For centuries the dragon’s dry bones lay beneath the earth, in darkness undisturbed by the rising and setting sun, the brightness of stars, and all the fires in the hearths of the upper world.
This is the fifth and final part of an ongoing series. Follow the links to parts one, two, three, and four.
For centuries the dragon’s dry bones lay beneath the earth, in darkness, undisturbed by the rising and setting sun, the brightness of stars, and all the fires in the hearths of the upper world. On the distant surface world, women gave birth, children flourished into youth, and youth faded into age, lives coming and going while the skeleton remained, still and silent.
When life came at last to the chamber beneath the earth, it was snuffling and bestial. The kobolds were simple. The backlit recess, the lonely skull, and above all its immense and silent guardian overawed them. In their simple way, they knew it was holy. By dozens and dozens they came to tremble before the fearsome tableau, digging tunnels, expanding the warren, until at last the whole hill was hollow with worshipers. But for all their looking, none dared set a claw on that ancient ivory, nor rest their foot on the holy dais. That which is holy must not be touched.
But on this day, the end of days, someone had touched it. A common stone flew from Banco’s hand and struck bone, defiling the ancient sleeper. The spirit within, long dormant, stirred with rage.
“Go and stop him!” Santiano cried.
Comillas hesitated. The dwarf was not running. He was moving forward, toward the rising skeleton.
“Santi?”
“Go,” the dwarf snarled. “If I do not bind the dragon, its bone will pass through the very walls to pursue us. The skull of Saint Clive must be saved!”
Comillas looked to Lofric, who stood frozen. Across the room, on the opposite dais, the dragon reared high in the air, fleshless wings outspread. It roared.
“By the power of the Walled Garden,” the dwarf shouted, “By the Maker of the Garden, by its Keeper, by the Light of the living races and the Promise once given, I bind thee!”
The ax was now in his left hand, and he thrust the right forward, bearing the talisman of his cult. The hum of holy power which had, moments before, held a horde of kobolds at bay, now burst back to life with triple strength. The very stones shuddered with potency.
The dragon crouched, wings flattened. The skull pulled back, jaws gaping to let loose a sound to which no living lungs gave voice. It was like the yowl of a panther, but deep as thunder. Comillas’s robes snapped in the wind of it.
“Santi!” he cried, “We have to run!”
The dwarf ignored him. Face purple with rage, Santiano advanced, rebuking the undead guardian once more. Light flared from the holy symbol, and before it the glow which animated the skeleton dimmed. It shrank back, yowling again, voice weakening.
Maybe, Comillas thought, the dwarf knew what he was doing.
“Mage!” Lofric barked. “He cares more for that skull than his own life. Let’s go!”
Santiano advanced yet again, and the skeleton shrank lower. That decided it. Comillas turned and followed Lofric back into darkness.
* * *
Thick, hot air enveloped Comillas as he emerged at last into the upper world. At least the tunnels had been cool.
The red light of his torch gave a hellish cast to the area. The niche in the hillside was narrow by the door and broad on the far side, where a copse of thorny mesquite would, in daylight, conceal the entrance from prying eyes. They had tied their horses there. Lofric was among them.
“Are they all there?” Comillas asked.
“Yes. We’re ahead of him.”
“I’ll put out the torch.”
He found a patch of sand and thrust the flame in it. Darkness swallowed the alcove. Voices low, the companions prepared their ambush. Lofric faced the door, sword at the ready. Comillas crouched to one side, hidden from view. He held his dagger in his left hand, and his right was extended, open to cast the spell whose key lay ready in his mind.
Time passed. Sweat ran down his brow, stinging his eyes. He wiped it away. More time passed. More sweat.
The moment came without warning. A quarrel thunked into Lofric’s shield. As the warrior flinched, a bright flash lit the alcove, followed by a thick cloud of putrid smoke. Comillas heard something race past and released his spell. A second flash made the smoke glow and pain explode along the length of his arm. He fell to the ground, gasping as blood leaked from beneath his nails. The spell had backfired.
Somewhere in the dark, Lofric’s heavy footsteps chased a lighter set.
