This Shadow's Coil Chapter 2: Part Two, a dragon booster fanfic

A/N: I apologise for taking my time writing this. I'm going through exams at the moment, and it turned out a little longer than I expected.

The small study was bathed in sunlight, the dappled patterns across its warm honey-brown walls and comfortable old chairs welcoming entrants to its hospitality.

"I suppose you've heard already."

Her friend looked up at her, expression carefully blank.

"He agreed." Myrtin sank into her customary seat, an old chair upholstered in fraying purple velvet. "I shouldn't sound sulky, I know. Still. I think I have a right to be concerned."

"It was our priests' and her Council's decision, you say," Andraste said. "Necessary for peace."

"He went along with it." She reached for the stack of parchment reports resting on her desk, and drew a frustrated line across the first of them. "There's…personal background."

"She's seventeen years old," Andraste observed, carefully watching her with ice-blue eyes.

"Less than half his age, and ours," Myrtin said.

"Then it is a good thing neither of us are so foolish, is it not?" Andraste smiled coldly, sharp teeth glinting behind her red lips.

"I wouldn't know," Myrtin said. "Andra, you know I regret—"

"Say no more." The sunlight reflected from her shaved head as she leaned closer, placing a pale blue-veined hand over Myrtin's, like snowfall to dark ground. "You knew I—"

"No," Myrtin said softly.

She sank back into her chair, burying her face in her hands, and her friend went from her.

They flanked him on the right and on the left, two sidekicks to a hero, or three heroes, depending on which way you wanted to look at it. Four, if you counted—and you definitely did these days—the youth on the left as well, looking up eagerly at his father's speech.

Probably the most enthusiastic of anyone here, Kitt thought uncharitably, and then censured herself; Artha certainly looked to be paying attention (though he was also holding her hand), and most in the crowd were agape as well.

It was the Day of Peace, a holiday only occasionally celebrated until Mortis had chosen to return it to prominence; the day on which the original war had ended, apparently, and the day on which thanks were given for the newer victory.

The four of them were in the front row, of course, on the best seats in the Academy's main arena; they would not participate in the later exhibitions, though the VIDD-cams broadcasting the speech to the city at large would no doubt include footage of them in their formal garb. She and Artha had simply worn their armour, but Parm and Lance had both chosen to adopt elaborate robes, a bottle-green confection artificially plumped up with several layers of what had to be petticoats and a dazzling gold-and-blue design which looked like a cross between priest and Keeper costume. Cyrano's design had even been reversed for the occasion, temporary gold dye showing a glowing green star on his haunch (which would almost have made him blend in rather than stand out were it not for his size and power), and Beau was in his largest form, his wings spread as he paced with Tyrannis Pax behind Mortis.

"…And so we have chosen to value peace, to live, human and dragon, as though in the Golden Empire of old," Mortis said. The crowd cheered in the pause, but through that Kitt could still hear Sentrus' harsh breathing, sitting in her magchair at the end of the row with the breathing tubes in her nose. She remained head of the Academy in name, though her state of health meant that she did little but formally approve others' decisions; still, her role in racing could not be disputed, and she was more than entitled to her place in the row of those most important to the City.

"Thus, we value the sacrifices of those who have granted us peace," Mortis continued. "The Dragon Booster. All the Boosters."

Kitt felt Artha squeeze her hand lightly, and saw his pleased smile.

"Those who worked to make this day possible. All this has become history," Mortis said. "Let us remember this, and let the celebrations begin."

There were more claps and cheers, and then explosions of brilliant fireworks, red and blue and green flying up to meet a golden fireball exploding into a thousand tiny sparks, cascading down upon the audience like specks of living flame. Kitt released Artha's hand to catch one; it melted on her skin like water, glitter cascading over her bare hand and to the sleeve of her armour. While the smoke was still in the air, actors for the first performance had already taken their places, and the show began. No fighting, whether friendly contest or skilful exhibition or deadly duel, was permitted for today; it was dedicated to shows of a more tranquil nature, given by actors and musicians rather than warriors.

Still, there seemed to be room for farcial combat, and Kitt found her interest waning slightly as two black-clad actors with ridiculously grotesque masks pretended to do battle with split cudgels. And then the plot, such as it was, began as an actor in a white wig started to give a comic speech about his latest evil plan, while the two buffoons pretended to listen and plotted to escape with his money. The parody of Word Paynn was obvious, but the exaggerated portrayal of a man who had done so much to them did not appeal to Kitt; she let herself lapse into an almost-stupor of boredom instead, as memories of what had brought this about danced inside her head…

"Where'd he go?" Artha stared around at the blank space where the Shadow Booster had been and the Academy gear left behind, the five of them just starting to recover from the mag-blasting.

"He just disappeared!" Lance said, gesticulating wildly. "Just like that! Like a burst of gold," he added. "How'd he do that?"

"I don't know, but we're going to find out," Artha said. They hadn't…dissolved him, had they? He'd been fighting back pretty strongly; they hadn't meant to really hurt him…

"You saved the gear for us, Dragon Booster," the security guard said, and released a string of White rappelling gear to take himself to the Academy supplies. "That's the important thing."

