That One Time I Went on a Quest
Imposter

Two days pass, during which I learn why dragon blood sells for five hundred crowns an ounce. One sip of that stuff is like downing a bottle of Irisol Firebrand with all the buzz and none of the fuzz. Dragon meat, on the other hand, tastes like burnt woodchips dipped in glue.

Kathanhiel, after waking up on the second night, gulps down the blood with the speed of one who has done this a thousand times. Despite that, ugly black shadows have dug in below her eyes, and her cheeks have the sallow, anaemic look of a corpse even though the pounding of her heart can be heard even over the rain.

‘Have they returned?’ she asks, her voice feverishly clear.

‘A few…but I think the water scares them.’

The great inferno had not only destroyed the highway, but also scoured a simmering hole big enough to fit a village in. Our carriage, our steel carriage, is a gooey box-shaped pile half-buried in rubble near its centre. It’s completely submerged now; yesterday’s deluge had made a lake out of the crater.

Even though it stinks of death, the water is keeping us alive: glittering in the twilight, its surface resembles a giant mirror. Every time a dragon gets remotely close it immediately doubles back, twisting its head away in spasms. Still don’t understand why they’re afraid of looking at themselves…or what they must go through when they are thirsty.

Her hand reaches out to thin air. ‘Kastor…where is…where…’

‘Here.’ I put Kaishen in her hand.

She grabs hold and looks apologetic. ‘I’ve no right to…it’s yours now –’

Couldn’t shake my head any harder. ‘No no no no, no…no, I don’t even know how to use it I mean I can barely swing a normal sword let alone a – a –’

Softly she laughs, blood foaming on the corners of her mouth. ‘I’ve not made it clear perhaps. Skill matters not at all. Kaishen will teach you.’

‘Uh…how does that work?’

‘Do you think dragons care for parries and ripostes? I employ swordsmanship only because I am made of blades.’ She smiles. ‘You don’t have to. You can…jog, swim, do push-ups, meditate like the monks of Lucia…as long as it makes you strong.’

‘So…is that why you picked – ’

She shakes her head, already fading. ‘Less question, more sleep. May I…may I keep Kaishen for a while? Take it if you need…to…’

I loathe to put her in the crater’s water – it stinks oh Maker it stinks – but the rain is too fickle to be relied upon; one moment it could be an ocean turned upside down and the next a leaky teapot. It’s been a day and her skin is still making puddles boil; she needs to be submerged almost constantly.

Oon’Shang is still standing in the middle of the blasted field; I’ve not even had time to think about her. Despicable, really.

Kathanhiel sighs in her sleep as cold water rises to her shoulder. Despite her state of near-death she seems oddly restful, as if finally comfortable with lying down and taking a breather. Must be a weight off her shoulders, giving me the sword. Better tell her I have no idea what I’m doing a bit later.

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

What? Who did you say that to? She’s asleep, idiot, stop talking to yourself!

Two more days we spend like this, idling by the lake, waiting for the dragons to finally come down and restart their masquerade…but they do no such thing. There are only a stray few circling in the clouds now. Where did the rest go? If after all that fighting the brood ends up going back to Iborus – no, no they wouldn’t. Kathanhiel is still here, still alive. Now that they know where she is they would never leave her alone.

On the third light, the northern horizon begins to glow. White flashes, too low-hanging to be lightning, explode mid-air in some kind of colourless firework, like bursts of moonlight. Doesn’t look that far off.

Dragon fire doesn’t look like that.

I nudge Kathanhiel awake. She looks at me all bleary-eyed, with pouted lips that said whatever dream she was having was too good to wake up from; one glance at the where my finger is pointing sends a shiver through her body.

‘No. Not like this.’ She tries to sit up, and would’ve fallen back down without my arm behind her. ‘I didn’t think he had the gall –’

‘What do we do?’

‘Draw their attention,’ she says, ‘give our friends room to fight back. Take my – your sword.’ She shoves Kaishen a little too forcefully into my hand. The metal is still warm from her hugging it in her sleep. ‘Leave me and stand – don’t look so worried, I won’t die today – stand, good, now hold it with both hands. Both hands, Kastor. That arm is still mending I know, just put two hands on the grip.’

