Awakening from the Shadows (The Mirynthir Chronicles, Book 1)

By Mark P. Kolba

Ten years ago, Zaron had everything taken from him—his parents, his village, and even his memory of how it all happened. But now the dark shroud veiling the past has begun to lift, and visions—perhaps even memories—of his home are troubling his dreams.

As he delves for answers from his shattered past, Zaron and his adopted home confront new evils—evils long thought dead—that are awakening like an ancient plague. Zaron spies a dragon coursing through the mountain skies, a beast thought extinct for a hundred years. And magic, thought to have been banished from the world a century ago, has somehow returned, bringing with it death and ruin.

As the past and present collide, dark forces once again seek to destroy him and those he loves. But this time Zaron vows it will be different. It has to be different. Ten years ago, he failed to protect his family. But this time he will succeed, or he will die trying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark P. Kolba
• Release date: Oct 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301271795

Mark P. Kolba

Mark P. Kolba lives in northwest Indiana with his lovely wife and daughter, and he has enjoyed reading and writing epic fantasy for many years. Growing up, he was steeped in the world of The Lord of the Rings (what fantasy fan wasn’t?) and found himself fascinated by tales of adventure, magic, and battles between great forces of good and evil. Tales that provided a fun and exciting escape from the real world yet also resonated long after the story was finished. He hopes that through his own writing he is able to open windows to worlds that are full of wonder, struggle, and fantastical delight. He hopes that you find his stories to be a place where adventure begins. And he hopes that you come along for the ride.

Book preview

Awakening from the Shadows

(The Mirynthir Chronicles, Book 1)

by Mark P. Kolba

Copyright 2013 Mark P. Kolba

Smashwords Edition

All Rights Reserved

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Afterword

Books by Mark P. Kolba

Chapter 1

For ten years, Zaron couldn’t remember what had brought him to Falgard. He knew it was the result of some violence or tragedy; why else would a human boy arrive at the gates of this secluded dwarven stronghold hiding alone in the back of a horse-drawn cart? Gravin had told him what it was like on the day of his arrival: his face and clothes caked with dried blood, the exhausted horse collapsing in its death throes once the cart was inside the city gate, the hundreds of dwarves gathering around this strange curiosity that had come into their midst.

Zaron’s first memories were of two weeks later—at least that’s what Gravin had told him. He remembered the cool, slightly damp air of an infirmary room deep inside a mountain, with polished stone walls and a polished stone ceiling, and he remembered seeing Gravin perched on a low stool and watching him intently. Welcome back, he had said. Welcome home.

For the first few years, Zaron tried to remember, tried to part the dark wall of shadows that locked away the memories of his time before Falgard. His attempts were consistently fruitless, like a fly crashing hopelessly into a darkened pane of glass in search of the fresh air and freedom on the other side.

So after a time he stopped. On the fifth anniversary of his arrival in Falgard, he vowed that he would not look back anymore, not to the past or to the perpetual mysteries it held. He would live his life in the moment, one day at a time, accepting his adopted dwarven home as his own. He left Gravin’s rock-hewn abode and moved in with a foster family that farmed the land in the valley behind the city. He worked the fields with his foster brothers and father, and, when he was old enough by dwarven reckoning, he joined the Academy to be trained as a soldier of Falgard.

But then, a month ago, something had changed. He had dreamt of a cottage and a rutted dirt road and a couple and fire. The shapes were vague and indistinct, but somehow he was certain they were his home—his birth home. He felt a reemergence of his old desperate desire to know more, to recover what he had lost, to know of his roots.

Every night the dream repeated itself, but he could draw no closer to the house or the people. The shapes remained maddeningly vague and he was but a distant observer, like a sentry watching a battle from a hilltop, powerless to affect the outcome. Twice he had felt an inexplicable summons to go to Crystal Lake behind Falgard, and he had gone. Each time he had seen shapes rise out of the morning mists on the surface of the water—two figures, the same two as in his dream, but they were no more distinct in the mists than they were in his mind.

Yet every night as he lay down on his cot at the Academy or on his pallet at home, he vowed to peer closer at the mysterious shapes that he knew would greet him once he closed his eyes. If he could draw just a little nearer, see just one more detail…

Tonight he was at the Academy. The chill mountain spring had grudgingly yielded to the uncertain warmth of early summer, meaning that the Academy’s regular training season had nearly concluded. It was the final week of regular training, and then he and the other third-year recruits would face a week of graduation competitions and challenges, punctuated by the Climb up the unforgiving slopes of Mount Kragspir.

