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The World Shard
"Run! Back to the boats!"
The panic-stricken warriors of Clan Tuirseach burst out of the white dunes, making for the longships moored at the edge of the frozen wasteland. Their frantic cries echoed across the shores and scattered over the roaring surf. Among them were the blooded young warriors and shield-maidens who helped repel An Skellig of Cidarian invaders in the past year.
Or rather, what was left of them.
An ill-advised venture to explore new raiding grounds led the expedition into a death-trap. The World Shard that fell from the heavens brought no riches or glory for them. It only brought enemies, abominations that only the most feverish mind gripped in the throes of madness could conceive. Even after facing the undead horrors from the past shards, no one thought that there were worse things yet to come. But come they did, and in the case of the people of Skellige- they went out looking for them.
"Bran! Take my hand!" Freja reached down and hoisted up her foster-father so he could lean against her shoulder. Bran took a hit to the face by some kind of magical attack when he led the warband up the slopes to survey the land beyond. Their enemies were waiting in the snow and rose up by the hundreds to surround them as soon as Brand hauled himself up to the peak of the icy mount. He was the first to be hit.
It didn't take long for the warriors to break formation, allowing the monsters to close in and shatter their resolve. The dragon-hearted Freja saw the same awful things that caused her fellows to turn tail and run. But she did not run, not when Bran found himself neck-deep among them.
The vile scourge, clad in ancients sheets of steel and brandishing cursed blades seething with dark magic, converged on the scattered warriors as they moved to free the longships from the ice. Long wispy white hair, bleached by the unforgiving cold of their frozen realm, flowed like dead branches in the wind. Their pale grey-white skin, sinewy and stretched taut across their frames, gave them a somewhat gaunt and mummified appearance despite their overall bulky size.
Freja and a dozen others stood as a thin line between the approaching horde and the broken expedition. Bran Tuirseach, their leader and brother, surmounted the burning agony in his body and found the strength to stand on his own.
The bloodied warrior, with half his face charred from the fell magics from the unseen assailant, cried out in a voice filled with agony and rage. "Stand and fight, ye sons and daughters of An Skellig! Are you children, who turn and run from monsters?!" He drew his bluesteel sword and raised it high, "Nay! We are warriors of Clan Tuirseach, we do not run! TO BATTLE!"
By then, the men and women of Skellige knew it best not to let the abominations get close. If they so much as touched them, the very brush against the undead caused living flesh to freeze as though exposed to the coldest blizzard.
Freja watched Bran's back and cleaved a path through the horde with her dragontooth axe. The man still had a lot of fight in him, and he was angry. Together, they reaped a little bit of glory from that poor excuse of a battle. But if they put up a good front, it didn't last very long. What came after the shambling undead was a host of lumbering giants, clad in layers upon layers of iron and brandishing hefty greatmaces the size of great ship anchors. Their every step unsettled the earth, and they closed the distance in such an impossibly short time.
The sight of them was all it took to destroy whatever fighting spirit Bran Tuirseach sought to rouse out of his beleaguered warriors, and they all fled to the boats.
"No! No, you cravens!" Bran bellowed, "Stand and fight!"
"Save your breath, Bran." Freja said, pulling him out of the battle just as the giants reached the longships. There was a loud crack, like the sudden snap of thunder during a warm summer afternoon, as the first mace slammed into the wooden hull. The great frame holding the first longship together burst apart into splinters, sending Tuirseach warriors plummeting into the frothing surf by the dozen.
The other giants began swinging their weapons into the water, like bears swatting for fish. The massive greatmaces reduced both men and women into grounded paste, leaving an ugly red color to stain the snowy white banks. When they were finished, they did the same to the other longships until there was nothing left of the expedition.
Horrified by what he saw, Bran allowed himself to be dragged away by Freja's strong hand, and leaned heavily against her shoulder. As a warrior of Skellige, he felt bad about running away from the slaughter, but the instincts of self-preservation were too strong. He bargained with his burdened conscience, telling himself that their would be a chance to regain his lost honor. For the moment, he needed to survive.
Some of the shamblers noticed the pair limping into the far end of the shore and gave chase.