“Poison!” a voice called. Was it Banco’s? The footsteps stopped. The horses, thrown into a momentary panic, began to settle down. Heavy breathing. Comillas clutched his throbbing arm. The pain went all the way up to his shoulder.
“What now?” Lofric asked.
“I made you an offer,” Banco said. “The offer stands.”
“Ventra take your offer.” Someone spit.
Up above, lightning arced across the sky. Comillas saw the thief, back against the wall, holding forward a gleaming dagger. The great, grim shape of Lofric loomed over him, between the traitor and his escape.
“Then kill me,” Banco said. Thunder rumbled. “But a scratch is all I need to take you with me.”
Lofric growled.
A drop of rain splashed on Comillas’s cheek. He got his feet under him, careful not to move the wounded arm more than necessary.
“Lofric,” he called. “Time is on our side.”
“You alright?”
“Yeah. Bad spell. I’ll be okay.”
“You should have used the dagger,” Banco said. “You spent yourself on that light show earlier.”
Comillas laughed bitterly. It was true. He was over-reliant on his magecraft.
“I’ll give you the same offer,” the thief continued. “Let my people move the skull, and you’ll get twice what the abbey will pay.”
“No.”
Lightning flashed again, and rain fell in earnest. There was no talking after that, only waiting. Comillas leaned against his own bit of steep hillside and trembled with the pain. Lofric stood like a wall, unmoving, sword and shield turned to his prey. For his part, Banco drew the dagger back far enough to let his other hand shelter its poison tip from the rain. It was falling hard now, and the flash and rumble of the storm overhead was nearly constant.
Then, between one bright streak of lightning and the next, another figure appeared within the alcove. Rain beaded on the braids of Santiano’s hair and ran down his beard. It streamed off the sharp blade of his ax.
“You have done a great sacrilege,” he rumbled. The Ardoleño lay thick on the words. Death was in his eyes.
Comillas stood up.
“There’s poison on his dagger,” he said.
“It does not matter. My god will have his blood.”
Banco turned slightly, keeping both the big man and the dwarf in sight.
“I have gods too, Santi. I gave them a white bull and two he-goats before I set out. What did you offer yours?”
The dwarf snarled. “If it is necessary, I offer myself. Stand back, Lofric. His head is mine.”
Lofric’s eyes flicked to Comillas, who nodded.
“Alright, Santi. He’s yours.”
The dwarf advanced. The thief leapt at him, dagger flashing. Lightning split the sky overhead. In a dark blur, Banco and Santiano changed places. Comillas could not follow the exchange. Then the thief swept low, trying to get the point of his dagger under the dwarf’s guard. Santi’s ax handle swept down and knocked the dagger aside. The motion continued, and the heavy blade bit deep into Banco’s neck. The thief fell. Santiano swept his ax high again, swung it down, and separated the traitor’s head from his shoulders. It rolled across the ground to Comillas’s feet.
Thunder rolled. Rain poured down, washing hot blood into a stream, and the stream down into the black mouth of the ancient shrine.
“Santi,” Comillas called, “Are you okay?”
The dwarf set down his ax and pulled back the left sleeve of his hauberk. The two men gathered around their companion.
“He stung me in the first pass,” Santi shouted over the storm. “I do not know if he broke the skin.”
The mage’s left hand traced the welt on Santiano’s arm. The lightning showed no blood, but maybe the rain was washing it away.
“I’m out of spells,” he yelled.
“It’s fine,” the dwarf yelled back. “Let’s take the skull and go.”
Lofric shook his head. “He said it was poisoned. We should put something on it.”
“We don’t have anything, and we did not come here for my sake. We came here for Saint Clive.”
Comillas shook his head. He had not come for a saint. He had come for treasure. But the dwarf was not listening anyways. He was digging in Banco’s pack, pulling out the round, white skull of his long-dead priest.
“Let’s go,” the dwarf said.
Together, they gathered their mounts and rode from the alcove. They wound through the hills, the storm fading around them, the sun peeking over the horizon, until a cool breeze blew in from the west.
Comillas turned his face into the wind. It bore the rumor of distant mountains.