elders had after a time drawn up an army to protect and maintain the newly growing city. Eron had been one of the first recruited and had risen up through the ranks quickly, becoming lance-captain only a few years after joining. That had been nearly 30 years ago. He was a veteran of a good number of skirmishes with bandits, other newly formed armies trying too soon to extend their control, and the occasional demonspawn. Those last had been nearly too much for Selam’s army, and they had only won those battles because a large contingent of elves had arrived from the north, driving back the demonspawn with their enchanted arrows. Things had slown down considerably afterwards, battle-wise, though trade had developed between the elves and Selam; Selam sent silver ore to the elves, and in turn the elves provided training and weapons for the army. Surprisingly, there was little friction between the two races, even though the elves maintained their aloof natures around the city’s residents. Eron himself had been given an eleven blade, long-hilted and slightly curved. He had tested its edge numerous times over the years, and it was either made from a superior metal that he didn’t know about, or it was enchanted to help prevent the blade from dulling, perhaps from breaking. It was engraved with runes along the blade, as many of the elves’ enchanted items were. He had spent the past 7 years training with it, and even the elves commended his skill. At 37, he could defeat 3 decent sword fighters, elf and human, at the same time, and his abilities continued to increase. At times he wondered at this, that surely he had reached that plateau that nearly every soldier reached, where he had reached his peak, could improve no more. But Eron continued bettering himself, and not only in swordplay. In the past few years, he had, on accident, performed some feats of strength and speed that were impressive if not extraordinary. He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, his good mood spoiled a little by the memories. One night about 3 years ago, he had been riding alone in the countryside when he was ambushed by rogues. Although he had been severely wounded, he had managed to fight off the attackers and ride back into town, where he had fully recovered in a few weeks. Last year, he had held a tree up so that a trapped logger who had been caught under it as it collapsed could crawl to safety. For the last 2 or 3 months, his strength, speed, and stamina had seemed to increase dramatically, and he had the feeling that no one in Selam or the elven villages could best him in hand-to-hand combat. Still, his newfound abilities attracted quite a bit of unwanted interest. Many religious believers in town thought him possessed, while others suspected he had found some undiscovered herb or medicine that enabled him to perform these feats. Eron thought he could deal with most of the criticism and interest for now, but what if his abilities increased? What if he continued to grow stronger, faster? People might start to wonder, and that might cause them to remember how strong, how fast the Dragon had been several years ago. Eron knew that he wasn’t a Dragon, but would everyone believe that? Or would he have to leave soon, go and hide where no one could find him? He shuddered at the thought. He grew up here. He knew people, he had a family. Even now, his wife and 2 children were at home, waiting for him to return from the field. He couldn’t leave them, no matter how hard life became.
Suddenly, his lieutenant came up beside him and saluted, fist to heart. Eron nodded for him to dismiss the lancers, then turned his mount and rode towards the city gates. He mentally upbraided himself for getting distracted during drills, but his last thought would not go away. I won’t leave them, no matter…