Jeffrey A. Carver - Parrone - The Dragons

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PARRONE: THE DRAGONS
by
Jeffrey A. Carver
PROLOGUE
"Now You all know-" the lanky ex-rigger paused to gulp from his
al@hhhh!-"just how dangerous star travel can be." He peered out across
the spaceport bar, studying the faces looking back at him-mostly young
star-riggers who thought they knew a lot more than they did. "You all
know that much, right?" he asked rhetorically. "Well, I'm tellin'
you, it's a lot more dangerous than you ever imagined.
Swear t'God!"
He burped and made a sweeping gesture with his mug.
He reeled a little from the movement. His unkempt hair fell across
his eyes, and he swept it back in annoyance. He had a story to tell,
and the audience was volatile. Mustn't keep them waiting.
"Y'see " "Just tell us the frickin' story, will you?" a fat man
complained, from across the room.
"I am tellin' ya, dammit! " he said with a glare. He ticked off on
his fingers the events that had occurred seven years ago this month.
"One! We flew into the mountain region, cocky as all hell,
thinking-there ain't nothing that can hurt us. We're two topflight,
cream-of-the-crop, stay-out-of-our way, kick-ass riggers! Right?
Besides, everyone knows there are no dragons really there." He
snorted at his own words.
He glanced up, and twitched as a rigger in the back of the bar, not a
human but some kind of horse-headed Swert, inhaled something from a
chrome cylinder and blew an enormous, billowing neon bubble into the
air above the barroom patrons.
He continued quickly, before anyone could get distracted. "Two!
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It wasn't more'n ten minutes before a whole flight of dragons
appeared-and I don't mean some kinda cute lizards. I mean dragons.
Huge things! We tried to make contact with them. Friendly contact."
He barked out a bitter laugh, which seemed to have an odd effect on
his audience. Some looked cynical, others looked puzzled. At least he
was getting through to somebody.
A sword-wielding knight sprang up from the top of someone's head
about three tables back and stabbed a few times with its blade, before
winking out. The ex-rigger glared at the kid with the bolo, a
scrawny-looking, redhaired misfit who didn't even look old enough to be
at a bar. The kid snickered nervously.
"Three!" the rigger roared, trying to overcome the interruption.
"The bastards set on us like a pack of Alsepian blood wolves!"
"A real dogfight, eh?" someone called helpfully.
"It was a dogfight!" the rigger snapped. "Just like in prespace
times. Except there was just the two of us in our ship, and at least
four of them, flyin' around like crazy, blowing fire and smoke and
tryin' to knock us out of the sky! You wouldn't've known we were in
space, it looked so much like real mountains and sky. Never seen
anything so real in the Flux. We couldn't do a thing to change the
image, except turn our ship into a fighter-flyer and pray for the
best." He shook his head, lost in his own story. "But our best wasn't
much. There we were, twistin' and tumin' in the air, tryin' to scoot
away from 'em. But-" and his voice caught as the fear rolled back up
his spine, as though it had happened yesterday.
"They beat you, is that what you're trying to say?" snickered the
red-haired kid.
The rigger leveled a drunken gaze at his taunter, so cocky and naive.
Another bolo erupted from the kid's head@ cartoonish figure of a man
reeling and spinning before falling over with a sword hilt sticking out
of his stomach. That evoked a few sardonic titters, which was clearly
the reaction the kid wanted. The older rigger shook his head. He
hated whiny, false bravado.
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"Yeah, they beat us, you little punk. Four dragons, each one the
size of this room, beat us in combat. Can you imagine that? We musta
been weaklings."
He was answered with a restless stirring, and he continued at once.
"They didn't kill us right off, though. They boxed us in and forced us
down on a plateau. Full-stop landing." He paused for emphasis. The
Flux never stopped moving in its endless course among the stars;
everyone knew that. Only this time it had.
"They started looking' us over," he said more softly.
"Four fire-breathin' dragons, about to flame us to cinders right
there in the net@d two scared-@piss riggers, I don't mind admittin'
it." He paused and gulped his ale. "I didn't think I'd ever see home
again. And I wouldn't've, either, if it ' hadn't been for the iffit, I
mean iring . . . " He struggled with the memory, teetering, even with
one elbow propped on the wooden bartop to support himself. "If that
thing hadn't've showed up and told the dragons-" A belch erupted
without warning from his throat, interrupting him.