I do all that. Now what?

‘Now what?’

‘Now summon the Thralls.’

Oh of course, easily, piece of cake, no problem.

‘Um…’

‘Verbalising your goal should make visualising the outcome easier,’ she says. ‘In other words, just ask.’

I stare at her. Quite a few times now she has spoken to Kaishen like it’s a person, so this isn’t as arbitrary as it sounds…but honestly, technique is not really the issue here; I’m being asked to summon phantom dragons that kill whoever looks at them.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be asking this of you,’ she says, as if reading my mind. ‘Give me a moment and I shall make another attempt.’

‘No it’s…it’s alright.’

Here I am worrying about whether a stick, a mindless metal stick, will lend an ear when I talk to it, when Kathanhiel, who can’t even stand, is leaping back into the fight. Despicable.

I lift Kaishen into honour guard, the cold metal an inch from my brow.

What to say to a magic sword?

‘I…I don’t know if speaking to you will do any good – I mean, it’s kind of ridiculous, all things considered – but this has to be some kind of…some kind of mental conditioning, like lecturing yourself in front of a mirror, right? Right. If that’s it then…then I’ve already failed. I can’t make the Thralls – that’s the end of it,’ deep breath deep breath, ‘but I have to. There is no choice. I don’t do it, people will die. So help me, Kaishen. Help me so I can help her.’

No transition, no hold-on-I’m-not-ready; Kaishen goes from dull to fiery red in a blink. There is a dreadful sucking on my grip, like I’ve just stuck my hands inside a barrel of leeches. Couldn’t let go…it won’t let me go.

Then the fire starts pouring through my fingertips. Searing pain, racing up my arms; red waves are ramming through the veins on the back of my hand, each pulse brighter and higher than the last. For a spit second it lingers around the broken bone – oh Maker the tortuous heat, like pouring molten lead onto an open wound – then it’s flowing again, up the shoulders, neck, all the way into the back of my eyeballs.

It hurts it hurts it hurts everywhere.

There has to be hot metal struts propping up my body, like a coat hanger covered in barbs; my legs refuse to buckle…refuse to even shake. If this is what scarecrows feel like all day long –

‘Careful, don’t get lost,’ Kathanhiel says, her voice weirdly amplified.

I make a high-pitched whimpering sound, like a boiling kettle laughing at a lame joke.

Careful. I should be careful. That’s funny.

Kaishen’s tip opens up all by itself, a flower of light in full blossom; hundreds of vertical white lines begin cutting apart the blade, forming roving strands that rise high into the sky with ephemeral grace and entwining into familiar, triangular shapes.

The Thralls are here.

Everything play out the same way. The dragons come, drawn by the Thralls, and as soon as they lay eyes upon the pretty little phantoms they turn on each other, tearing at each other with merciless zeal. They don’t seem to be able to control themselves.

Meanwhile, Kaishen grows heavier by the second.

The scouring heat has become the fiery tongue of some insatiable monster, scraping, thrashing, burrowing…something’s being taken out. It can’t be blood – that wouldn’t make any sense why would a sword drink blood to begin with where would it even put blood – but the heat is replacing something…what is…

So tired.

Shivers run uncontrollably from shoulder to fingertip. Just want to fall down and…sleep…but I can’t. I can’t fall. Or sleep. It wouldn’t let me.

Splat. A massive glob of dragon blood lands on my head, its metallic stink seeping into every crevice of my skin. The Thralls are working.

The distant horizon seems to be writhing with…wait…those are human shapes. Big ones, small ones. A line of people...with a few little giants sprinkled in.

Surprise, then relief, then utter exhaustion. Eyes drooping. The ocean is beating in my ears. What is this light-headedness, yearning for air no matter how fast I breathe? Somehow I’m still on my feet and holding up the Thralls like an absurd flag-bearer that had been pegged to the ground. Dead on my feet. Can’t…even think straight…

What if I just –

It’d be so easy to –

No. Don’t go there. Have to keep up the Thralls. There are a hundred good reasons to persevere: devastation of the Realms, people dying, world ending, so on and so forth…but they are as indistinguishable from each other as the dirt under my fingernails. Swimming in this head-melting inferno, there is no comprehending what any of those lofty ideas mean. They might as well mean nothing.