Dorag, his foster brother, peppered the air with rhythmic snoring that made it sound as though the race had already begun, the feet of hundreds of runners striking the earth in a discordant symphony. His heart raced in time with the imagined paces, and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

Zaron rolled over on his cot and fidgeted with his coverlet. He needed to relax, needed to calm down so that he could get to sleep. They were waiting for him.

He forced himself to close his eyes and to draw deep, even breaths. He focused on his heart, willing the muscle to relax. At first his body resisted, and adrenaline kept him primed and alert. But after fifteen minutes his heart rate eased back to normal. After another fifteen minutes he was asleep. And then they came.

***

He stood to the side of the rutted dirt road, watching the cottage across the road like a neighbor spying through a window. The cottage was small—wattle and daub walls, fresh thatching on the roof, smoke trailing lazily from a hole in the center. He had seen those details before. He tried to focus on the house, to study it. There were bursts of color to the side—wildflowers, perhaps? He couldn’t tell for sure. He tried to walk closer to the scene, but his feet would not move.

Then two shapes appeared suddenly, in front of the cottage. They moved rapidly, as if alarmed. His pulse quickened. He squinted at the shapes, but they were as indistinct as ever, mere hazy outlines that looked like a man and a woman seen from a great distance.

He tried to shout to them, but of course no sound came.

Then a flickering glow appeared atop the cottage and began to spread. Fire. He knew it was fire, even though he couldn’t resolve the individual flames. As the fire spread, the shapes all at once began to shimmer away into a single blurry jumble, and a crushing disappointment crashed over him. This was how it always ended, and he could do nothing to stop it.

Stay! he shouted in his mind. You must stay!

For a moment everything stopped, then suddenly the shapes resolved again into faint man-woman outlines and the burning cottage.

They were back!

He watched them, transfixed. He had never seen these images before. One shape, the man, raised an arm to point or to beckon, and then he disappeared into the cottage. The woman followed him in.

Why did they go in? What had they seen? He focused his dream-mind as clearly as he could and tried to force his head to swivel, to look up the road from the cottage. At first nothing happened, but then slowly, almost grudgingly, the scene changed and his head turned. There were dozens of shapes coming towards him, soldiers carrying swords and axes and torches. Great tongues of fire leapt into the air behind them from other burning buildings.

The soldiers came down the road towards him, some turning off to the left or right, but a group of four of them coming straight for him. He strained to see them clearly, to resolve the details of their faces. Were these the men who had killed his family?

A surge of anger rushed through him. He clenched his sword hand, but felt no hilt under his fingers. He was unarmed. Still the men came on, and now they were close, not ten yards away.

Suddenly, something like scales fell from his eyes, and the armor of the lead soldier came into abrupt focus. He wore a breastplate of blackened steel, and painted onto the armor in scarlet red was a writhing dragon. The great beast’s wings were spread in flight, its claws poised to strike, and a tongue of flame coursed from its mouth.

His heart fluttered. The image was so lifelike. He had seen pictures of dragons before, from the old histories, but never before one so real, one that seemed ready to fly off of the armor and attack him. His legs trembled and he struggled to catch his breath. His eyes never left the dragon.

Then the dragon moved, and he screamed.

***

What in Morv’s name? yelled Dorag, throwing off his blanket.

Zaron’s heart was racing, his breath coming in short gasps. Sweat covered his body.

He blinked rapidly and searched the room. There was no dragon; it was just his dream. But the beast had seemed so real. Even in a dream it had been terrifying.

Dorag had completed his own panicked scan of the room, and his eyes settled on Zaron. You scared the living giblets out of me. That was you, right?

Zaron slowly caught his breath.

The scream? prompted Dorag.

Yes—I think…a nightmare.

A nightmare?

Yes.

Well, thank goodness, said Dorag, heaving a sigh of relief. "I thought Ularth had come to ambush us. Actually, for a moment I thought you were Ularth, the way you were looking around so wild-eyed. I thought I was finished."

What? No, no, said Zaron. It’s not him. Not yet anyway. The night’s not over. Stars and a half-moon still flecked the sky outside their small window. Sorry I woke you.

It’s all right. Better you than him. Dorag collected his blanket from the floor and flopped back down on his cot. You’d better beat that harlscum this week, you know. In everything. I’m counting on you. We’re all counting on you.

I know.

If that harlscum finishes first in our class, I think I’ll retch when they hand out the Rolls.

I think you’ll retch halfway up Mount Kragspir.

Shut your mouth.

