The Ballad Of A Semi-Benevolent Dragon - Chapter 22: The Heart of Ash

Chapter 22: The Heart of Ash

Harald still had to pinch himself now and then to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. He had resigned himself to a life on the very fringes of dwarf society after leaving the Sky Claw Mountains to spare both himself and his brother from the machinations of dwarven nobility.

In a kinder world, he would have served honourably as his brother’s strong right hand. Alas, his talents had led his brother’s supporters to view him with ever-increasing distrust. Before they could force his brother’s hand or take action themselves, Harald had left, all but exiling himself and his followers to the remote hills where the sky ship had been buried.

If he could not serve honourably, then perhaps he could find solace in uncovering the ancient past of his people. There were countless stories, many of which he had thought little more than fanciful tales, of what the ancient dwarves had been capable of. Now, however, he was a believer.

And how could he not be?

He stood upon the bridge of a sky ship, the ancient vessel no longer ruined and buried in dirt but restored and once more sailing the skies. Just the thought of it made his heart swell. After Goldwing, his loyal roc, had died, he had never been able to bring himself to ride another roc. But the sky ship was different. He was not betraying his old friend, not setting him aside for another mount.

Ah if only Goldwing were still alive. He knew the bird would have loved the view. Rocs were swift and agile in the air, but they were ill-suited to long flights over open ground. They were at their best amidst the towering peaks of the mountains where they could ride the winds and perch amidst the jagged slopes.

The land that Doomwing had offered them would have suited Goldwing perfectly, if not for the heat. His old friend had always preferred the chill of winter over the balmier temperatures of summer, and the land below them was anything but cold.

The titanic peak that must be Doomwing’s volcano loomed in the distance, rivers of molten flame running from the summit and pouring from cracks in its side. All around it, the land was split by winding canyons, their depths lit by the angry glow of lava. Fumaroles spewed toxic gases into the air, and vast plains of razor rock sprawled outward, broken only by rivers of lava and hills of obsidian and granite thrust up from deep within the earth.

Even for a dwarf, living in such rugged terrain would have been impossible. Thankfully, the territory that Doomwing had offered them was further out. Below them, the volcanic terrain had given way to rugged foothills and rolling mountains. An Age ago, perhaps more, this land would also have been riven by fire. Now, however, it had cooled, and the tremors that rocked the area closer to the volcano were absent.

It was good land, land where the molten blood of the earth had once raged only to cool and leave behind riches drawn up from the heart of the world. A dwarf with patience and a keen eye for geology could make a fine living here, and Harald had been blessed with both. It was now a matter of choosing the best location.

A good location would need to be close to the mineral wealth that he and his people craved. It would also need to be defensible. They would also need to pick a place that left them with room to expand. If things went well, then Harald was planning to reach out to those followers of his that had remained behind in the Sky Claw Mountains and to the various dwarf companies that wandered the world in search of new homes and riches.

He had already spoken to Doomwing about it, and the dragon had agreed with his plans. Life for independent dwarves was tough. The finest claims those rich in wealth and in locations that allowed for easy settlement were all taken. Instead, they had to eke out livings by wandering from place to place, mining what few strikes they could find, and then moving on when the small lodes of wealth they could harvest were exhausted.

Dwarves generally did not war with each other. Instead, those who lost political conflicts or disagreed with the ruling regime were given the option of exile. That was where most of the independent dwarf companies came from. He could offer them new homes under a new king who understood exactly what it was like to be driven from the safety of their mountain homes.

Many would take the offer, especially if this area proved as wealthy as Doomwing claimed. Others would be reluctant to kneel, unwilling to give up the independence they had maintained for so long. Doomwing would have to speak to them individually. Those he approved of might be given claims of their own to work although the dragon had promised that none would be named king as Harald would be. Perhaps in time, if they proved worthy of it, they might also be elevated to kingship, but Harald knew all of the independent dwarf companies.

Many were composed of good, reliable dwarves, but they had been scraping by, barely surviving from year to year. As cruel as it was to say, not a single one of them could match the talent and skill within Harald’s group, and he knew that none of their leaders could match him. If they ever rose to kingship, it would be generations from now, and by then, Harald’s line would be secure, his descendants so prosperous that none could threaten them, save Doomwing himself.

His lips curled. Doomwing was rubbing off on him. That last thought had been laced with draconic greed.

