It was the last fortress because it was the strongest, and we saved the strongest for last because we wanted to gather as much of our own puissance as possible. Its gates were twenty times the height of the tallest man. None knew how it had been built, or by whom. Nor did any know why it had been abandoned by its original occupants, but it can’t have been conquest; when it was found, its vast doors lay open, and its halls, unoccupied. Now it was home to the last holdouts against my forces. I’d hoped they’d see reason; but it has been my experience that few humans are reasonable when it comes to the subject of power.
The keep was called, in modern times, “The Tower of the Scar”, named after the vast, jagged ugly line which ran deep across (but came very far from penetrating) the seaward wall. Long ago, a mad ruler commanded a dozen ships be filled with a mixture of naphtha, bitumen, lime, and a few other alchemical oddments; the entire wealth of decades of a spice monopoly. She herself commanded a huge barquentine, whose many, many archers slowed (but did not stop) the hail of defensive fire which was decimating her crews. Calmly, she ordered the cargo fleet to sail straight towards the earthworks of the enemy spire, while tacking hard away therefrom. When her little sacrificial fleet came near enough, her warriors set their arrows aflame and aimed straight at the doomed vessels.
Incendiary devices have not played much role in our warmaking. Too much alchemy upsets the Wizards, and that’s a dangerous thing to do. Further, this particular action set a longstanding precedent. For the explosion was tremendous; it tore even the vessel of the Empress to shreds, and even if it had not, it’s unlikely she’d have survived the forty-foot wave which emanated out from the eye of that man-made storm, and which swamped craft and drowned humans fifty leagues away.
And it cracked the wall of this Keep, the first and only fissure in its defenses throughout its history.
But that’s all it did. The Makers of old had knowledge which, perhaps, we now lack. Repairs were made; the best mortar available was pushed as deep into the wall as possible, and the structure seems none the worse for this imperfection in its appearance. Some have even taken it as a warning: you clearly cannot overcome this structure without a force beyond any hitherto known unto man.
Actually, let me correct that: There are things known to us, but seldom utilized ambitiously. The great Monolith in the Silent Hills has much power, but no Druid will reveal its secret under even the most horrifying tortures. I speak from experience. Spellcasters will not ally behind a single banner; it is said that where there are two Sorcerers, there are three angry opinions and one death-duel waiting to happen. This is not untrue.
I am third in a line of monarchs who have sought to awaken Dragons. We’ve spent the Kingdom’s treasury on it, and we know more about them than almost anyone. It was my grand-sire who first deduced that where there are Dragon bones, there might be Dragon eggs. It was his daughter, who became Queen, who sought out wise-woman, knowledgeable in the birthing of things, to consider how the eggs might hatch. It was I who, along with many scholars and students of the subtle arts, discovered the series of incantations which could bring forth a living Wyrm from a dead-seeming, rock-like Egg.
The key is simple: immersion in human blood. And fortunately, I had many critics, and an aqueduct.
There is a little thundercrack, one to which I’ve almost become accustomed, as a Dragon changes course with a violent shift of wings and disruption of air, wheels hard, and heads towards me.
We didn’t quite know what to expect. But it turns out that Dragons are quite sentient, and they master human speech with great rapidity. They have long racial memories, and remember when they were hunted, one by one, and how they died. They are grateful that their species lives again, and, animals at heart, all they want is free range, space for them to hunt and fly without interruption. We will leave out cows and sheep, and they will live beside us in harmony.
The Dragon, as is the way of their kind, speaks without preamble.
“Are we prepared?”
I am used to their brusque manners. I take no umbrage. “We are,” I reply. “I have readied fifty viceroys, who will, between them, control a portion of the known world. They, in turn, report to my Council and myself. Once this Keep falls, all of humanity kneels to us.”
It is sheer chance that my words are punctuated by something never heard before: a full hundred Dragons, spiralling from the sky as if Hell-sent. No-one before me has ever gathered so many together in one place. They don’t need to be told what to do; they’re aware of the plan, and they execute it flawlessly. It’s not complicated; one hundred vast mouths open, one hundred sets of great jaws part, and the flames of one hundred towering magical beasts strike the huge gateway.
It begins to glow and buckle in the heat almost immediately. And why not? Every human incendiary in history, all combined together, are as a stuttering candle compared to the vast bonfire of Dragon’s breath. I smile. “The world is mine,” I say, a simple statement of fact.
“And you, in turn, are ours,” replies the Dragon, seizing me in a vast claw and leaping into flight.
“Treachery! This is trea—”
And that’s all I say before I blast of smoke emanates from between the Dragon’s lips. I cough and I die.
* * *
…or perhaps not.
I wake, coughing, at a deafening noise. I see, now, that we’re not far from the Keep. The Dragons have broken through, and my troops are sweeping in; it would be a slaughter even if my soldiers weren’t supplemented by vast thunder-lizards, whose every surface, from wingtip to tail, seems to be made of razor-sharp ridges.
I try to speak. “I…brought you all to life.”
“And we are grateful, of course,” replied the Dragon. “We’re letting you live. In fact, we’re letting you govern. Would you have been as kind to us?”
My vocal chords are slightly charred, and I make no response. I note that we’re not far from the Keep, but we’re now flying over the sea. Presumably, that is partly to make sure that our conversation is private, and partly to remind me that if I wasn’t being lifted by something that could fly, I’d be drowning right now.
The Dragon continues: “There have never been so many of us alive at one time. It’s joyous, but we’ll also need more room than we’ve needed before. And we’ll have no Dragon-hunting…will we?”
It’s been staring ahead this whole time, gazing out at the sea, but now, in a truly inhuman motion, it turns its neck almost 180 degrees and looks me in the eye. I nod, slowly. “No. No Dragon-hunting, now or ever.”
I realize that I’ve never asked the Dragon its name. I don’t even know if Dragons have names. Its gaze is unnerving in ways that go far beyond anything ever claimed by legend or myth. “Is there anything else you desire?”
“Not in particular. We imagine you’ll face some resistance when you announce that we now govern your species. However, we’ll destroy that resistance ourselves. It’s more practical that way. There’s no need for anyone to think of you as a tyrant, working for monsters, when they can have proof that, in fact, you’re all helpless in this regard. Your entire race couldn’t stand against this many of my species, even if you all could all unite in a common cause. And we’ll just kill off whoever doesn’t recognize that our hide is nearly invulnerable, our minds more sharp than yours, and our breath more effective than any human weapons of war.”
I look, once again, at the fallen Keep. “What will you do with us, now that you have us?”
A strange note creeps into the Dragon’s voice. And, just as oddly, it avoids my gaze. Its voice is soft, almost gentle. “Not so much, little monkey-thing.” As it begins flying back towards land, it says, quietly enough that I can barely hear,
“Far, far less than you would do to yourselves.”
My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities, put on events, and make stories come into being. I also tweet a lot over @darklordjournal.
I write books. You should read them!
I put on a convention for Villains every February.
I created a Figmental Circus. It’s happening this June. You should go!