Zaron leaned against the wall. His eyes were heavy, but he couldn’t go back to sleep, not after the dream. He needed to think on what he had seen, and he was afraid of what else he might see if he dreamed again. It had finally been different. He had been able to see more, but it had not been what he had expected to see. He still hadn’t seen his parents’—at least he assumed it was his parents’—faces clearly. There was only that dragon, painted in living red on a blackened breastplate.

He shuddered at the thought of it.

Are you sure you’re all right? asked Dorag, muffling a yawn.

I’m fine. His voice sounded unconvincing, but he had no intention of sharing with Dorag. The only one he had told about the dream was Gravin, and all that Gravin knew was that it had happened once.

Are you going back to bed?

Zaron hesitated. No, I don’t think so.

Taking a walk, eh? Do you want me to come? Dorag sounded like he was ten seconds from sleep.

No. I’ll get you in the morning.

Okay, good, said Dorag, and he rolled over to face the wall. In a few seconds, Zaron heard the first snore.

He looked outside again, at the stars and the moon in the clear mountain sky, spread like wildflowers across a vast, dark field. He had about three hours to kill before it was time for their training run. Should he go out to Crystal Lake? The thought appealed to him at first, but he felt no summons, and he didn’t want to have to think up an excuse for the night watchmen at the rear gate. Maybe he would just stay here.

He wrapped his coverlet around his shoulders and listened to the rise and fall of Dorag’s hearty snoring. The noise filled the room and pressed against his thoughts, which were turning over and over with questions. Why was he having these dreams? Why had he seen the dragon tonight? Had these dragon-soldiers killed his family? Why had he remembered nothing for ten years, and now this? Why?

There was only one place he could hope to find an answer.

***

Zaron stood outside the heavy oak door deep inside the mountain, staring at the familiar twisting patterns of the wrought-iron bands across the wood, his hand poised in midair three inches from the door. He had a feeling that the old dwarf would be awake, but if he wasn’t, he didn’t want to wake him. Zaron lowered his hand an inch. He could wait until the morning. Maybe.

He remembered the dragon leaping towards him, wings outspread.

Maybe not. He pounded on the door.

Come in, said Gravin. The door’s open.

Zaron exhaled in relief. He pushed the door open and slipped into the room.

Gravin sat ensconced in a down-stuffed reading chair, a book lying open across his thighs. He was wearing his favorite green and yellow checkered cloak over his nightshirt, even though all three fireplaces in the living room were burning cheerfully. His long silver beard reached down to his belt like a sagacious necklace, and his incisive brown eyes scanned Zaron intently.

What’s wrong? asked the old dwarf.

Even though he had specifically come to ask Gravin’s help, Zaron’s defensiveness still burst out reflexively. What makes you think—

That something’s wrong? Well, it’s the second watch of the night, for one. And you knocked loudly enough to wake the neighbors. I assume this isn’t a social call. Gravin smiled gently. He closed the book on his lap and set it on a small end table next to the chair. Then he gestured to the chair beside him.

Zaron shuffled over to the chair and sat down slowly. He sank into the feather cushions, and the soft fabric enfolded him like a comforting blanket. The tension in his muscles slackened a little, and he closed his eyes and forced down his mental defensive barriers as well. He had kept the true extent of these dreams secret for a month, but now he needed Gravin’s counsel. I’m sorry. Sorry to trouble you so late at night. You’re right, of course. There is something.

Yes?

Do you remember that dream I told you about? The one that I thought might be of home?

Yes, I remember. You thought you saw your family.

Well, I’ve had it again.

I see. What was in the dream this time?

Zaron realized he was holding his breath. Here we go. Actually, I’ve had it every night for the last month.

Gravin’s brow furrowed deeply at this, and he leaned forward in his chair, wrinkled hands tightly grasping his knees. Every night?

Yes, said Zaron.

By Morv, Gravin whispered. He sounded surprised, and Gravin was never surprised. Do you remember when it first started?

Well, I don’t remember the exact night. It was sometime during the week of the archery exam, I think.

Was there anything in particular that had happened to you to trigger it?

I don’t remember anything.

Were you talking about your home? Or thinking about how you came to Falgard? Thinking about your future after the Academy? Anything out of the ordinary?

No, I don’t think so.

Are you sure? Think carefully.

Zaron wracked his brain for any clues that might explain the onset of his dreams. He came up empty. No, I really don’t remember anything. I just went to sleep one night and it happened, like the images were just placed inside my head.

Or like your mind broke through a barrier that had been sheltering you from these images, said Gravin, and he sank back into his chair. It seems that your mind is trying its utmost to recall events that you had, until recently, blocked out. That would explain the repetition. And I also recall you saying that the dream was blurry, that you couldn’t resolve things clearly.