His eldest son approached, and Harald smiled as Leif stopped beside him to stare down at the lands that would be theirs.

“Father,” Leif said. “Our scouts have returned with their reports.” He handed several rolls of parchment to Harald. “These are their findings.”

Harald skimmed through the reports. Their scouts had flown ahead on their rocs. All of them had learned to spot the signs of mineral wealth, and they had also been taught magic by Doomwing that would make prospecting easier. The dragon was a font of magical knowledge, and he had bestowed some of that wisdom upon those he considered worthy during their trip. The training had not been easy. Harald himself had undergone it, and he had puked blood several times, and only his iron will and discipline had kept him from begging for mercy as so many others had.

Even so, the suffering had been worth it. The prospecting spells that Doomwing had taught them made it much easier to identify promising sites, reducing the work of weeks or even months to a matter of minutes or hours. Harald had instructed his dwarves to keep those spells secret from outsiders, for he was all too aware of the envy they would arouse in other dwarves. Their history was littered with dwarves who had committed crimes, even against their own blood and kin, for magic and artifacts less effective than the spells Doomwing had taught them.

“A pittance,” the dragon had rumbled. “But suitable for your needs and appropriate for your skills.” It made him wonder if the dragon had magic that could simply locate whatever sort of mineral he wanted, but he decided it was better not to ask. If such magic existed but he was unable to learn it, Harald would go mad.

The reports were promising. Every single scout had managed to find an area that might be worth investigating. However, the grin on his son’s face meant there must be more. After all, his son had also gone out to search for a suitable location, and his report had not been amongst the reports Harald had read.

“Give me your report, son,” Harald said.

Leif’s grin broadened, and he handed the parchment over.

Harald’s eyes widened as he read through the report. This if his son’s report was to be believed, then he had found the perfect site for their people. Harald cleared his throat and addressed the rest of the bridge.

“Set a course for the twin peaks ahead of us.”

King Bjorn of the Sky Claw Mountains was glad to be out of his council chambers and inside a proper mine again. Ever since his brother, Harald, had all but exiled himself from the kingdom, he had grown increasingly wroth with his supporters.

Their grandfather had been a fool who had squandered much of the kingdom’s wealth and the lives of many of its soldiers in pointless wars against the mountain people and hill tribes, to say nothing of his poor relations with the other dwarf kingdoms. Their father had been marginally better, but he had made several costly mistakes in his dealings with the dryads who ruled over the forests from which the dwarves bought much of their food.

The end result was that their family’s power was the weakest it had been since one of their ancestors had supposedly fallen prey to the mad whispers of a fox god. Bjorn had wanted, more than anything in the world, to restore his family’s honour and power. He had dreamed of doing so with Harald at his side.

Bjorn was a poor warrior and had been sickly in his youth, but he was a gifted administrator and skilled negotiator. Harald, so much better in battle and blessed with charisma and raw power, would be his strong right hand. Despite their differences, Bjorn had absolute trust in his brother. More than once, when he had been too sick to leave the mountain on his own, Harald had carried him upon his back, so that he might taste the cool wind and feel the breeze and sun upon his face.

Would a usurper do that?

But as Harald had grown ever more successful, Bjorn’s supporters had grown to like him less and less. It had gotten so bad that he genuinely feared that one of them would go too far. Bjorn had wanted to lash out, but Harald had counselled him against it. Their family was still too weak to hold onto the kingship without aid. Bjorn needed his supporters, and the kingdom needed Bjorn. Under Bjorn’s kingship, the kingdom had gone from strength to strength as he enacted various reforms and rebuilt the diplomatic relationships his grandfather and father had broken.

And so Harald had gone into exile and Bjorn had let him because for all his intelligence, he could not see a better path. It had gnawed away at his heart, and he had burned with shame. Harald had always been a loyal brother and had done so much to aid him, yet Bjorn had been unable to support him when he had needed it most.

Since his brother’s exile, Bjorn had helped where he could, ensuring that traders were sent into the foothills now and then and that their prices were always reasonable despite how easily they could have gouged Harald and his followers. If the traders had occasionally mentioned that the exiles were lacking in something only for Bjorn to have such items sent along with the next trading caravan, well, that was merely a coincidence, or so he claimed whenever he was questioned about it.

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But then news had arrived via a trader that Bjorn held in the utmost confidence. Harald and his followers were leaving. His brother had been offered a kingship of his own with the backing of a dragon and not just any dragon. Doomwing, one of the great primordial dragons, had made the offer.