Unwilling to let their enemies catch up to them, Freja hauled her foster-father onto her back and hurtled aimlessly through the frozen wasteland in search for shelter. Bran complained endlessly all the while, for the wound on his face still burned like a hot brand. Later, he fell silent when Freja jokingly compared him to the gossiping cooking maids back at An Skellig.
The clamor of swords had long died away, the shouting of the slaughter was hushed. Only silence lay upon the red-stained snow, although brief as the noise of the shambling dead filled the air.
Pretty soon, the pair found shelter in the deep end of a small cave which was situated at the foot of a broken down tower. Among the rubble were half-buried pieces of wood, enough for kindling and barricading the mouth of the cave. Freja set Bran down while she gathered wood, then set it ablaze with some oil from the horn that hung at Bran's belt and sparks from some flint. They both knew it was dangerous to try to light a fire right then, in that godsforsaken wasteland of all places, but the harrowing cold proved to be an enemy on its own. To succumb to it would be an embarrassing death, one that Bran was more than willing to avoid even at the cost of luring the shamblers to their shelter.
"Crone's faded tits, what a fuckin' mess!" Bran cursed.
Freja pulled him closer to the fire and took one look at his wound. She frowned when Bran slapped her hand away, "Here now, no more of that! Like we don't have enough things on our plate already!"
"Let my wound be, woman! You're no healer, so don't try to act like one now."
To prove him wrong, Freja tore up a piece of her shirt and bound it firmly over his wound. She had nothing to ease the pain, but at the very least she could keep the injury clean. Seeing the gratitude in his eyes was enough to dress the spiteful remark he threw her way, and Freja turned her attention to building up whatever meager defenses they could muster in the shelter that may as well be their grave.
Freja stood before the ramshackle barricade that stood between them and the howling mob ascending the white slopes towards the mouth of the cave. Her fingers closed tightly over the shaft of her battleaxe, her hot breath cast white mists in the cold air while her eyes pierced the cracks of the barriers.
Bran sank back into the ice-cold cave floor, his mind wandering as the minutes marched on.
His thoughts, driven by a desperate desire to live, drifted towards the secret he'd long kept from his foster-child. Freja was quick to adopt the ways of men, a miracle in itself considering the truth of her origins. But the dragonblood was there, Bran knew it to be so. He thought to himself perhaps now was a good chance as any.
"Freja..."
"Save your strength, Bran." The shield-maiden said, "I don't know how many there are, but they might prove too many later."
"Then listen... there's something I need to tell you."
"Can it wait?"
"We might not get another chance. Besides, the dead will be coming for us either way." Bran straightened himself up and pulled his sword closer to his body. While they still had time, he told her the tale of how he cut her out of the dragon's womb- her mother's womb- and from there raised her as one of Clan Tuirseach's daughters.
"The teeth on your axe..." Bran told her, "...they were hers."
The shambling dead were getting closer, but Freja's mind was elsewhere. She glanced down at the battleaxe in disbelief, then turned to her foster-father to see if it was all part of some crude jest. The look on his face told her otherwise, and she wondered about the significance of the revelation in relation to their predicament.
"You're telling me this now? Why?"
Bran smiled grimly, "You had to know eventually. And perhaps, the dragon's blood in you might be our only way out of this mess."
The dead reached the barricade and started clawing their way through. Freja prepared herself for the impending battle by stepping back to give herself some room to swing her axe. When the barrier failed, the dead lunged for Freja, only to meet their end at the dragon's teeth. Bran stepped in to help fight off their assailants. Both sword and axe cleaved them apart with each swing, but every wave of shamblers cost the pair two feet of good ground. She and Bran knew that pretty soon they would have their backs against the wall, so they fought even harder.
Curiously, as the shamblers pushed them further into the cave, the horde stopped short as though repelled by the warmth of the fire. The heat radiating from the flames deadened whatever foul sorcery drove the undead into that murderous frenzy. Seeing them back away, Bran seized a makeshift torch and used it to ward off the shamblers. He waved it in their faces, driving them out of the cave and into the slopes outside.
Fire proved to be enough of a deterrent for the undead, but there still remained the problem of their entrapment. They bought themselves some time, but the shambling horde could bide their own. They could wait until the last ember faded, or until the pair froze to death. Either way, Bran and Freja would join their ranks soon enough.