Well—

Gravin narrowed his eyes.

Zaron hesitated a moment, then he pressed on. Tonight I saw something different. I saw it clearly.

What did you see?

There were soldiers attacking the village, lighting everything on fire. I think that must be what happened before I came here. It makes sense, it fits with what we know.

Yes, said Gravin cautiously, it does.

And there was something else…

Yes?

I saw a dragon.

Gravin choked on his saliva and started coughing violently. "You saw what?" he gasped between the spasms.

Zaron quickly tried to explain. It wasn’t real. Well, it was, in a way, but it wasn’t life-sized or flying around. It was painted on the armor. On the soldier’s armor. It was colored bright red, like fresh blood. It was a standard of some kind, at least that’s what it looked like. But then, right before I woke up, it moved.

Gravin’s coughing slowly subsided, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. There were wet streaks along the edge of his nose where tears had squeezed out and slithered down his face. The dragon on the armor moved?

Yes. I wouldn’t normally think anything of it. I mean, it was a dream, right? Zaron laughed nervously. "But it seemed so real. Everything about the soldiers and the dragon I saw clearly, just as clearly as I see you now. And it didn’t feel like a dream. It felt more like…well, like a memory."

From the way you describe it, it certainly sounds like one.

Zaron paused again. He was drawing nearer to the heart of the matter, to one of the questions that he hoped Gravin could help him to answer. Gravin, if this was really a memory, then…then how did that dragon move?

Now it was Gravin’s turn to be silent. He pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow and turned away to stare at the far wall of the room.

Zaron watched him and waited. He had his own idea that had crept its way into the periphery of his mind, but it seemed outlandish.

Gravin rose to his feet and began pacing back and forth across the face of the eastern fireplace, his green and yellow checkered cloak dragging behind him along the stone floor. At last he stopped and turned to face Zaron. There is an explanation, one which you, no doubt, have already thought of yourself.

Zaron craned forward.

Magic.

The word hung in the air like an imprecation.

Zaron’s mind reeled at the thought, yet Gravin was right. It was exactly the thought that had been forming in his own mind. Magic. It sounded crazy. After the fall of the dark wizard Magalandar a hundred years ago, the use of magic had been banned forever, on pain of death. The soulstones that gave the wizards and sorceresses their power were gathered together and destroyed. Magic was banished from Mirynthir, never to return.

It couldn’t be magic. How could it be?

Perhaps it was just a dream, said Zaron, the words spilling out faster than water overflowing a cup. Just my imagination. I’ve dreamt stranger things before. I’ve dreamt I could fly. I’ve dreamt of being killed.

Yes, perhaps, said Gravin. Perhaps it was just a dream. He stroked the front of his beard pensively and resumed pacing. We cannot tell for certain.

But it can’t be magic, argued Zaron. That makes no sense. There hasn’t been magic for almost a hundred years, since the end of the Purge. It has to be a dream. Right?

Gravin shook his head as if to clear it. Yes, you are right, of course. It is by far the more logical explanation. If a fire begins in a forest, which is more likely—that a dragon set the trees alight or that a woodsman was careless with a campfire?

Or if a boy dreams of a living painting, which is more likely—that a magical painting really exists or that an overactive imagination full of fairy tales and legends conjured some strange vision in a dream?

Gravin smiled at him and walked over to the chair where Zaron sat. Don’t be too hard on yourself. I think that your mind is just trying to fill in those empty spaces from long ago. You must tell me if you have this dream again, or if you see something more. Until then, put your mind at ease.

Right, said Zaron. I’ll let you know. And he knew that he would. Gone were the days of keeping these dreams to himself.

The conversation with Gravin had helped to relax him, both mind and body, but now a dull throbbing began at his temples. Probably a headache from the lack of sleep. He should leave, he knew, to let Gravin get to bed. He rubbed his forehead, and then started to rise.

Gravin, however, had noticed the gesture. Headache, Zaron?

Yes. It’s been a while since I slept well.

Sit down. Let me make you some tea.

Are you sure? I don’t want to keep you from sleep.

Gravin smiled again. Do I look like I’m sleeping? Sit down.

Zaron sat down again, grateful to return for a few more minutes to the gentle embrace of the down-stuffed cushions. The chair was a lot more comfortable than his cot at the Academy.

He heard Gravin moving about in the kitchen—shuffling feet, a clattering pot, water gurgling out of a barrel. Five minutes later, Gravin returned to the living room with two steaming mugs and a pair of homemade biscuits on a tray. The biscuits are a day old, he said apologetically.

