Hi guys, sorry it's taken so long, but finally got another chapter up! I don't have a great deal of time to write any more, which is a shame, so my updates will be sporadic at best. But bear with me, I will get there!
Dawn was just breaking over the calm expanse of Dragon Mountain, the bases of deep clouds beginning to glisten with the first light as the stars faded away. Only the brightest clung to their hallowed places in the heavens before they were burnt away by the autumn days' new birth. The great skull guarding the entrance to the Dwarf Mines was turned a rosy pink in the new light, a ghostly echo of what colour he had been in life.
Few remembered the tale of Behemoth, his brave last stand to protect his ancient home before he had been ruthlessly cut down. The once proud lord of the Fire Dragons was now but a memory and a monument to the glories and betrayals of the past, forever watching the empty skies for the return of his brethren, his great jaws open in a silent, eternal cry.
But today the skies were not so empty, although they might well have been to the untrained eye. A smooth shade of pinkish purple, he blended in with the morning sky and became almost invisible. Then again he could travel virtually unnoticed anyway.
Diving with the grace and skill of a falcon, he dropped from the sky and pull up just in time to land on the snout of the forlorn skull with a brief fluttering of wings.
Intelligent blue eyes scanned the vista, only the occasional flick of his leathery wings betraying his nervousness at being here alone.
Back at home, in the Eastlands, he was known as 'Sprite' for his size. It had irked him when younger, but didn't bother him much any more. He stretched his long body, warming down the muscles, from refined snout to curving tail and from wingtip to wingtip, before curling up in the curves of his brother's bones for a well-earned rest.
Sprite was a traveller, given much to wandering, as were many of his kin. The Air Dragons were ever a restless breed. But this was the first time he had ever come to the Mountain.
Many would, and have, laughed at Sprite for his size, or lack thereof. Equalling a housecat in stature, he had never thought of his physique as a hindrance. His wings worked as well as any of his larger brethren, sometimes better. His wings were his most distinctive feature, each one double the length of his body nose to tail and the width of his spine, shoulder to hip, in their narrowest part.
If there was ever a word to describe an Air Dragon it was elegance. Everything about their build was elegant and graceful, great horns sweeping in flowing curves from the back of his skull, fine lines running over powerful muscles to the tip of a long smooth tail. There was not a jagged or rough line anywhere about their body, and this was highlighted by the sense of peace and wellbeing that radiated from them. Of them all it was the Air Dragons that were the peacekeepers and healers, having no power such as the Ice and Fire Dragons did to use their element for destruction. The lord of the Air Dragons, Daeconduras, was hailed as being the wisest being in all the Nine Kingdoms by all who knew him.
Sprite's scaly chest moved up and down with the rapidity of his breathing. Even in sleep everything about the tiny dragon was quick and alert. He could go places where his larger brothers could not, for the fear that dragons still raised in people. But even he would not have come to this haunted place were it not for orders from Daeconduras himself. His mission was clear – he had to find the Shadow.
- - - - - - - - - -
It was twilight, shadows lengthening in the late autumn forest and assuming an ominous, threatening quality that would put even the bravest on their guard. Stars were beginning to show in the inky blackness of the sky, but there would be no moon tonight. Everywhere the trees loomed in close to the road, their branches reaching out as if to claim the unwary for their own.
The regular sound of hoofbeats seemed the only noise in the impenetrable night. The road through the forest was well known as a haunt for robbers and highwaymen, so he kept a cocked pistol at his side just in case.
The horse seemed acutely aware of every rustle in the bushes, every breath of wind, and spooked at the slightest movement. It was all the traveller could do to keep it calm and trotting along the road. He had no choice but to follow the road home, it was too far to go back the way he had come, but even he had to admit that the eeriness of the night was getting to him. Things were far too quiet.