"Let me guess! A prophecy?" someone shouted.
He stared in the general direction of the shout. He had at least
some of them listening, even if they didn't want to admit it. "Well,
you're getting a little ahead of the story, but yes, it told them the
proph-buurpl-ecy." He put his fist over his mouth in embarrassment.
"Which of course you're going to tell us!" called a whipbodied
humanoid, who maybe didn't know human rules of etiquette, or maybe
couldn't help speaking in such a sneering tone of voice.
"Unless you don't remember it!" called a shrill-voiced woman.
Derisive laughter echoed after her.
"I remember it!" he said hotly. "Better than you remember your own
name! just give me a second to collect myself." He was trying not to
become angry.
"Canteen, we've given you too much time already!"
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yelled a man just down the stand-up bar from him. "Tell us another
one, will you? Of course " and the drinker guffawed-"we won't believe
that one, either. We don't even believe you when you're sober!"
"Oh, no?" The rigger drew himself up in an effort to maintain some
dignity. "Well, this particular story happens to be true, you
half-witted imbecile. And my name is KanKon, if you don't mind." He
ignored the answering cackles and continued, heedless of the momentum
that was clearly building against him. "So you don't think I'm tellin'
the truth? Let me tell you somethings was out there flyin' the stars
before most of you was in potty training, much less rigger training!
I'm telling you the dragons are out there, and they killed my
shipmate and they damn near killed me!
You're all so smug here, you don't-" "The prophecy, Canton!"
"Tell us and be done with it!"
Kan-Kon took another gulp, slopping ale on his sleeve.
His fingers brushed uselessly at the spill. "Gab! Don't you know
that stories-true stories-have to be savored like " "Kan-coon," shouted
one of the veteran riggers, "either tell the damn story or shut up
about it! We can't even have a conversation over here, with everyone
laughing at you!"
"All rigk, Whitie," KanKon said good-naturedly.
"You've paid your dues. You've earned the right to nudge me a
little, mebbe. As for the rest of you@hhhhh." He snorted and upended
his mug, draining the last of the ale.
Gasping, he cried, "All right, then! Here's what they told me after
they killed my partner, and before they threw me and my spaceship back
into civilized space." He slammed the mug onto the bar with a crash
that brought near silence to the barroom. "Listen to the words!"
The only sound now was the whir of the drinks dispensers. He gazed
over the crowd and cleared his throat. "From beyond life will come
one! From beyond ... ahh, hope ... will come one . . ." He
hesitated. "Let's see, now-" Someone slid a fresh mug of ale in front
of him.
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He nodded, frowning, then raised his voice again. "Without friend
will come one. And the realm ... and the realm . . . " And suddenly
the words would not come. The words that were practically branded on
his heart.
"Come on, you can do it! 'And the realm'-?"
Kan-Kon sweated, trying to dispel the fog that was clouding his
brain. "And the realm shall tremble!" he shouted.
The murmur from the crowd was not entirely sympathetic.
"Great! Is that it?" his encourager asked.
"No, there's more. I have it right on the tip o' my tongue.
Speaking her name will come one-hey!" Someone was jostling his arm.
"Hey, Rangoon!"
He turned.
"Come on, Can-can!"
Someone or something tripped him, and his legs went out from under
him like rubber. He crashed to the floor in a gush of ale. The other
riggers shouted and jumped out of the way. "Jeer, I hope his dragons
hold their ale better than he does!" one of them cried. "Hey,
Ashcan," complained the whiny red-haired kid. "I think one of your
dragons just peed on me! Can't you keep 'em on a leash?" Brightly
colored bolos danced in the air as someone helped KanKon to his feet.
"Sorry, there. Just lost m@lost my-ah hell!" Kan-Kon moaned,
peering with chagrin into his now-empty mug.
"I think you've had a little too much to drink, old man," said the
one who was supporting him. "You tell enough of those stories, and
sooner or later you're going to start believing them."
Kan-Kon grunted, wounded. "Yeah, I guess so. Hey, wait a minute!
Hey, what do you think you're doing'?"
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The hand supporting him wasn't just holding him up; it was propelling
him toward the exit. A rising tide of hoots seemed to add impetus to
the movement, and before he could fight back, he felt more hands
pushing him toward the back door.