Thank you, Gravin.

The tea soothed his headache, and with the headache gone and his mind now at ease, drowsiness began to overtake him. He started to rise a second time, but Gravin stopped him again.

Rest here. I’ll wake you in the morning.

But I need to be up early, Zaron protested sleepily. I’m going on a training run.

I know. Dorag told me yesterday afternoon. Don’t worry, I’ll wake you.

Zaron mumbled an affirmative, and then he slipped into a peaceful, relaxing sleep. And for once, the dreams did not come.

Chapter 2

Despite the cool of the late spring air, sweat dripped off of his head and arms as Zaron catapulted himself up the final set of rock-hewn stairs and emerged onto the Orthag Plateau at the top of the observers’ trail. Wind bit sharply across the side of his face and plastered his hair to the back of his neck, but the gusts were refreshing and siphoned away some of the heat radiating from his body.

He had just finished his last training run before the Climb. The run had gone well, and, along with the few hours of sleep in Gravin’s chair, it had helped to take his mind off of the dream. Running had a way of doing that. He was satisfied with his effort; his running rhythm had been sharp and even, his pace rapid despite the stairs and steep inclines of the observer’s trail. He was ready for the Climb—as ready as he ever would be.

The plateau onto which he had emerged at the top of the observer’s trail was a natural rock shelf halfway up the side of Mount Kragspir. A sheer cliff face a hundred feet high blocked further progress and proclaimed with finality that the trail’s end had been reached. Zaron walked along the base of the cliff, sucking in greedy breaths of the cool, rocky air and heading towards the main trail, the Climbing trail, which was the only pathway that led all the way to the summit. The plateau gradually narrowed and at last ended amid a loose jumble of boulders and jagged rock. This end of the plateau provided a clear view of the main trail making nearly a dozen switchbacks on its way up the mountain.

Zaron closed his eyes and drew in a long breath. In less than two weeks he would be running up that hallowed main trail, running for the record and for first place in his class, running to beat Rorgarth, and running to humiliate that snot of a dwarf Ularth. His foster family—except for Dorag, who would also be running—would be standing here watching him. So would thousands of others stretched out across the plateau and along the length of the observer’s trail. Some of the dwarves would complain that his human legs gave him an unfair advantage, but he didn’t have any sympathy for them. He had already told them dozens of times that that just meant they had to run faster to keep up with him. He could see the trail in his mind, the miles falling away as he climbed…

By the stars, cried out a gasping voice.

Zaron opened his eyes and smiled to himself. It was Dorag.

Take me now. I’m finished. There was a muffled thud, and he knew that Dorag had collapsed onto the plateau.

He turned and walked back towards the top of the stairs. This isn’t even half as far as you’ll have to go next week.

I won’t have to keep up with you next week.

I suppose not.

Dorag lay spread-eagled on his back, his eyes unfocused and his chest heaving. Beads of sweat dripped from the end of his red beard onto a sopping wet tunic.

Zaron stood next to him. Do you need a hand?

Give me a minute.

Are you sure?

Yes, by Morv! I need a minute.

Zaron smiled again. A minute meant more like ten or fifteen, so he walked the other way along the plateau up to the far edge. His breathing was already returning to a more or less normal rate, although his heart still beat rapidly. He savored the satisfying throbs of pain in his thighs and calves. He had pushed himself hard during the run.

This side of the plateau afforded a spectacular view of the surrounding landscape. The city of Falgard was a miniature patchwork quilt of grays and browns standing at the entrance to the valley five thousand feet below. On the other side of Falgard stood the smaller Mount Golthram, its dull gray rock looking sullen, like a younger brother who knows he will never grow to be as broad or as tall as the elder. In front of him spread the southern reaches of the Robanar Mountains. The peaks rose and fell like the silver fangs of an angry beast. These mountains had devoured many through the years; that’s what Gravin always told him. But the dwarves of Falgard had tamed the mountains and bested the rival dwarven clans whose blood and bones now nourished the earth they had fought for. In the far distance, just visible near the horizon, the mountains softened into the green and brown undulations of the foothills, where the trading output of Karvim nestled against the Kolgaard River.

The scene spoke to Zaron deeply, the harsh majesty of the mountains laid out before him. Sometimes he had sat on this plateau for a whole afternoon, soaking it in. The determined, unyielding nature of the rock seemed to him a perfect analog for his own life, for the fortitude that was required to weather the storms of an angry world that would otherwise hurtle him into darkness as it had done to his birth family. The thought of them brought a low tremor to his chest, and he remembered the cloudy figures from his dreams.