The hours passed on, and Bran did his best to keep the fire burning. The kindling was running out fast, and there was no oil left in his horn. They would have to trust in their weapons again once the flames went out. Unless, somehow, Freja found her gift of polymorphism.
Bran shivered uncontrollably as the unholy chill crept into the cave, threatening to smother the fading embers on the blackened pile of charred timber. The shamblers sensed the dying fire's last moments, and they too began creeping closer to the cave entrance. "F-Freja... now w-would be a g-good time to t-try and turn yourself into a d-dragon..."
"But... I don't know how! I've never tried that before."
"T-Then think of this as..." Bran stopped to bite down on his chattering teeth, then smiled. "...your first l-lesson. N-Nothing like the f-fear of dying to l-light a fire under y-you..."
"That's not funny, Bran!"
City of Cintra
The Royal Palace's Courtyard
Calanthe peered from the safety of the baron's legs at the pretty oval-shaped thing sitting snugly on top of a bundle of roughspun rags. It moved, causing the small crowd of onlookers to utter a shared gasp of surprise and slowly back away. The lords and ladies of Dagorad's court, who'd come straight from his throneroom after witnessing what Vandal had brought for the princess, kept their distance as the knights gathered and formed a defensive circle around the egg.
It shook violently for a moment, then burst apart to reveal a shy greater dragon hatchling. It was no bigger than a small dog and was covered in a sticky and sweet-smelling sap. The large eyes on its oversized head took in the big world around it for the first time, and its toothless maw opened wide to emit a pitiful newborn cry.
"Don't be afraid." Vandal reassured the princess as he went down on one knee, "The dragonling calls for you. Go to it, introduce yourself."
The hatchling was, in fact, calling for its mother. It had been the practice in Saggrel that when a dragon-trainer hoped to imprint oneself on a hatchling, it was imperative that they hold and care for it in the first six weeks following the birth. That way, the dragon accepts them as its keeper and presents a special bond. In Calanthe's case, the hatchling was a greater dragon, the most noble and most powerful species of dragon in Saggrel.
The princess felt her fear fade as she stared at the cute little face staring up at her expectantly. The creature climbed out of the remains of its egg and tumbled out clumsily onto the courtyard floor.
Vandal was well aware that the knights, at the first sign of trouble from the dragonling, would strike in Calanthe's defense. He couldn't blame them, it hadn't been that long since the dragon attack on their city. He knew he risked a lot on the hatchling's part, although he felt it was all for a good cause. All to bridge the gap that Idlekkarnhamth created between them.
Calanthe bent down and slowly reached out to touch the dragonling, but shrank back when the lizard righted itself up and hissed at her. The underside of its throat puffed out, exposing the little spines that stretched the leather into two balloon-shaped growths that vibrated violently with its every breath.
The princess was not afraid of the dragonling's defensive display, but was rather fascinated by it. She smiled and crawled on all fours towards the creature, ignoring its weak bluster as she invaded its personal space. Carefully, she picked it up and held close to her body. Calanthe didn't even mind the stains it made when the sap stuck to her dress.
The dragonling ceased in its threats and became as docile as a newborn lamb. Dagorad and Adalia, watching from the midst of their crowd of sycophants, looked on in astonishment as their daughter brought the dragonling to them. The scales that adorned its leathery hide were smooth like a snake's, and were a pretty mix of alternating yellow and black. Vandal knew that the scales wouldn't stay smooth for long. Once the dragonling came of age, the scales would harden and beauty of its youth would transform into something terrifying.
Terrifying, but truly magnificent.
"Is it a girl or a boy? I can't tell." Calanthe said to Vandal.
"Well..." The baron recalled some of the things he learned from his long dead mentor, "You won't be able to see its organs at such an early stage. You'll have to wait a bit to see if it manifests some kind of a pouch, or vent, to see that its male. If there is none, then it's female."
"I don't want to give it the wrong name, but I don't want to wait either." The princess pouted.
"Why not give it a nickname for now?" Queen Adalia suggested, "Then give the proper name later."
"Oh! That'll work." Calanthe grinned happily, squealing in delight as her dragonling climbed up onto her shoulder and flapped its tiny wings to seal their bond. "I'll call you Sunflower."