There is one line, however, that’s running mad circles around those pretend reasons.

If I give up, Kathanhiel will die.

If I give up, Kathanhiel will die.

Steam rise from the follicles on my arms. Red, putrid steam.

A massive splash. Two dragons fall into the crater lake, shattering its calm surface. There is a collective roar from the sky, hundred-strong, and above the din Rutherford’s voice rises in cruel laughter.

’You think yourself clever, herald? You think you can deceive one such as I?!’

Screeches of pain. The scraping of claws upon rock-hard scales. Bloody white globules rain from the sky: eyes, gouged from their sockets.

Wings come rushing down. The first dragon crashes into the earth not ten steps in front of us, breaking its neck upon a jagged rock. The second lands on its side, crushing to shreds its left wing. The third lands on its feet, covered in claw marks, but before it could take a single step a fourth snatches up its neck and with one sickening crunch snaps it in two.

It then turns, its eye sockets empty and red. Puff and huff goes its nostrils, expanding, contracting. Two seconds it takes to reorientate, and one more to leap with a single bound at the hapless, sword-holding human before it.

The Thralls dancing in front of its face do absolutely nothing.

Any time now.

Any time now Kaishen is going to move on its own and fend it off. It’s going to do something amazing. It’s going to pull my arm up and shoot fire or…or become a spear and prompt my arm to throw it. All I have to do is…I don’t know, but I’ll do it, it’ll happen for sure.

Any time now.

Any…

Nothing. Kaishen does nothing. The Thralls rove and rove, oblivious to the fact that they’re now useless. The dragon comes, its gaping jaws the perfect size for swallowing a small human; the white foam building up in the crevices of its teeth sprinkle out in a trail behind it, mingled with blood and strings of flesh.

My hands throw themselves up.

The Thralls – they’re so bright. So close I could touch them…I am touching them. They feel cool and inexplicably sensual like the caress of smooth silk.

Couldn’t see through them at all…what’s that trembling? Something hit me, a…a massive feather-stuffed pillow. There it goes, bouncing off to the right. A dull thud, and the ground shakes. The stink of gore is suddenly overwhelming. The metallic tang of blood burrows into my nostrils with little daggers and all the way into the back of my throat.

‘Kastor! Raise your arm!’ Kathanhiel’s voice is so incredibly loud, like she’s screaming right into my ear.

My arm? It’s right here in front of my –

My –

Why am I falling?

I hold out an arm to break the fall, the broken one. The hard earth sends up a nerve-shattering jolt, reminding my bone that it’s still in pieces. All of a sudden the world is visible again, the writhing Thralls gone as suddenly as they came.

Two steps in front of me lies a severed dragon head, its cauterised wound still smoking. Its skull had parted in two from snout to neck in a messy, jagged arc, as if the creature had rammed its face into a sawing blade.

Glaring white light makes me look up.

The sky is filled with brilliant fireworks. With every burst a swath of air is set alight, along with all the dragons within it. Those impervious scales are burning as if made out of paper.

Everywhere, that horrid screeching.

Then comes a lull, and night begins to tiptoe back. The residue glow of all that is burning illuminates glittering dust dancing in the wind like tiny pieces of glass. In comes a fire-tipped arrow, streaking in from the north. The white light that ensues starts off as a pinprick, but in the blink of an eye ripples out in a shockwave that sends a dozen dragons tumbling out of the sky.

Whoosh.

Such…brightness…

A flight of dragons veer towards the north, half of them still burning. They crash out of sight like living meteors, and there comes shouting, human shouting. White light flares up at ground level, followed by another, then another, each bigger than the last.

Footsteps, close by.

‘Kastor! Are you all right?’ Kathanhiel staggers to my side. At first she leans her right shoulder forward, then with a deep frown offers her left hand instead. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Dry…hot…’ like being buried alive in a desert…no, like being force-fed hot sand while being buried alive in a desert.