Zaron was just about to turn from the vista when a faint movement arrested his eye. A small, dark shape dipped and turned like an angry insect on the distant horizon. He squinted into the distance, trying to see more clearly, and over the next several minutes the shape first disappeared, then reappeared, then disappeared again.

Then a smudge darkened the distant sky like a smear of charcoal. Zaron’s curiosity turned to suspicion, then suspicion to dread. Five minutes later he knew what he was seeing, and the dread became a knot of horror rising in his stomach. Karvim was on fire.

Dorag!

What? moaned the dwarf.

Get over here! It’s burning! Karvim is burning!

What?! Dorag’s tone was instantly alert, and in moments he had struggled to his feet and joined Zaron at the edge of the plateau.

Do you see that, on the horizon? Zaron stabbed his finger towards the smoke, even though Dorag knew where Karvim was and even though the smoke was plainly visible.

Are you sure that’s smoke? asked Dorag. A quaver crept into his voice. Not just a cloud? A storm?

Do you really think that’s a cloud?

The dwarf stared into the distance. The plume of smoke grew ever larger, like a volcano erupting. He said, slowly, No, I don’t think that’s a cloud…

There’s already a giant plume. The whole town must be on fire.

Be still my soul.

Dorag’s epitaph hung in the air, and Zaron thought of the thousands of dwarves who lived in Karvim, picturing them being burned alive by sudden flames. The images from his dream flashed before his eyes. Fire on the roof of the cottage, spreading quickly across the thatch. Tongues of flame leaping towards the sky. Buildings on fire. Soldiers with torches.

What do you think caused it? said Dorag.

Suddenly Zaron remembered the small shape that he had seen, dancing and spinning in the air right before the blaze appeared. And he remembered his dream. Outspread wings and flashing talons. I saw something— he began, but the thought forming in his mind was too outlandish to complete, and he trailed off into silence.

Saw what?

Zaron said nothing

What did you see?

He had read histories of Mirynthir in the books that Gravin gave him. The histories spoke of magic and dread wizards and ancient beasts that had all passed away from the world with the fall of the dark wizard Magalandar and the end of magic a hundred years ago. But in his mind Zaron saw the image straight from his dream.

Dorag was nearly shouting. "Come on, out with it! What did you see?"

I think I saw a dragon.

"You saw what?!"

I swear it looked like one.

That’s impossible, Dorag sputtered. Absolute insanity. Dragons are long dead and gone. Not a one has been seen for a hundred years.

I saw something turning on the wind, flying over the town. Then came the smoke and fire, right on its heel like a cur on a deer.

It could have been anything.

"THERE!" shouted Zaron.

Dorag yowled and nearly fell over in surprise.

The shape was visible again. Zaron pointed feverishly at the sky. It was on the near side of the smoke, moving rapidly. As he watched, the shape momentarily turned golden yellow and red like fire and then disappeared into the plume of smoke. The wind was carrying the plume towards Falgard.

Did you see that? asked Zaron.

I see the smoke, said Dorag hesitantly.

You didn’t see it? You’re blind as a tunnel toad! It breathed fire!

Dorag squinted at the horizon. Karvim’s thirty miles away. Maybe you just saw the sun glinting—

Off the smoke? That’s ludicrous. Zaron’s mind raced, remembering the image of the sky over Karvim, poring over it again, focusing on that dark insectoid shape. He was sure he’d seen it. It was small, certainly, but if he could see it from this distance it must actually be huge. It looked like a dragon.

Dragons haven’t been seen in a hundred years, said Dorag.

Zaron grabbed Dorag by the shoulders and stared straight down at him, willing him to believe him. I’m not making this up, I swear to you. He tried to speak calmly. You have to believe me. I know what I saw. We can both see the smoke, right?

Dorag nodded.

So something has happened to Karvim. And if it’s a dragon, then…

His heart accelerated to a frantic pounding. He needed to warn the city. The shape had ducked back into the smoke, and the smoke was headed towards Falgard.

Suddenly something clicked in Dorag’s eyes. You think it’s coming here? A quaver crept into his voice.

I have to warn them. If a dragon caught us unprepared, it would torch half the city before the guard even had a chance to muster.

Horror and uncertainty shadowed Dorag’s face. But…but what if you’re wrong? They’ll think you’ve lost your mind.

I know, Zaron grunted. He couldn’t worry about that right now. But what if I’m right?

By Morv and all the fathers…

Zaron dashed towards the stairs, leaving Dorag at the edge of the plateau.

Go! his brother shouted after him. I’ll be right behind you!