"No problem," Artha said. "C'mon, team. Let's go talk to Mortis."

"Is he dead?" Lance asked as they walked through the narrowing streets, wending down to the Dragon Temple with Artha changed back into street garb.

"No, Lance," Artha said quickly. "There's no way he's gone. We weren't trying to, anyway. I'm telling you, there was no way he could have—"

"Yeah, you're probably right, stableboy," Kitt said. "No need to repeat it. I've seen a few mag-blast racing casualties in my time. They don't make people up and disappear."

"But the dispensation of mystical energy combined with the standard algorithm of the colour frequency relation might have resulted in non-standard consequences…" Parm said.

"No," Kitt said, interrupting him. She nodded quickly towards Lance. "Don't let your imagination go too far, Professor."

"I really didn't mean to," Artha repeated. "It was just a…a fight…"

Kitt patted him on the shoulder. "It's okay. Look, I was at Eyla's Last Race when that bunch of Flares mobbed her. She sure didn't disappear into thin air…"

Artha gulped. "Yeah. I heard about that one. It was…only four of them behind it, wasn't it?"

"And I saw Stonne once hold off six of the Army," Kitt continued brightly. "Sure, she ended up with third-degree burns over like nine-tenths of her body, but she's still Kwake's deputy and she played in a couple of drag-ball competitions after she got out of the hospital."

"Ninety-four percent, to be more precise," Parm said, looking down at his wrist readout.

Lance peeked over at the display. "Drac. Do you know any more stories, Kitt?"

"I thought we were tempting-atales to-scales eep-kales iet-quales for-scales ance-Lales!" Parm hissed to Kitt, quickly shutting down the screen.

"Er, yeah," she said, giving Artha another reassuring pat. "So, Lance, let's just go ask your dad how the Shadow Booster disappeared, okay?"

"Yeah. He disappeared. It's a real nice trick, but we're going to find out how," Artha said.

"You say this was just now," Mortis said, pacing contemplatively after they had all told their version of the story.

"Yeah. There wasn't smoke or anything. He just faded out," Artha said. "He didn't even try taking the gear with him."

"In gold," Mortis said.

"Yup," Lance said. "It seemed to catch up with him then just grab him away like he didn't exist any more. Pretty cool."

"But the gold could've just been our mag-stream." Artha frowned. "I don't think I saw that."

"I am similarly unable to recall such a thing, but I cannot say definitively whether or not it was there," Parm said. "I was rather…distracted."

"And the sun was in my eyes," Kitt said. "It was really bright, just about noon."

"The sun at its zenith," Mortis muttered. "And you say there were six. You four, the Shadow Booster and a security guard. Was he blue-influenced?"

"Yeah," Artha said. "The five colours of power and balance, right?"

"Indeed. I had not thought—had not considered the possibility—Did the Shadow Booster do anything unusual? Possess anything unusual? Seem to carry out some sort of rite?" Mortis asked, pacing to his cupboard to draw out a sheet of parchment.

"He was dressed just like normal," said Kitt. "He acted like he wanted us all to start firing at him, and we wanted to get the gear back so we did, but…"

"The gear may not have been the vital element of his scheme," Parm finished. "However, we may assume that his principal goal was not the teleportation—"

"Because nobody's into getting mag-blasted by five people just to pull off a disappearing act," Kitt said. "So did he…go somewhere?"

"The transportation must therefore have had a specific purpose," Parm continued. "What that purpose is, I do not think I possess adequate information to extrapolate a hypothesis—"

"Speak Draconian, Professor," Kitt said.

"I don't know where," he said.

Artha shrugged. "Yeah. How are we supposed to figure out that?"

"I may have a way." Mortis set the parchment firmly down on a stone table. "This ancient document makes a passing reference to light from shadows, quoting from a still more ancient tome. Astrological significance is mentioned, as is the original Dragon Booster."

"…Which means?" Artha asked. "I don't get it."

"The original Dragon Booster's balanced power marked the end of the war. Your balanced power today…changed something. Where were you at the time of this?"

"Sun City," Kitt said. "Near the Academy."

"High in the sunlight," Mortis said. "If the door has once been opened, then you must retrace the steps." He bent down to the paper and scrawled a few calculations. "The balanced power. Gold."

"I can do gold," Artha said.

"You must balance it in a way you have never done so before, and do so before the opportunity ends," Mortis said. "I can offer you a little help…"

He held his hands in front of his chest, and a golden six-pointed star formed between them.

"What's that?" Artha asked.

"The bonemark belonging to Tyrannis Pax, purified into this form. It is not as powerful as Beau's, but you may use it as a focus to follow the Shadow Booster. Return to the place he was, and expand your mag-field to carry yourselves to him. Go quickly."

"But what about our dragons?" Kitt said. "They nearly drained themselves in the fight. They're resting in the stables."

"I'm afraid it's necessary," Mortis said. "I do not know to where the Shadow Booster opened a door—but I can guess that the consequences will be dire if he roams there alone."

Artha nodded. "Got it."

"Sunlight is involved," Parm said. He pointed to the Academy rooftop across from them. "If we jump to there, then according to my calculations we will be directly below the sun and therefore presumably in a more advantageous position."