Had it been a lesser dragon, Bjorn might have feared deception, but Doomwing was no lesser dragon. He was a force of nature, a being so powerful that he could have laid siege to the Sky Claws Mountains alone and emerged victorious. If he had wanted to do Harald harm, he could have done so with ease. The offer must be genuine.

Bjorn had kept the news to himself and had sworn the trader to secrecy. He doubted that even his most crazed supporters would be able to strike at Harald now that he was so far away and under the aegis of a primordial dragon. However, it was better not to tempt them. In a few decades, perhaps, when Bjorn’s son was ready to succeed him, he could purge the more radical amongst his supporters. It would be his last act as a king and a suitable gift for his son.

In the meantime, he could only hope for the best and wish his brother well. Truly, from the very depths of his heart, he believed that Harald would be a good king. If the fates were kind, then maybe they would meet again as fellow kings when the next great council of the dwarves was called.

Right now, however, he had been summoned to one of their new mines or rather, he had invited himself after hearing of some most peculiar occurrences.

The new mine had been following a seam of gold down into the depths only to run afoul of a strange material. It was a rocky substance of some kind, but it appeared to be utterly impervious to whatever mining equipment or magic they knew. They had even gone so far as to use one of the handful of enchanted adamant drills they still possessed a priceless relic from a bygone age only for the thing to break as though it were made of copper.

Naturally, the leader of the miners had been absolutely horrified, not doubt imagining the astronomical cost of repairing an ancient relic, but Bjorn was more interested in what sort of material could make a mockery of such a remarkable device.

“This way, Your Majesty.” A stout dwarf led him down a passageway.

“Have you tried going around the obstruction?” he asked. If they could not pierce through this strange rock, then going around it seemed like a fine alternative.

“We have tried. We’ve dug hundreds of feet in all directions, and we keep running into it. Our magic tells us that the obstruction is perhaps a mile and a half long.”

Bjorn winced. “We’d have to completely change the mine to accommodate that.” He paused as they reached the end of the passageway. “Is that it?”

“Aye.” The dwarf nodded and held up his lamp to give Bjorn a better look at the wall of strange rock at the end of the passageway. “Never seen anything like it.”

Bjorn nodded slowly. The rock was strange. It reminded him of the rough, jagged rock that was often seen near volcanoes before weather and time wore them smooth. But those rocks had been dull brown or black. The rock before him was a mix of colours, from brown and black to orange, yellow, and red. There were seams in the rock too, and baleful orange light gleamed from within them, almost as if they were peering into the heart of a volcano.

“Has there been any volcanic activity in this area?” Bjorn asked. “Any lava tubes?”

The dwarf shook his head. “No, Your Majesty, not for thousands of years, from the looks of it.”

“That’s strange that glow it looks so volcanic, but” The ground shook, and Bjorn froze. “Did you feel that?”

“Aye,” the dwarf said, eyes widening as another rumble shook the earth around them. The volcanic glow coming from the rock intensified. “Your Majesty, we need to leave. Now!”

Bjorn didn’t bother to argue. He simply turned and fled as fast as his feet could carry him.

The entire mine evacuated, and Bjorn retreated to what felt like a safe distance on the slope of a neighbouring mountain as the rumbling grew stronger and stronger.

“What’s happening?” Bjorn asked one the miners, an old dwarf who specialised in magic that let him peer into the earth. “Is it a volcano?”

The old dwarf shook his head. “No. Not a volcano. A dragon.”

“A dragon?” Bjorn blinked. “Did you just say a dragon? The rumbling is coming from underground. Are you telling me that there is a dragon ”

The mine exploded. That was the only way to put it.

The mountain came apart. Fissures ripped the mountainside open, and huge slabs of rock and stone hurtled into the air. Bjorn bellowed for his mages to throw up defensive magic as he called on the power of the ancient artifacts he wore to shield himself and those nearby. It was just barely enough.

From within the depths of the ruined mountain came a wave of volcanic heat and light. Gargantuan claws ripped their way free of the earth as a head larger than anything Bjorn could imagine emerged from all the rock and stone. Eyes that gleamed like volcanoes rolled in their sockets to peer at Bjorn and the other dwarves, and there wasn’t a dwarf there who didn’t freeze in sudden, instinctive terror.