Zaron saw again in his mind the twisting, flaming shape ducking into the plume of smoke, as if it was trying to conceal itself. The smoke was coming. So was the dragon. He took the stairs three at a time and barely noticed his legs’ angry protest.

***

Zaron reached the bottom of the observers’ trail in forty minutes and the rear gate of Falgard ten minutes later. As he ran, he constantly looked towards the sky, dreading the moment when the dragon would appear from behind a cloud. But for the moment the sky was still clear; neither smoke nor dragon had yet arrived at Falgard.

As he approached the gate, he only slowed his frantic pace as much as was necessary to dodge the dwarven farmers and laborers strolling in and out of the city, heading home for lunch or back to the fields after an early meal.

He charged towards the guards—a dozen soldiers in yellow and red tunics atop the gatehouse and another half a dozen standing beside the open gates—and he yelled, as loudly as he could, "DRAGON!"

Several of the guards furrowed their brows in confusion, and the dwarves nearest him stopped and stared at him like he was a madman.

He didn’t have time to explain. He dodged around them and continued down the main thoroughfare. He needed to find the captain of the guard or the High Councilor or someone in charge. Someone who could prepare the defenses. They had no time. The dragon would be here at any moment.

As he ran, he yelled "Dragon!" repeatedly to warn as many as he could.

Then, a hundred yards ahead of him, he saw Gravin and Rorgarth standing together in the street. Rorgarth was the master of arms for the Academy of Falgard.

They were both easy to spot. Gravin wore his ever-present green and yellow cloak in the colors of his family crest, and Rorgarth was a giant among dwarves, standing a head and a half taller than Gravin, with a broad-shouldered, well-muscled body that still intimidated Zaron even though Rorgarth was a foot shorter than him.

Both dwarves were staring quizzically in his direction. They’d seen him storming down the thoroughfare.

I saw a dragon over Karvim! Zaron shouted when he was ten yards away. The town has burned!

A dragon?! said Rorgarth, his flinty eyes flashing. Nonsense!

The town has burned! he said again, squeezing out the words between ragged breaths.

Have you gone mad?

I saw the smoke streaming up like a tower. It’s headed this way! I was on Orthag Plateau.

Before Rorgarth could speak again, Gravin cut in smoothly: Calm down, Zaron. Take a breath. What happened? What did you see?

By Morv, I already told you! The dragon is coming! It will be here any second! He jerked his head upward and searched the clouds. The sky was clear.

This is madness, said Rorgarth. Stop this at once!

Zaron rounded on Rorgarth, knowing he was on dangerous ground, but his urgency making him careless. You must order them to prepare the defenses! I don’t care what you think. I have seen a dragon, I swear on my family’s grave!

Enough! shouted Rorgarth, his voice rising to a thunderous pitch. Be silent! If you speak another word, I shall withdraw your name from the rolls of the graduates!

Zaron opened his mouth and then shut it again. He didn’t know what else to say. A sudden wave of fatigue overwhelmed him. The run had exhausted him, and no one believed a word that he was saying.

A small crowd of dwarves had gathered around him, Gravin, and Rorgarth, but they left several feet of room on all sides, as if wary they would be contaminated by a disease.

Gravin put a wrinkled hand firmly on Zaron’s shoulder. Zaron. When he didn’t respond, Gravin said his name again, more forcefully: Zaron!

Zaron looked at him desperately. Would even Gravin not believe him? Then they would surely die. Surprise and disbelief shrouded Gravin’s eyes, but he suddenly realized that the disbelief was not complete. There was still a glimmer of hope.

Are you sure of what you have seen? asked Gravin.

Yes, Master, I swear it.

You have seen smoke from the town of Karvim?

Yes.

Gravin looked at Rorgarth. That, at least, seems unfanciful enough.

Rorgarth grunted.

They were attacked, said Zaron. Karvim was burned.

Perhaps it was the Horthar clan, said Gravin. They have attacked before.

Not for twenty years, said Rorgarth.

But they burned half the town and slaughtered all the Falgard dwarves. And then they came here.

Rorgarth sighed. It is possible.

I will speak to High Councilor Xamerok, said Gravin, and I will search out the rest of the Council. Rorgarth, can you speak with Ozar? Ozar was the captain of the guard and a veteran of the wars against the Horthar clan.

And say what?

Just to keep a sharp eye for anything amiss. If the Horthar have sacked Karvim and march on Falgard, they will likely be here in three days. There may be advance scouts here already.

Rorgarth grunted his assent, and, with a sidelong look at Zaron, he headed off deeper into the city. Zaron thought he heard him mutter, Madness.