"Got it, Professor." Kitt activated her thruster gear for a run-up, and then Wyldfyr leaped across.

"On second thoughts, it is a jump of a quite impressive distance…"

Lance followed Kitt, activating Aero gear midway through the leap to land on the edge for Fracshun to scramble away from it.

Parm swallowed, staring across the gap. "I may have to reconsider my hypothesis…"

"No, you won't." From behind him, Artha activated a fire grenade, launching it in Cyrano's direction. The explosion hit, and then Cyrano leaped off the rooftop, flying high above the gap, heading not for the next tower but the one further along.

"Uh, Professor? You might wanna slow down." Kitt's penning gear caught Cyrano's leg in mid-jump, redirecting them back to the group as the smoke from the grenade started to fade away.

"That was a…a dreadful trick!" Parm said.

"Sorry," Artha said. Beau's fins extended, and he almost lazily cleared the gap in a glide, neatly landing next to the others. "Let's do it. Before…"

"What do you think you're doing?" a new voice yelled.

"Academy security track us down," he finished. He held the bonemark in front of him; a slight golden glow emanated from it as he began to concentrate. "C'mon, guys. Let's do it."

"Dragon Booster! What are you doing here?" the security guard yelled, as the light from the bonemark began to expand, enveloping the eight humans and dragons.

"Balance the power," Artha muttered. "Balance the ancient power in sun's light to reverse the shadows…"

Lance closed his eyes, letting the gold energy flow through him and through Fracshun, and Kitt and finally Parm did the same as the golden bubble glowed around them.

A beam of sunlight seemed to hit it from above, and then they disappeared.

The security guard stared; she reached for her comm-link, which activated of its own accord.

"Ictinia reporting in. The Dragon Booster just—"

"Get down here. Now."

"Where are we?" Lance asked cheerfully.

"Wherever we are, looks like the Shadow Booster was here first," Artha said, gesturing to the scattered spears and arrows on the floor, the loose and pulled-out stones showing the traps that had been there. "Let's go." Beau stepped forward, but then Parm blocked them with Cyrano.

"Stop! We do not know whether the Shadow Booster was able to deactivate all the traps," Parm said. "Stay back, everyone!"

Artha paused. "Hey. I guess you're right." He looked across to the steps leading further into the structure. "It's not that far…right, guys?"

Parm slid from his dragon. "I may be unable to climb rooftops unassisted," he said, "but I am perfectly capable of comprehending the architectural significance of these armaments in order to comprehend the security arrangement…" He stepped cautiously forward, to where a spear lay on the ground. "So far, all appears to be well…"

"You're gonna test it for us, Professor?" Kitt jumped off Wyldfyr. "No way! You'll get hit!"

"I assure you I am capable of logically understanding the structures in place to forestall enemies." He raised his chin to stare at them. "It is likely not possible for our dragons to produce a mag-shield sufficient to protect all of us. Therefore, we must use intelligence to circumvent this obstacle—and the sooner the better, before the Shadow Booster carries out his plans!"

Artha sighed. "Okay, Parm. But Beau and I'll be ready if you're in trouble." He bent over to stroke Beau's head as the dragon nodded in agreement.

Parm nodded, and continued to pick his way across, almost tripping over a broken paving stone as he cautiously navigated through the trail of debris left by the Shadow Booster. The room seemed unnaturally still, as though frozen in time, while the lone figure slowly picked his way through. Artha watched, poised ready to throw up a last-minute mag-shield around him, and Kitt put her hand to her mouth as she saw him stumble slightly over a barbed arrow.

Finally, he put his hand on the opposite wall, and looked back at them with a grin. "Will you be able to remember my precise—"

The floor shook.

"Run!" Artha said. "Lance, you first!"

Red sparks shuddered across the tracings in the floor, glowing like flame as it shook around them. Lance dashed forward following Parm's route, and then green started to flash through as Kitt and Artha glanced at each other.

"Go!" he yelled, placing a mag-lock on Cyrano's saddle. "I'll take him!"

Green smoke began to pour into the room, almost blinding them; Kitt released her rappel gear, binding Wyldfyr and Cyrano together and forming a chain with Beau.

"Follow me!" A light materialised in Artha's hand, the bonemark's glow shining out. Beau leaped forward, rushing through the smoke, staying on Parm's course as far as they could see it. Cyrano was pulled behind them as Kitt brought up the rear.

Blue started to spark along the floor, and the smoke lightened to a paler version, like sapphires crystallising in the air. Time seemed to slow down, and it felt like they were pushing through air made of treacle.

And finally gold flicked across the ground. The room seemed to shake. Kitt cried out and Cyrano roared, and then Artha was in the passageway where Parm was pounding a panel. He pulled at the mag-lock, and they both rushed through, panting.

"What are you playing at, Professor?" Kitt burst out. She clasped a hand to her right arm, and it looked for an instant that she wore a new sleeve, until Artha saw the blood dripping from it to stain Wyldfyr's scales. "That thing's…reset itself!" She pointed back to the entrance-room, which was now glowing faintly gold with two barbed arrows lying on the floor. Her rappel gear had been sheared off at Cyrano's leg, a thin loop still wrapped around it with the end badly frayed.