"Hey! Listen, you miserable " he squawked, struggling to dig in his
heels. But there was no stopping the movement now. The crowd surged
and flowed like the currents of the Flux, making room for his passage.
"Good night, Tin Can!" someone yelled as the door opened before him.
He felt a final shove at his back, and he stumbled out the door and
fell to his hands and knees in the alleyway.
He raised his head and looked back indignantly. The door slammed
shut, muffling the sounds of laughter. He hadn't exactly played the
crowd tonight, had he? The stupid drunken sots. Didn't they know he
was telling them the truth, and it was important? Were they too blind
to see?
He sighed and lowered his head again, praying that the spinning would
stop. Maybe he'd had a little too much to drink. But so what?
He felt tears begin to well in his eyes, and the rest of the words
rose suddenly, unbidden, in his throat, and he croaked them into the
empty alleyway: "From that one comes a beginning!
From that one comes an ending!"
He raised his voice to a shout.
"And you can bet your ass the realm will tremble!"
Sighing in bitter triumph, he pushed himself back onto his feet and
staggered away into the night.
Chapter 1
DRAGONS IN THE REALM LIGHTNING FLASHED in the sky like a demon's
breath, splitting the night air with great jagged thrusts, hammering
the vale with thunder. It was unnatural, WingTouch thoughtthat
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lightning, driven by a power no dragon could comprehend. All the
dragons had felt its sting. Those who confronted it directly were
burned from the sky. Those who lacked the courage, or perhaps the
foolhardiness to stay in the battle, had already lied.
WingTouch fought to remain airborne in the tossing winds. Even here
at the edge of the skirmish, the very air had become an adversary,
turned against them by the devilish power of the Enemy. How could he
fight a storm like this? All he could do was tumble through the
maelstrom of wind, ignoring all else but the need to destroy the
creatures who were attacking the valley.
Something blacker than the night passed before him, and he
instinctively flexed his wings in pursuit. Gaining on the shadowy
thing, he exhaled a lance of flame. His aim was perfect. The fire
struck the fleeing creature, and he heard its wail of pain. WingTouch
roared in triumph, but his victory was fleeting. The blackness rippled
and veered and fled into the night. He had hurt it, but it was still
alive and now he had lost it.
So it had gone for half the night, since WingTouch's patrol had
responded to a cry for help from the guardians of this grove.
WingTouch had watched strong and faithful dragons being driven back
from the flashing storm clouds, back from these undragon drahls of the
Enemy that filled the sky with their trills of laughter. Dragon in
shape, but not in substance, the drahls were the Enemy's most hated
warriors, the leaders of his army of destruction, delusion, and fear.
But the drahls were not the only sorcery in the skies tonight.
The Enemy had turned the very elements of nature against them.
Amidst the lightning, it was hard even to see his fellow dragons.
There were many in the sky, but fewer than at the start of battle.
How many had died? How many had fled? WingTouch had felt death all
around him, and dragons passing to the Final Dream Mountain, but mostly
he had felt terror reigning in the sky. The valley below, with its
precious lumenis groves, was being pummeled by lightning; and the
dragons themselves by withering attacks of freezing fire from the
drahls. So far, the dragons had held the defense in the air, and the
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guardian spells had held below. But for how much longer?
As if in answer to his thought, an explosion of lightning and thunder
rocked the air. WingTouch shuddered, and felt something change in the
air below. He glimpsed a pair of drahls flickering like shadows low
across the basin. How had they gotten so low? Had the guardian spells
failed? He thought he heard a roar of anger from the spell-wielding
dragons on the ground.
Bucking the winds, Windrush do%e to give chase. He passed harmlessly
through the layer where he should have encountered a challenging
spell-barrier. He felt nothing; the spells of protection had failed.
He bellowed his rage; he gathered fire in his throat. But before he
could catch the drahls he saw cold flames ripple across the ground
ahead of him, pouring from the speeding creatures. His heart cried
out-and he cried out to his fellow dragons for help, but his cry was
lost on the wind. The others were occupied in battle high overhead.
From the ground, he heard the wail of dying guardian dragons.
Speeding low over the valley, too far behind the drahis to stop them,
WingTouch saw their freezing bursts of fire exploding in a long line,
where the lumenis and the garden of power were being blasted into ruin.
Within moments, one more living garden was gone, one more source of
strength against the darkness. WingTouch beat his wings with impotent
fury as he climbed back toward the others.
There was nothing left to fight for here.