The princess walked away with her little entourage of ladies-in-waiting following close by. King Dagorad took Vandal aside to inquire on how to care for the thing. While he entertained the idea of raising a dragon for his house, he still had some reservations concerning the notion and wanted the transition to proceed as smoothly as possible. "Strauss will never let me hear the end of it, but I'd appreciate it very much if we can avoid future incidents. Tell me, Sir Vandal, should I worry about someone getting eaten in my city?"
Vandal shook his head, "Not unless Calanthe orders Sunflower to do so. The nature of bonded dragons is very different from those in the wild. Kind of like with horses, although granted horses don't have fangs or breathe fire. As long as the dragon is raised as you would your own child, it won't behave like a beast."
"I'll... I'll have to defer to your experience on this matter, I confess." Dagorad replied, "But you should know, I will hold you responsible if that thing so much as nicks a hair on my daughter's head."
Vandal nodded, "I understand, sire."
The king and queen followed the princess into the royal gardens, although the baron felt inclined to broach a particular subject that kept bothering him over the week. And so, he waited until Dagorad was ready to have him when all the other matters of state were handled.
"Lord Vandal, you're still here?" The king asked, somewhat annoyed with the baron's pensive stare.
"Er... yes, sire." Vandal replied, "There was something else I wished to speak with you about. It concerns the root of all the calamities this world has suffered."
Dagorad dismissed the page who was jotting down the king's tasks for the day, then beckoned for the baron to follow. "Not here. Walk with me."
The king brought Vandal to a secluded part of the palace, to a balcony that overlooked the western wall of the capital. From there, they could see the silhouette of the far-off port where the royal fleet was moored. Dagorad anticipated Vandal's request long before he brought up the subject, although it didn't make it any easier to discuss it.
"Feels like it's one after the other..." The king sighed as he leaned over the balcony, "Is there no end to the threats to my kingdom? What if it's not the same in this case? What if the dreams are part of some widespread paranoia, a curse brought upon by some errant mage?"
"The dreams, they don't lie." Vandal countered, "You've seen it, we all did- the final world shard that has taken root in the heart of sea. The dreams, they cannot be a coincidence if almost everyone in Cintra's been having them. The Mad Sorcerer King is here, the Iron Revenant who destroyed my world. He won't stay idle where he's landed, my king. He will move to conquer this world and bury it in ice..."
Dagorad fell silent. He was hesitant to risk his army again, and so soon after recovering from the battle against Idlekkarnhamth. The devastation his kingdom suffered in the past was difficult to overcome. He'd never seen full scope of the Iron Revenant's power before, but he could only assume that if he tried to fight back it would cost him dearly.
"Cintra has endured, sire." Vandal said quietly, "The undead incursions. The dragons. We will endure Lorosi's wrath, but we must take the fight to him. One last effort, one last quest. Strike the Iron Revenant down, free this realm and all realms from the scourge forever."
"And what happens after that, hm? What if it's not the end? What if there's another threat to the realm and I expend the last of Cintra's strength?"
"It will be the end for him, Your Highness. But if we do nothing, he will only grow stronger until the day comes that he will become unstoppable."
Seeing that the king remained unmoved, Vandal turned to look at the city bustling with folk working under a clear morning sky. The sight of it all reminded him of what he was fighting for, and what kind of a world they could live in free from world-ending tyrants like the Mad Sorcerer King. "The kings of my world found themselves in the same predicament you find yourself now, perhaps even thought the same thing. That didn't stop them from pouring in every effort to rid Saggrel of an evil tyrant."
"But why? Why does Cintra have to stand alone in all this?" Dagorad said in frustration. "Why must we fight every battle that concerns the fate of the Continent?"
Vandal paused, then answered. "Perhaps the gods see Cintra as the only kingdom worthy of fighting these battles?"
There was a long moment of silence shared between the two. Dagorad crossed his arms and considered carefully what he planned to do. Whatever decision he'd make in the next few seconds, it won't sit well with the nobles. More sons and daughters of Cintra would have to risk their lives for the good of the realm, and every one of them would have to be consigned by his own hand.
"Gather your soul-bound and have them readied at the West gate. I'll have word sent to the port about getting you your ships."
"And the royal army, sire?"
Dagorad shook his head slowly, "Let me worry about that, Sir Vandal."
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