Parm looked up at her, and seemed to pale. "I was not responsible for that," he said. "Your arm…"

"Just a scrape; I've had worse," she said. "What were you trying to do?"

"I reached here and observed this panel lying open," he replied. "When I observed that the room's security had begun to reactivate, I assumed this to be a control device and attempted to correctly manipulate it. Evidently, I failed…"

"Let's get up those steps fast," Artha said. "Before it realises you were fooling around."

Parm jumped up quickly and scrambled onto Cyrano, and they ran up the steps as behind them the floor carvings started to glow with a blinding light.

Kitt looked back as Wyldfyr navigated the stairs with swaying gait, and saw the panel retract itself as a heavy block descended from the roof to block the exit entirely.

Artha stopped suddenly, and the rest of them pulled up behind him to see the glittering statue facing them.

"It's quiet. Too quiet," Kitt said, gazing up at the red statue as she drew a strip of cloth from Parm's packs around her wound. Wyldfyr stood next to her, the dragon's tail curled almost protectively around Kitt.

"That's the Fire Booster, isn't it?" Artha said, finally turning from the Dragon Booster statue. "I guess this was built for all of them—gold, red, green, blue…"

"What about black?" Lance asked. "The Shadow Booster must have gotten here first!" He stood near a loose stone in the wall behind the blue casket, where darkness showed behind.

"And gotten away," Parm said. He pointed to the dais near the green mural, empty now, but with an urn lying smashed on the ground. "I would assume he stole something from there!"

"What about the others?" Artha looked at the golden casket. "Did they put anything in here?" He ran an armoured hand over the join in its lid, mag-energy gathering around his gauntlet. "I'm the Dragon Booster too, I should be able to get it."

"Nothing else appears to be disturbed," Parm said.

"And I think it's a tomb, Artha." Kitt tied off the bandage and stood. "You probably don't want to…"

"Er."

The golden lid slid to the side, landing on the ground with a very forceful clash.

Artha jumped back, his hand flying to his mouth.

"If you want that, stable boy…" Kitt said, gesturing to it using her uninjured arm, "you're welcome to it."

It was…dead. Very definitely dead, a shrivelled brown face stretched over a skull, yellowed teeth grinning up at the interlopers, the remnants of gray-brown hair clinging to the scalp. And still clad in shining cloth-of-gold, with pure white at the collar and sleeves.

"Remarkably well preserved," Parm said, looking down at the corpse with what Artha felt was far too much like enthusiastic interest. "I hate to contemplate all the technology we have lost since the ancient days."

"I wanna see!" Lance raced back across the room before any of them could even think about stopping him.

Artha kept staring at it, his face almost frozen. "He's…dead," he said. "He died. Does that mean I'm…"

"He looks like he was pretty old," Kitt said. "Graying hair. Guess he made it until then at least."

"Drac," Lance breathed, staring down at it. He let out a long breath in appreciation.

"Lance, I am hardly certain if…"

A faint crackling noise came from the coffin; Artha jumped back, startled. And then it crumbled, the skin peeling back from a pale white skull and dissolving into dust, the skull itself flaking into brown and then black as it decayed into nothingness, until finally only a few strands of hair and blackened threads of gold remained.

"Yeah. Pretty old," Kitt repeated.

"Lance!" Artha turned on him. "You just…dissolved the Dragon Booster!"

"I didn't even touch it!"

"Yes, you did!"

"Guys. Let's just get out of here," Kitt said.

Parm waved his hand in front of his face. "Does anyone else…smell something odd?"

"Yeah, the dead guy." Lance grimaced. "Eww!"

"Not quite. I would surmise…" Parm dialled something quickly into his comm, and then looked up. "Gas. That coffin released something nasty, perhaps a substance used in preserving him, and we…"

"C'mon, guys." Lance, already on Fracshun, levered the stone to the side with his balance gear. "Let's go!"

"Lance—" Artha began, and started coughing. Beau magged him to his back, and then he followed his brother, Parm and Kitt on their dragons bringing up the rear.

Armeggaddon had gone from him, as far as he could sense, and in him roared the long-dead Spirit Booster.

Inside the Shadow Track, no less.

It was not his own fears that swirled around him in a haze of violent bursts of light and noise, but they terrified him none the less.

Mind-magic unknown to him, reaching slender as a needle into the depths of his self to unravel his body from the inside, his mind a seething hive of corruption inside his cursed body…

A desperate battle, mag-fire burning around him and roasting him within his armour as though he was nothing more than meat, a woman's scream, dragon roars and the sky itself splitting asunder…

Darkness growing inside him, dark spots forming in his eyes, utter exhaustion and above all death calling him, what he feared and did not fear…

I WISHED TO REST!

The Shadow Track broke around them, and Moordryd saw the bright sunlight, filtered through a dazzling green. His helmet did not cover his face any more, he noticed dimly, and his body felt heavier, impossible to move of his own volition.

Decepshun roared, and he felt himself put a hand firmly on her neck, pressing her down and letting power flow through the green mark melded into her forehead.