After Rorgarth left, Zaron again turned pleading eyes to Gravin. Gravin, he said, his voice lower now so that the surrounding dwarves couldn’t hear, you have to believe me. I know what I saw.

I do believe that you have seen Karvim aflame, Gravin said firmly. He leaned in close and whispered, in a breath like the flutter of a dragonfly’s wings, Be silent. Keep your dreams to yourself. Gravin straightened again, and his speech returned to normal. Get some rest, Zaron. I will find the High Councilor.

Gravin turned and disappeared through the crowd in the same direction that Rorgarth had gone.

Keep your dreams to yourself? Was that a warning or advice?

At least fifty dwarves encircled him. Several of the older dwarves passed worried glances between each other, but most of them were simply amused. Several of them were laughing outright. They probably thought he was drunk or mad.

Just like Rorgarth.

Dwarven laughter rang loudly in Zaron’s ear. Maybe they were right. That dream had made him high-strung. He’d barely slept. He’d probably just seen an eagle, or maybe he hadn’t seen anything at all. After all, it was thirty miles away.

Shame surged through him. He had worked for three years to earn Rorgarth’s respect, and he had a horrible feeling that he had lost it all in a single morning.

The thought of passing through the onlookers felt suddenly daunting to Zaron. The accumulated weight of his runs, his adrenaline-soaked fear, and the embarrassment creeping across his cheeks and ears was too much. He sat down right where he was on the side of the road and rested his head on his knees.

Gradually the dwarves wandered away, back to work or off in search of other amusements. Soon only one remained standing there watching him, and he was still laughing.

It was Ularth.

He stood there in a warrior’s stance, with his muscular arms crossed across his chest. One side of his mouth was turned up slightly, as it always was, in an insolent smirk.

Zaron groaned inwardly. He didn’t have the energy to fight off Ularth, not today.

Wow, said Ularth, didn’t you make an ass of yourself! His voice was loud enough for those around to hear. I guess it’s always been that way, ever since you came out your mother’s ass end.

Zaron’s heart started beating faster.

She must have lain with a mutilated donkey to dump out a whelp like you. Or maybe it was a dragon. What do you think about that?

Zaron’s insides began to burn. He had to say something. You know that your mother only had one child because after you, she couldn’t bear the thought of a second.

Ularth laughed. It was a rough, grating sound that ground against Zaron’s ears whenever he heard it. Well, at least I have a mother.

A stab of pain seared through his chest. That one hurt every time. And Ularth knew it.

Ularth went on: You know what, though? I’m glad you didn’t get yourself kicked out. I’d rather do it myself. After I finish with you in the swordsmanship championship, you won’t be able to Climb. You won’t even be able to walk. You’ll be moving slower than your dead mother’s bones.

It was too much to bear. Zaron struggled onto his aching feet and glared down at the dwarf, who was more than two feet shorter. You want to have the swordsmanship championship right now?

Ularth didn’t flinch, and the smirk remained engraved on his face. Save yourself, he said. It wouldn’t be a fair fight. You’ve had a long day. He reached up to offer a patronizing pat on Zaron’s shoulder.

Zaron swatted his hand away, but before he could react, Ularth punched him in the gut with his other hand.

Zaron doubled over in pain.

Why don’t you ‘get some rest, Zaron’, he said, mimicking Gravin’s admonition with an exaggerated air. I’ll let you sleep in peace. He started up the street. Try not to get eaten by a dragon! I want you in that sandpit!

Zaron steamed on the inside, but the worst thing about it was that Ularth was right. He had no chance in a fight right now, not as tired as he was. His legs were lead anvils. His stomach ached where Ularth had struck him. And if he got caught fighting today, after what had already happened, he had no doubt Rorgarth would kick him out. He couldn’t give Rorgarth an excuse. He just needed to make it through the end of next week, through graduation.

But damned if he wasn’t going to make Ularth eat his words on the end of a wooden sword next week.

Activity on the street had returned to normal, and to his relief Zaron found himself now largely ignored by the passing dwarves, donkeys, and ox carts. The show was over, the excitement gone.

He stood there quietly for a time, watching the traffic move up and down the thoroughfare. At last, he began a dejected trudge in the direction of the Academy. He needed to sleep.

However, he had barely made it two blocks when distant shouting reached his ear. Dorag staggered up the street, flailing his arms.

Dragon! he shouted. Dragon!

Passersby stared at him and sniggered.

Zaron hurried over to meet him. Quiet, he hissed. Stop shouting! They think we’re insane.

"But—what? You were sure of