Even Bjorn, armoured in the legacies of his ancestors, could not move.

Those eyes narrowed for a moment, and then the dragon was heaving itself up and out of the mountain. The mountain came apart completely as the dragon wrenched its claws to the side and flexed its wings with enough force to cast aside the ruins of the mountain as though all that rock and stone, those countless tonnes of material, were nought but drops of water upon its back.

Dimly, he realised that the material that had blocked the passageway had not been rock at all. No. It had been the scales of the dragon.

Bjorn had seen dragons before, but they had all been sleek creatures, suited for flight and seemingly built for speed in the air. This dragon was different. This dragon was wrought of fire and rock, a titan of volcanic stone, all jagged scales and rippling muscles, built not for speed or agility but for pure, overwhelming power, the kind that could rip mountains apart with ease, the king that could tear great rents in the earth that swallowed kingdoms, the kind that could heave up mountain ranges and birth canyons.

For a long moment, the dragon savoured its freedom, wings unfurled, face turned up to the sun. It was colossal, a beast so huge that Bjorn could scarcely believe it was real despite being so close to it. It had to be a mile and a half long. How could anything alive be so big? Would it be able to fly? If it could, it would be like watching a mountain take wing.

“You.” The dragon’s voice rolled over them with all the force of a mountainside giving way and smashing a path down to the valleys below. The dwarves had legends about a figure they called the Father of Mountains. The dragon’s voice was exactly how Bjorn imagined the Father of Mountains must have sounded. “Where is Doomwing?”

Ash filled the air, and the snow upon the mountainside melted and ran past them in bubbling currents that soon gave way to steam. The sheer heat radiating from the dragon would have killed all of them if not for their defensive magic, and even that magic, aided by his panoply of artifacts was on the verge of failure. The dragon wasn’t even attacking. His mere presence was enough to drive them to the brink of annihilation.

Seemingly realising what he was doing, the dragon rolled his great shoulders, and the ash on the wind grew cold. The mind-boggling heat he radiated banked, and the volcanic glow that shone from between his scales lessened. The dragon peered down at them and then spoke again.

“I seek Doomwing. Since I am not dead, I assume that we were victorious. What became of the Exiled Star? I remember pinning him in place, so that Doomwing could strike him down” The dragon shook his head. “Just hold him in place, Ashheart. It won’t be that bad, Ashheart. Easy for him to say. Not even he would have withstood a single direct blow from that monster, yet he asked me to endure several.”

The dragon spread his wings and roared. The sound shook the entire mountain range, and Bjorn just barely kept from pissing himself in terror. Many were not so stout-hearted. “But I accepted the challenge, for I am Ashheart. I am the one who grappled the Exiled Star, who dared to wrestle the Lord of the Tides. It was I who broke the back of the mightiest of Mother Tree’s tree folk!”

Ashheart looked around. “Or is he still mourning Dawnscale? It will be troublesome if he has chosen to conceal himself.” He turned his gaze to Bjorn. “You you are wearing the fanciest armour, so you’re probably in charge here. Where is Doomwing?”

“Uh” Bjorn made a face. “I don’t know where he is exactly, but he’s to the north of us. He lives in a volcano, or so I’ve heard.”

“A volcano?” Ashheart chuckled. “Perhaps I could spruce it up for him.” He paused. “Do you know of the Exiled Star?”

Bjorn shook his head. There was a legend that spoke of some kind of star descending from the skies to wreak havoc, but it was little more than a few lines of text on an ancient scroll. “No.”

“I see.” The dragon gave a low rumble and then had to catch his balance as the remains of the mountain threatened to give way beneath him. “Well what is the last truly awful thing that your people remember happening? I’m talking about a completely calamity, the kind that myths and legends are made of.”

“Well there was supposedly a fox god that twisted the mind of one of my ancestors a thousand years ago”

“A fox god?” Ashheart’s expression sobered. “Damn. I must have taken longer to recover than I thought if there has been another Catastrophe.”

Far away, Doomwing sighed and turned his attention away from Anataria who had finally stopped screaming.

A wave of magic had just surged through the area. It had come from the south, and it was heavy with the scent of ash. It was akin to a living volcano, a miasma of heat and stone so intense it could only mean one thing.

His lips curved up into a smile.

“Ashheart,” he said. “You’re finally awake again. You should come and visit. I’m sick of all your stuff cluttering up my hoard.”