Antox. My Antox.

"Auntokei. Myne Auntokei," he heard himself say, his mouth forced into unfamiliar shapes and sounds.

This body is weak.

That was the weight. The Shadow Booster's garb had changed to a heavier costume, thick draconium armour covering his body.

His muscles stretched, pulling on the amulet glowing in the centre of his chest.

YET I WILL CONQUER.

He felt the presence using his mind now, bludgeoning it to grant answers, as subtle as Phistus' hammer.

Five years old, his leg caught in a trap and the practice dragon he'd ridden fled, the night getting cold and him pleading with his father to let him out, please don't punish him by leaving him all night, he'll ride better next time…

POWERFUL? THIS?

At the height of the citadel, his father in a grandiose mood, pointing out the factories he owned, the skyline he possessed, the power he dreamed of…

VERY WELL. I SHALL START THERE.

His father.

Blasted to the wall of his own citadel.

Much as he'd fantasised about something like this on various occasions, the upset to what he'd thought of as an order as natural as nightfall was…disturbing.

"What have you done to my son!" he heard his father yell, reaching out to quickly press a button.

Trapping gear launched towards him in hundreds of strikes, and he raised a hand. A mag-shield gathered around it, energy drawn from the bone-mark and converted to harsh green—no, not a mag-shield, for it was not blocking the attack but drawing it in, pulling the energy into itself.

He felt…energised again.

GOOD. BUT NOT ENOUGH.

Word jumped to an alcove, and pressed another button; red fire grenades suddenly erupted under them, and then they were encased by another shield, glowing a strong green as the floor exploded under it.

"Holdek powcer vane sovros!" Moordryd heard himself yell.

Word looked even more shocked at that. "Suvres? Pitelluk?" he returned, in what almost sounded like the same language.

"Hande noene foullen dylectan! Aleik muertismos!" He launched a mag-blast at Word with both his hands, and saw it burn through the wall and scorch Word's robes as he leaped to the side.

What am I saying? Moordryd begged the presence inside his head. He could feel the desire for power, but in the roiling thunderstorm of the Booster's mind could not understand the specific words.

He's going to kill my father.

And if that happened, who else could he kill?

HE REFUSES TO UNDERSTAND ME. MY POWER MUST NOT RECEIVE CHALLENGE.

I understand him! Moordryd thought frantically. Let me talk to him and he might want to work with—to serve—you!

Which he probably would want to; he'd probably view the power as giving him a better son. And sooner or later betray the Booster and seize power for himself, etcetera, etcetera; Moordryd quickly ripped his mind from that line of thought in case of it being overheard. He respects power.

I WILL DEFEAT HIM.

A glowing green double-ended axe appeared in his hands, and he raised it to shoot bright beams of force at Word Paynn.

I—will—defeat—you, Moordryd thought as carefully as he could, sending the shapes of the words as well as their meanings to the foreign presence.

"Myn destryk ela!"

Not like that!

"Tell me who you are!" Word yelled again. A high-powered disrupter mine flew towards them, and was crushed and exploded in Moordryd's right hand, barely painful at all to the mind controlling him. "Cynfide tous suvres!"

Who are you, he's asking! Moordryd supplied. That's all!

I AM THE TRUE KING. HE IS UNWORTHY.

Moordryd saw himself—not himself—raising a vast axe in the air, a huddling figure below him, bringing it down in the air in a shining sweep and then blood gouting from a neck, flowering gore made more horrible by what he felt, cold satisfaction and nothingness…

A JUST TRIUMPH.

And then he understood.

You want to be—you are—king, right? You don't have to defeat my father to prove it!

HE WAS POWERFUL, YOU CLAIMED.

A green blast ripped apart the balcony Word stood upon, and Moordryd watched him fall.

The Academy! Moordryd thought, trying to shape it into a dagger, penetrating through the boulder that was the ancient presence. That's where the power is!

DIRECT ME THERE, SLAVE.

He was…losing himself, in a tide worse than Armeggaddon's brief possession, a mind like a bludgeoning whirlpool, like a crude hammer flying through a storm destroying all in its path. His body had been hurt, burned and bruised, but all he could feel was vague numbness as the presence forced him to continue onwards.

He wondered whether Decepshun was experiencing something similar, with the Antox bone mark atop the Vysox atop her.

The spires of the Academy rose above them; he'd only been here a couple of times with his father, viewing the elite races.

He felt Decepshun's motion under them as she nimbly ran up a steep ramp. It was black which had the mind control gear, he told himself, and it wasn't as though the Vysox wasn't an ancient bone mark in her own right…

DO NOT CHALLENGE ME! The Booster's anger came down on him like a falling Earth-class. YOUR PITIFUL ATTEMPTS CANNOT MATCH OUR RETURN FROM THE SHADOWS.

They'd been weak, Moordryd thought. They'd gone into the tomb and spent almost all the energy they'd had, and there was no way they could win against something…back from the dead. Alive three times over.

