Micky Carre
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Dragon Riders of Etrea—Chapter 13
🕑 Added 2024-08-16 11:21:26 +0000 UTCThe moment Henrik set foot inside the tunnel, he drew his sword. Within those stone walls it was completely silent, in the way a grave was silent. The whole thing was deeply unsettling.
As he walked further in the amount of daylight faded, which initially drew some concern. However, as he approached a golden sconce, it suddenly burst into flame.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Henrik said. The sconce offered bright, flickering illumination in the otherwise dark tunnel. Once the light was behind him, Henrik could see that it went on for quite some distance.
He lowered his sword and relaxed a bit. There was nothing to fight in here, at least not yet. He walked quickly down the long tunnel, trying not to flinch when the next sconce suddenly burst into flame.
“Dragon magic,” Henrik muttered. Well, he would be learning something similar, he supposed. A dragon rider’s magic was based on their dragon, and snow dragons breathed fire. Henrik supposed he would inherit something of that nature. Either way, the flaming sconces suddenly made perfect sense.
Something tugged at his mind, then. It wasn’t the dragons—they had gone completely silent since he entered the tunnel. It was something else, something in this strange area. It pulled at his thoughts in an incredibly irritating fashion.
Henrik frowned, but kept walking. That sensation was like a fingernail picking at him. He felt anger rising in his mind, and welcomed it. He had traveled nearly a week, for this? A stone tunnel where presumably long-dead spirits tugged at his thoughts? The whole thing made him angry.
“Well, come on out if you want a fight!” Henrik shouted. His voice echoed down the tunnel. Even the sound of that made his temper flare. By the gods, but he was angry. He was tired, cold, and irritated at this entire situation. His temper rose dangerously high, and he felt that familiar tingle when he lost control of himself.
It was then that he realized something was trying to get him to lose his temper. That wasn’t normal. Anslie had told him he would be tested in here.
Henrik closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, willing himself to calmness. It worked, and after a brief moment he continued on, although whatever spirits existed here still worked on his mind.
The tunnel turned sharply to the left and Henrik peered around the corner. He saw nothing but stone. It made him wonder just how long he would be walking through this mountain. It didn’t take him very long to find the answer.
After rounding the corner, he continued striding down the long tunnel. It gradually widened and the smooth stone became rough. The air was cold, but not the crisp mountain chill. Instead, it was the cold of death.
The smooth path suddenly ended and he found himself standing inside a natural cave. Stalactites hung from the damp ceiling and dripped water onto the floor. Henrik kept his eyes sharp. Something about this place felt off.
He looked to his left and saw that the cave further opened up. With his sword held ready, he slowly walked in that direction. Something was in front of him. It only took him a moment to recognize it.
The skeleton of a once-great man sat on a throne of carved granite. A helmet still sat upon his head and mail armor covered his bones. A sword rested across his legs. A sword with a black blade.
“Well, at least I found it,” Henrik said. He straightened up and walked across the cave to fetch the sword. As soon as he drew closer, the skeleton began to move.
“Ah, shit!” he said, bringing his sword up. “Of course you had to make this difficult!” That presence was in his mind, irritating him, provoking him, trying to force him to lose his temper.
The skeleton stood and took a step closer. Its empty eye sockets focused on Henrik and images suddenly flashed in his mind, just like when the dragons communicated with him.
A man with long blonde hair and massive shoulders rode on the back of an enormous dragon. Tossyth was huge, but this dragon was at least half again as large. The dragon flew at the head of a large army, attacking the enemy. Henrik couldn’t tell what the people were fighting, but they weren’t human. They were something monstrous and scaled.
Behind the man, three beautiful women rode on the shoulders of their dragons. Henrik recognized Tossyth and her blue eyes immediately, but it was his first glance of the other two dragons.
The scene shifted and Henrik again watched the man ride his dragon along with the three beautiful women. Together, they saved people, won battles, even healed the sick. Well, the man did no healing. Annasta, the golden-eyed dragon, seemed to be best at that.
“So, that was you,” Henrik said in tones of wonder to the skeleton. “The last man to be a dragon rider and hold onto his mind. The one that fought for good.”
The skeleton simply stared at him with empty sockets, but he felt the notion that he was correct. He was in the man’s tomb, and he was being tested.
The images in Henrik’s mind suddenly shifted, then. They changed from acts of heroism to acts of terror. A man with long black hair shouted to the wind as his dragon blasted a small village with fire. The destruction was absolute; nothing could survive the dragon’s fire. Even stone melted under the intense heat.
It changed again and another man rode a similar snow dragon. They arrived in a town and destroyed everything in sight while the man roared like a wild animal. Henrik recognized the look in the man’s eyes. He had the same temper; the kind that came from the dragon. It was in full swing.
The three other dragons arrived and attacked the snow dragon, but cautiously. Even they could be hurt by the fiery breath, and their magic didn’t affect it much. Together, they managed to drive the snow dragon away, but not until at least a hundred people had been killed.
An unspoken question seemed to loom in Henrik’s mind, after seeing those scenes. A question of morality, of motives. The man was trying to ask him something. Which path would he choose? Which path would he ultimately follow?
“I don’t want to become like the others,” he said to the skeleton. “I don’t know if you can understand me or not, but I want to hold onto my mind.”
The skeleton nodded slightly. That was the only warning Henrik had.
Henrik brought his blade up just in time to block a swipe that would have otherwise taken the top of his head off. The black blade clanged loudly against his, nearly knocking it aside. Henrik parried and swung his sword, but found himself driven back. He was shocked at the strength and speed of the skeleton. He was every bit Henrik’s equal.