"DRAGONS, GAThER!" he thundered. His voice was nearly lost in the
crashing of the storm. But some of the dragons heard, and they
repeated his words in trumpeting cries. Three dragons fell in beside
him. The rest gathered slowly, giving up the battle. When he was
satisfied that all who still lived had joined him, WingTouch bellowed,
"DRAGONS, AWAY!" and they banked away from the wind and fled eastward
into the night.
As they crossed the Scarred Mount Ridge, WingTouch wondered what he
could say to Windrush and to the others back at the camp. With another
lumenis grove lost to the Enemy, the outlook for the realm was bleaker
than ever.
No, it would not make for a joyful report to his brother, the leader
of the dragons. He could only hope that Windrush had fared better
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tonight than had his own patrol.
Chapter 2
Windrush THE WIND signed through the mountain pass like a restless
spirit. The tall, silver dragon Windrush felt like such a spirit
himself, just now. He smelled the wind and squinted into the fading
sun. It was cold on the outcropping where he was perched, but it
wasn't the cold that troubled the dragon. It was what he smelled, and
didn't smell.
Windrush was probing not just the outer air, but also the air of the
underrealm-the insubstantial world that lay beneath the one that his
eyes beheld. He was searching for clues to an invisible path, a path
lost now for many seasons.
He was searching for the Dream Mountain, where the female dragons
lived. He grunted throatily to himself. There was no sign, no hint at
all. The Dream Mountain, once a day's flight away, was now simply gone
as though it had never existed. The air blew cold and empty in his
nostrils, except for the faint but ubiquitous smell of the Enemy,
Tar-skel. It was the same all through the realm-here in the south
borderlands, as well as in the north where the male dragons lived.
Windrush would not admit discouragement. He could not explain how
the Dream Mountain could have vanished, or where it might have gone.
It all seemed so impossible.
But he had already flown far in search of it, and he would fly as far
as he had to, to find the place where the draconae lived. The
draconae. How he wished he had valued them properly when they'd still
graced the realm with their singing and teaching! But who could have
guessed that they would vanish without a trace?
The sparks from Windrush's breath glowed briefly in the air.
Gazing out over the tumbled landscape, he felt a deep sorrow.
This was a changed place, even from a season ago.
The land here was called the Forest Mountains; but the forests, once
green and dark and vibrant, were now brittle and lifeless. The trees
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were stunted, the wild lumenis virtually nonexistent. He sensed no
small animals. It was a part of the desolation that afflicted the
whole realm. Even near the dragon strongholds, the long-woven spells
of protection were weakening, as if the land itself were being bled of
life. Bled by the sorcery of Tar-skel.
It had not always been so. While Tar-skel's influence had been
growing in the realm far longer than any of them liked to believe,
Windrush remembered well the victory of just a few seasons ago, when
the Enemy had been dealt the most serious defeat in the history of this
generation of dragons.
It had been a magical moment: Jael, the outsider from another world,
with her friends, riding on Windrush's back to the aid of his father
Highwing. Sentenced to death in the Black Peak, Highwing had been the
one dragon to actively resist the rising tide of evil in the land. The
one dragon with courage, the one dragon to keep faith with the Words of
Prophecy by befriending an outsider. The one dragon ...
until, at Jael's urging, Windrush himself had flown against all hope
to challenge the darkness, to free his father.
They had saved Highwing-Jael had, really-in an astonishing rescue,
bringing him back from the brink of a fiery death in an alien realm.
They had not been able to save him from death itself, but they had
allowed him to die with a dragon's honor and peace. And with that act,
they had broken the power of the Black Peak and freed many of their
fellow dragons from the ensnarement of the Enemy. For a time
afterward, the realm had enjoyed a renewal of life, a renewal of hope.
But it had not brought back the Dream Mountain. And now, in the face
of new losses, that victory seemed long removed.
Windrush blinked, bringing his thoughts back to the present.
Southward, toward the Sawtoothed Ridge, which ran east and west
dividing the Forest Mountains from the harsher Stone Peaks of the far
south, he caught sight of an odd-looking, puckered cloud formation that
was moving in a peculiar corkscrew fashion. It was probably nothing;
but still ... if Enemy sorceries were at work there, he probably ought
to investigate. He hesitated, because there were many old places of
magic in the far south, and he had little knowledge of what he might
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摘要：

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