To the darkness once, an old man willing to return by priestly promises, a second after two decades' worth of battles, expecting rest at last and remaining, asleep yet still bound, forced back to the harsh light again…

His roiling anger hit Moordryd hard, and by the time his mind had stopped reeling they were in the Academy itself, passing through a hall, the image of a bright-armoured red-lipped woman still burning in their minds.

Someone Moordryd knew? It was…familiar, at least somewhat, to both of them. Overlaid with a second image of a woman—the same? Her lips were as red—without armour, dressed in green and gold with bright auburn hair flying in the wind and a simple crown atop her brow.

That wasn't his, Moordryd made sure to remember, trying not to drown in the flood of the other's mind.

He drove a fist thickened by a mag-field through a wall, and walked inside a hidden passageway.

THE UNMAKING IS HERE.

The passage's walls were plain, and it was barely wide enough for both the Spirit Booster and the dragon Decepshun had mutated into. They pushed through, power seeming to expand the walls around them as they hastened to their goal.

Which was? Moordryd wondered, but no answer seemed forthcoming.

If he destroyed the Academy, he reflected grimly, at least the damned stablebrat wouldn't get in.

The passage opened into a storeroom, at the top of one of the spires from the looks of the metallic walls, where he could see a number of glass cases. Security gear ran across them in the form of blue webbing, a trap for any burglar.

Almost any burglar. The axe appeared in his hands again, shining green; he brought it down over a case, and the glass flew up and around him while the webbing dissolved.

It was a simple wooden staff, Moordryd noted as he picked it up. Flakes of paint clung desperately to it, and he could feel the roughness of it scrape against his gauntlets. Yet Utan Fist felt…satisfied.

LET IT BEGIN.

The storeroom floor collapsed under them, and they fell into the Academy's Arena, where screams of help and calls for backup started to echo around them.

He was underground. The air smelled of dirt. Above him was metal. Engravings brushed across his skin as he reached up desperately, clawing at his gold-sealed grave.

He screamed, and it lasted—

—forever, the scream seemed to last, and then she finally fell back, her amulet torn off along with half her arm and blood pouring from a chest wound. He caught her, and saw Myrtin and the Fist rushing towards vengeance.

They would destroy Armeggaddon once and for all.

A mag-stream from Ceph took him to the healers' tents; he deposited her hurriedly in front of the nearest one. His comrades rushed towards the Shadow Booster in a double-pronged attack, as fierce as though all that was left for them was revenge. He joined them, fighting with Ceph through a path of dark dragons and riders, clearing the ground towards their leader. The axe and the sword hit the dark shield together, and for an instant in the brilliant light he could see nothing at all.

And then the shadows rose.

He heard Armeggaddon's laugh even across the battlefield, grating and harsh and gloating. He saw a brief blue flash through black as Myrtin battled, and faced his own foes, desperate as they all were for vengeance.

It was as though the Shadow Booster had crystallised the wraiths by some strange purpose, turned them into living ice that was neither dragon nor human. They felt cold, and his arm seemed to slow in motion as he wielded his staff against them.

He could not fight, he could not run, he was incompetent, the foolish boy who always lost the battle-contests, the useless Dragon Booster chosen out of a bet, peacemaker in the middle of a war…

It was fear. Pure, blind terror, and he felt Ceph bucking underneath him in that same emotion. He wanted to run, hide himself somewhere where he'd never need to be afraid ever again…

Lies, he told himself. All a lie. Fear would not stop them.

The golden shield metamorphosed around him.

"Artha! Wake up!"

Parm's voice, yelling. How long had he been buried—asleep, he told himself? It was still dark…

"We are in the Shadow Track. We must get out of here!" A sharp sound, which took him an instant to realise was a slap across his face. "Hurry! Kitt is…"

He blinked, and the darkness seemed to clear slightly. Kitt was hunched in her saddle, leaning limply over Wyldfyr's head; Lance was beside her, looking up anxiously.

"What happened?" Artha rubbed his head; Beau growled beside him, nudging him with his head.

"Parm and Kitt caught up with me and then we found you," Lance said, "only there's something really wrong with her. Parm thinks that arrow was poisoned!"

She looked bad, from all he could make out in the dark; ghostly-pale, and only barely supported in the saddle.

"Just…let's get out," she said faintly.

"Have you got rappel gear, Lance?" Artha asked. There had to be a quick way out of here, and they were going to find it.

"Yup. What do we do, Dragon Booster?" Lance managed a mock salute.

"Give it to Parm and Cyrano. They can help Wyldfyr along, and I'll take Kitt."

Her eyes were open as she lay in front of him, though she seemed to be staring at nothing, wide-eyed in what Artha hoped wasn't the Shadow Track's possession. The fear still preyed upon him, at the back of his mind rather than encompassing all of it as before he had been wakened; he repeated to himself that the Shadow Track only showed illusions, but that wasn't helping. The cut on her arm looked black, as though it was rotting from inside.

She was still breathing, rasping in pace with Beau's footsteps, and he really hoped that wasn't going to stop any time soon.

He looked back; Parm and Lance still followed closely, with Wyldfyr tethered to Cyrano and falling in step.

"Do not go left!" Parm called. "We have already followed that track! In fact, I believe we have already been here several times!"