The ditch by the road had always been the perfect place for an ambush. It was overgrown and deep enough to move quickly and quietly in without being seen. A narrowly slitted eye watched the progress of the horse up the road with a predatory hunger. To the unwatchful eye it was nothing more than a mere shadow. With the patience born of a thousand unsuccessful hunts, it moved its lithe body inch by painstaking inch until it was in the perfect ambush position and then waited for the prey to come to it.
The traveller began to relax, the still night lulling him into an almost waking sleep. The pistol tipped forwards, its load dropping silently onto the damp road, just another stone in the ground.
The predator saw and understood. They were almost within range now. It battled furiously to control its instincts not to charge before the time was ripe. Just a few more steps, it snarled to itself, just a few more.
The chestnut mare felt the force of the creature's intentions and shied away from the road ahead that it knew was dangerous.
Shaken back into wakefulness by the horse's hesitation the traveller spurred his mount onwards, but it dug in like a mule and refused to go further. The sound of the whip on flesh echoed sharply through the stagnant night, followed by the apprehensive heavy steps as the mare was forced forward. The rolling of her eyes and the chewing of the bit betrayed her anxiety at the dread road.
The fear was catching. If there had been any noise in the unnaturally hushed woodland he would have started at it, but there was none. His hand strayed to the pistol and closed around the reassuring butt like a talisman against the evil in the darkness, his finger curling instinctively into the trigger, praying to the spirits to keep his nerve as the night seemed to close around him.
The spirits obviously weren't listening that night and his courage failed. With a panicked kick and a curse he drove the mare from a gentle walk into a frenzied gallop.
Like a vision from the gates of hell he saw the shadow rise out of the dying ferns to his left, teeth and single eye aglitter with malice and hunger. He tried to turn the horse away from the nightmare that radiated horror and spite, but to no avail. The mare was going to run until she dropped away from the overwhelming innate terror of prey running from predator.
Watching as if from a distance he saw the black shadow leap towards him, fangs bared to kill, a terrible longing in its eye. And suddenly the pistol was in his hand and aimed at the head of the beast and, calm as you like, he fired.
A dread sound reverberated like thunder through the woods. Not the sound of a shot, but of silence. A click but no load launched itself into the skull of the brute and its fierce teeth sank into his shoulder and locked with horrific force as the body swung upwards on the weight of the jaws and claws gripped his clothes and the saddle.
The mare bucked in fright, almost dislodging both from her broad back. With the strength born of desperation the traveller changed his grip on the unloaded pistol and thwacked it as hard as he could into the side of the fiend's head.
The hold on his shoulder loosened slightly as the demon fought the coloured lights that burst painfully in its brain. Heartened, he bludgeoned on with the metal-inlaid butt of the gun until he felt the teeth loosen and the beast fell away, bouncing once on the dirt road before skidding to a halt. He spurred the mare on to greater effort, not that she needed it, to get away before it rose again.
Raven raised her bruised and broken body shakily onto her arms, but they trembled and collapsed beneath her. Spitting her curses with her blood onto the road she watched helpless as another failed hunt disappeared down the road.
But then something happened. A body slumped lifelessly from the saddle, one of its feet caught in the stirrups, and bounced along the rocky highway, a feathered shaft standing like a mast from his throat.
Shadows emerged from the silent trees ahead. One of them caught the mare's reins swung into the saddle, calming her to a standstill. Others cut the body from the harness and looted what belongings were on it before hauling it into the ditch.
Whispers and the sounds of feet approaching upon the road made Raven snarl in anger. Two men with dark hair and coarse stubble stared down as she tried to haul her battered body off the road. One cut off her escape route and turned her head with a walking stick. She seized it in her jaws, but this was obviously what the men wanted as the jumped upon her and bound her muzzle tight with a belt.
She struggled against the restraint but, with an experienced tap on the side of her head, one of them rendered her unconscious. He lifted her onto his shoulders and carried her away, the rest of the gypsy folk following with the horse and all that was left of the traveller's possessions.