Refusing to be on the defensive, Henrik pressed forward, attacking with every bit of strength and speed he possessed. He felt that presence scratching at his mind again, daring him to lose his temper. If he gave into his anger, he could defeat this skeleton with ease. The fight would be over in seconds.
But he remained calm.
The skeleton was ruthless and pushed Henrik to his very limits. It lunged, seeking to drive that black blade right through Henrik’s stomach. He twisted to the side and struck at the blade, pushing it away. The skeleton responded by bringing its blade up, nearly striking Henrik in the face.
It was then that Henrik noticed what was happening to his sword. Every time he blocked or parried with it, the skeleton’s black blade hacked into it like it was made of soft copper. At this rate, Henrik only had another minute or two until his sword broke. It had already been ruined.
He pressed the skeleton, putting all of his strength into every parry and riposte. Finally, the skeleton stumbled back, unable to match Henrik’s speed and ferocity.
Henrik managed to knock the skeleton’s blade aside, which opened him up for a killing blow. At the last moment, he hesitated and stepped back. This man was the last dragon rider to hold onto his sanity. Henrik couldn’t kill him. Not even his skeleton.
Knowing he had been bested and spared, the skeleton stood there for a moment, then bowed slightly. Henrik got the notion he was smiling. More images and emotions floated across Henrik’s mind, mostly signifying approval, but also strong waves of caution.
The skeleton raised a bony hand toward Henrik and held it there for a moment. Henrik nodded, and the skeleton stepped closer, until his hand rested on Henrik’s forehead.
Images flashed and scenes playing through Henrik’s mind as the skeleton rifled through his memories. Henrik saw the horror on his mother’s face as he was pulled from her arms by slavers. He felt the sting of the whip again and again. He saw himself finally take his future into his own hands, and became a thief.
He felt strong disapproval coming from the skeleton after that. Stealing was wrong, that thought was clear. But then memories of him donating the stolen money to orphanages flowed like water through the stream of consciousness that connected them. The rider saw that Henrik was no saint, but he was morally sound.
He removed his hand and leaned forward slightly. It took Henrik a moment to realize he was offering the same thing; for Henrik to see his memories, his life. Well, that was a chance few people ever got. He reached out and removed the skeleton’s helmet and set it on the stone floor, then placed a hand on the bare skull.
His name was Garnell. His mother had died during childbirth, leaving just him and his father, a farmer on the outskirts of Selfoss. Garnell worked hard, but when his father died young in a tragic accident, he had to join the king’s army to pay for his bread. He was a large man, both fast and strong, and moved quickly through the ranks. He was also highly skilled with both sword and spear. He had a promising future as a high-ranking soldier.
All that changed when he received the call of the snow dragon. He left everything behind and traveled north and east, through the mountains. Henrik was able to feel the battle of wills between Garnell and his snow dragon. It was immense, like trying to resist a landslide, but Garnell held on.
He won the hearts of the three dragon riders to the south and together they served the realm for decades. Garnell’s final memories involved relaxing in a small stone cottage with three women, each of them still beautiful even with gray hair.
He had lived a life of purpose, a life of meaning. Honor was heaped upon his name, and people sang of him for centuries. The love of three beautiful women enriched his years until he finally died of old age.
A man could ask for no more than that.
Henrik removed his hand and stared at the skeleton—at Garnell. A legend in every sense of the term.
Garnell held his sword before him in both hands, then offered it to Henrik.
Henrik glanced at his sword—the blade was completely ruined—and cast it aside. He graciously accepted the black blade from Garnell and held it reverently for a moment. Garnell took a step back to give him some room.
It was roughly the same size as Henrik’s previous sword, so suitable for one- or two-handed wielding. The balance was perfect, and the surface of the black blade was flawless, even after their fight. The surface gleamed like black gold, and powerful runes had been engraved near the base of the blade. Henrik gave it a few test swings to get a feel for it.
Garnell turned and walked back to his throne, where the scabbard leaned against a wall. He grabbed it and struck it against the side of the throne a few times, dislodging centuries of grime. Then, he brought it to Henrik.
Henrik took the scabbard from him and slid the blade inside. He bowed over the sword.
“Thank you,” Henrik said. “You honor me with this.”
Garnell surprised him by stepping forward and embracing him. It was exactly the kind of hug he would expect from a man of his nature; big and brief, with a hard clap on the back. The man’s bones were ice cold, but then again Henrik reminded himself he had been sitting beneath a frozen mountain for a thousand years or more.
When Garnell pulled away, he sent Henrik several more feelings and images. Henrik was getting better at putting words to them. He could tell that Garnell was hopeful for the future, and believed in Henrik. He also made it clear that when Henrik died, he would take Garnell’s place; to guard the sword until the next male dragon rider came around. Well, the next one that the dragons deemed worthy.
After that, Garnell turned and walked back to his throne and sat down. He didn’t sit in the stiffly upright manner he had before, though. As soon as his bones settled on the throne he slouched forward and crumpled to the ground. His spirit had finally departed, after so many years.
The moment Garnell’s spirit disappeared, Henrik felt it. Strength and clarity of mind almost seemed to flow from the sword, bolstering and fortifying him. He tried sending a message to Calduin. While he had been unable to reach his juvenile dragon before, now the message made it through. Calduin responded with the type of excitement Henrik expected of a toddler.
He turned and walked out of the cold tomb. As he passed by the sconces, they winked out, plunging the cavern behind him back into darkness.
Henrik had to shield his eyes from the bright daylight, but his eyes adjusted quickly enough. While walking to The Duke, he sent messages to the other dragons. They responded with immediate excitement and hope in a way that made Henrik feel confident about the future. Things were going to be just fine.
As he pulled himself into the saddle, he briefly wondered how Rasud and Shel were doing. He was probably wining and dining the woman at every opportunity, and they were likely having a grand time.