"Thanks for the warning." Artha scowled as they turned right instead. "We solved the Shadow Track!" he yelled into the dark. "Why won't it let us out!"

"Because we used an alternative route this time?" Parm shrugged.

"Because of Destiny?" Lance suggested, and then slumped as they turned to stare at him. "Sorry. Just trying."

Beau growled, and then shifted into a larger form, the one resembling the Furox.

"What's up, boy?" Artha asked.

Gold melting shadows. Harsh shrieks as they split before him. A dead dragon's body, red with scales and blood, vengeance the only thought in both their heads…

"Are you trying to tell me something?"

He'd…dreamed of the Shadow Track itself. Shadows, and so much red. The dragon of legend.

The dragon of legend. The first.

Beau moved independently, heading forward and then turning right.

"We've been down here as well!" Parm called. "Artha, what do you think you're doing!"

"Following Beau. Maybe this place doesn't follow normal rules of which way's out and which way's another circle, or maybe it does. But if I don't trust him, then there's no way we'll make it out."

He heard Parm sigh heavily, but they followed him nonetheless. Kitt's breathing seemed more shallow, coming in shorter gasps; she was sweating, and continuing to stare at something beyond them.

"Find it, boy," he whispered. "Soon."

And at last, Beau paused, and he slipped down to search.

"Artha? What're you doing?" Lance called. "We need to keep moving!"

The ground in front of him was a solid black, the jagged floor of the Shadow Track rising up to hide the deeper shadows in between them.

"Wait. Beau thinks he's found something. Something that was left here. I don't know how to explain it, but I…"

"Artha. Hurry," Parm said. "It's Kitt's life."

"It's here, I know it," he said. "I think she was…I think she…" He bent down, feeling between the Track's dark crevices. "I wanted revenge."

"Revenge is like thruster gear set to a circle," Lance said, repeating a proverb. "It just gets you back where you started."

"And, regarding Kitt, unless you plan to punish yourself for it, which, I might add, you should not on the basis that it was an accident, revenge is not appropriate," Parm said.

"Yeah. I guess this was my fault," Artha said. The guilt was starting to sink in, but he focused on the search. "Just hold on, okay? Five minutes."

Another empty crack. Darkness around him, within the rising walls. There wasn't anything here. He looked up at Beau, waiting for some other signal. The dragon of legend was supposed to…help, scale it. There was barely a clue to be gained from staring at Beau, but he seemed to be encouraging his rider to continue rather than reaching out a mag-lift. He didn't look at Kitt lying slumped on the saddle.

"One minute, Artha," Parm said. "We really cannot afford this."

"I'm listening." He groped in a crevice in the wall, searching for…

For something he didn't have a clue about on the basis of a Shadow Track dream.

Beau stepped forward, and sent out a mag-beam across the ground. It glowed brightly, driving some shadows deeper and highlighting the rock tips. It was brief; the mag-energy was probably too much expenditure after everything else that had happened, but in a brief moment where the glow wasn't gold, Artha thought he had his answer.

He reached down between those rocks, his gauntlet scraping along the black draconium as he tried the last-minute search. Not in those; in the next one, perhaps?

"Ten seconds until the five minutes ends," Parm said. "Artha, please hurry and get back…"

"I am hurrying." He reached down once more, and at last his hand struck something. "Beau! It's here!"

called to him, demanding revenge, for his comrade was dead or dying and the foe still stood, and he would carry it out more than willingly—

—but he would not, not here, and with this he would return them all from this prison.

He pointed, and a second object flew into his hands, shaped like an unformed flame, crusted with black residue. He—

had had his revenge for this, raising the golden shield and forcing his comrades loose of it with a mag-call, three of the five greatest warriors of their age battling the shadows together. Finally facing the ultimate enemy, the Shadow Booster, surrounded with his creatures shaped from their own fears, fighting almost bravely enough to hold off all three of them at once—

—he could have owned this power as well as his own, absorbing it as Beau had absorbed the Furox. Images flickered through his head as he remembered.

And then he looked down at Kitt, and remembered that too.

"Give it to me," she whispered, paper-white, and he handed her the Fire Booster's amulet. "The fire—"

"Unleash the flame," she said at the last, and the power was still with her, flowing outwards in one single burst—

"Unleash the flame," he said, not knowing how he knew it, and she looked at him through green—not blue, or a feverish, desperate red—eyes, and repeated the words.

She appeared surrounded by fire, rising from Beau, and he could feel the power gather around her, healing the injury done to her and remaking her into the warrior of legend.

Wyldfyr raised her head and roared, and the bonemark flew from his hands to affix itself to her head.

The Vivat, he remembered, no Great Dragon and yet a powerful force nonetheless, raised by the Red Empire to fight, a near-perfect partner for her mistress.

Lying dead below him as he reshaped the shadows to imprison their originator. He rewove the shadows, stitching them with elusive golden thread that faded as soon as it had done its task, as Myrtin and the Spirit Booster held a mag-freeze to keep their prisoner under control.

The shadow-circle shrunk inwards, both a grave and a gaol; it was as black as the mind's edge between fear and wrath, and carved by the fire of revenge.

Armeggaddon started screaming then, almost as loudly as Andraste had, and Tieran twisted, dragging his power from him and abandoning his soul to the mercy of the darkness.

The shadows faded, finally, and then there was nothing.

He stepped from Ceph, and picked up the amulet and bonemark left behind; the power still seethed within them.

And then he looked, and saw nothing but death.

Pale hair in the distance, a retreat for those who still could. Those who had won the battle. Those who had not faced Draconis-knew-how-many deaths, humans and dragons lying on the ground with hearts stopped through the pure terror of the attack.

The bitch-daughter would press her advantage. One leader destroyed in return for countless soldiers and dragons, and the Fire Booster—

—who had returned, red-armoured and mounted upon the Vivat once again.

"Uh, guys?" Kitt said. "I really think we should, like, get out of the Shadow Track."

She raised her hands; fire appeared between them, too bright to look at directly.

"Too long in here," she said. She aimed at the nearest wall, and the shadows burned.

Artha saw Parm with his hands over his head, hiding his eyes from the brightness, and Lance with his face screwed up. He could sense what Kitt was doing, and added his own powers to it.

They pierced the walls of the Shadow Track together, and came from nothingness into light.

…fading at the last, no final words for Myrtin or Utan, carried to the nexus by the priestess Silrillion in full knowledge of her duty, the network pale spines in dead earth…

Kitt was alive, he told himself, and then Mortis appeared on his screen with a beep. He focused, trying to forget about the memories swarming on him.

"Thank the Magna Draconis you're back. There's an attack on the Academy, Dragon Booster. Go there at once."

He called it the Staff of the Keepers; Moordryd had gleaned that much from the thoughts in that boulder of a mind. And he was using it to dismantle the Academy tower by tower.

Humans and dragons rushed at them; he knew some of the names, Megan Dedrovic the Crew-leader before him on her Percepshun, the speed demon Olyeave Grene and Apollon, Khalio Talis riding Burstbryght and exploding his famous sunstrike-gear in their face.

None of them mattered, whether famous racer or security guard or known Academy power. The Spirit Booster cast them all aside, whether to cling frantically to something as they fell from the towers or to perish in the city's depths Moordryd didn't want to know.

And then, a blast of gold hit them from behind and they turned to face the Dragon Booster.

Beside him, there was…

A red-armoured woman on a large Magma-class, was all Moordryd thought, but the Spirit Booster paused at the sight. They blasted him as one, flame and gold ripping through him simultaneously, the pain Moordryd felt voiced in the Spirit Booster's roar. The staff fell from his hands, and he leaped to bring the fight to those who had dared attack.

WHY DO THEY NOT UNDERSTAND?

The Antox—Moordryd couldn't think of the dragon as Decepshun at this moment—magged him up, and the green axe met the Dragon Booster's staff.

Because they have a thing against people destroying their city?

SILENCE, FOOL! IT IS CLEAR THAT THESE DAYS HAVE DEGENERATED TO SLAVERY AND CORRUPTION. IT IS TO ME THAT POWER MUST RETURN ONCE AGAIN.

"That's Moordryd Paynn!" he heard the mini-brat cry. "The Shadow Booster must've made him get possessed!"

"Unless they're…" Parmon Sean began.

"No way," the red-armoured woman—the Fire Booster, he recognized, wondering where she'd managed to spring from—said. "The Shadow Booster wouldn't do that to himself."

Moordryd wished she'd been right as she hit him with another flame-blast.

"Lance, get down!" Artha yelled as the strange Booster launched another attack, green projectiles searing through the air.

He—the original Dragon Booster—must have known the guy once, even worked with him.

King, some fragment of memory told him, king in the very earliest days of gold, returned by the priests to serve the land once again.

Becoming king once again. Returned from death after three thousand years—which was probably, uh, kind of inconvenient—and conquering.

Madness, Artha realised as he tried to block the mag-axe with his staff and staring into the wild green eyes with barely a trace of anything human within them. Unwillingly brought back.

"Together!" Kitt called to him, and they tried another dual attack, her fire and his mag-strength.

Lance was below them, under a shattered floor while they fought on higher ground; Artha was relieved that at least his brother was safe as the axe whistled in front of his face.

And then the floor beneath them collapsed.

"Sorry!" he heard Lance yell as Beau tried to maintain his footing. "I can't control—"

"Lance, stop it!" Parm called.

"No! I can handle it, I swear!" Lance held a staff between his hands, Artha vaguely noted as he prepared to return to the fight.

Kitt and Wyldfyr were also staggering to regain their balance, though the green Booster was up already.

He saw the green light flash out, ripping his blocking staff from him, and then the Booster was coming towards him, too quickly for him to dodge as the axe-blade flew towards his neck—

—and he fell like a stone as the floor below the Antox rose up and threw them from the tower.

It was surprising how calm one could feel, falling through what looked like a never-ending tunnel from Sun City to Old.

I'm going to die, Moordryd thought.

A/N: "I thought we were tempting-atales to-scales eep-kales iet-quales for-scales ance-Lales!"--this is, of course, Parm using Draconian Latin to say "I thought we were attempting to keep quiet for Lance."

Feedback very much appreciated!