She tries to pull me up but falls down herself. Her golden hair is covered in grime. ‘Keep it up, or our friends will be in trouble.’ Shaking from head to toe she regains her feet, panting and clenching her hand into a fist of iron; she manages two steps before collapsing again.

If I give up, she will die.

There’s that thought again. Amazing how it’s the only lucid thought in this sea of nonsense.

As if waiting for this exact moment, Kaishen’s fire rekindles.

Have to draw the dragons’ attention. They can’t see anymore, so…a noise, a loud noise that the dragons hate, so they’ll want to destroy whatever’s making it. That’s simple enough; it’s obvious what they hate the most.

Kaishen rises, dragging my arms behind it. The draining has grown stronger, but so has the heat now coursing in raging torrents. Come on, one more time –

‘I have to do this, Kaishen. Please help me.’

From the tip of the sword spawns a great jaw of fire, a resplendent dragon head complete with massive incisors and a flowing red mane of a thousand sparks. It’s as big as an Apex candidate, yet entirely different; those gold-coloured horns, those piercing yellow eyes, those glittering scales, all perfectly diamond-shaped…never knew dragons could be so beautifully sculpted, as if by some divine artist.

Arcing its jaws, the head lets out a shattering roar. The ground trembles, debris bouncing and cascading away, the lake a gyrating film of black marbles. Primal fury thunders across the plains, overpowering the cries of all the dragons combined.

They double back, craning their necks and pointing their eyeless faces toward the phantom as if that formless roar is yanking them by the horns.

I…

I think I did it.

Suddenly the night dims as if I’ve gone blind. There’s a hand on my head. I try to slap it away but there’s nothing there, because the hand is inside, prying apart the grey stuff in my skull.

Eyes. Malicious yellow eyes, inches before my face, glaring like a pair of angry suns. In my heads. It’s in my head.

‘Your toothless bleating avails no succour. Imposters will burn.’

I yell back at it, for what else could I do: ‘I-I-I’m no-no imposter! Ch-ch-challenge me, if you d-dare!’

The eyes move closer; they are everything and everywhere and there is no getting away, no throwing up my hands or looking away because it’s everywhere, everywhere I look Rutherford is in front of me –

‘Drown in the Dark.’

The world fades. The rush of wings become gentle caresses of the sea breeze, the cries of dragons erased by the sound of beating tides. There comes a grey light, an unreal light, and with it a mirage: a jagged cliff of obsidian, standing guard against an ocean of crimson that stretches to the bleeding horizon, beneath a sky red with the taint of sunset.

On the cliff edge, between three standing obelisks of the deepest black, is a dragon closeted in stone. Its head is so monstrously large and horn-studded its thin, snaky neck couldn’t at all lift it from the ground. Underneath its withered wings is a morbidly bloated body that spills onto the rocks in ripples of fat, and so lustrous are its scales the crimson sea seems to diffuse into it, the foaming tides painting upon them pictures of nightmare.

Empty are its eyes, devoid of life…yet it is living, its tongue a tired piece of meat twitching between teeth discoloured and broken. Puddles of reddish drool laps around the base of its neck. With each laboured breath languid flame explodes from its nostrils, scouring the patch of earth before its jaws.

‘Killlll meeeeeeee.’

That’s not Rutherford’s voice. That’s not anyone’s voice. It echoes in the very earth, each syllable an endless sigh.

Booming footsteps in the distance. Little giants, ranks upon ranks of them, approach the cliff edge in a solemn march. They wear no veils, nor uniforms of any kind, save only silky sashes of the bloodiest red around their waists. Dancing in their impenetrable eyes are the myriad shadows of the beleaguered beast, and as they draw close, forming a concave around the obelisks, the dragon begins to tremble.

Weak and sporadic is its heartbeat, thudTHUD, thudTHUD, carrying on way past its time.

‘Killlll meeeeeeee.’

As one the little giants drop to their knees, putting their hands before their heads and their heads against the ground – all but the one in the centre: she’s a giant among giants, carrying twenty-four massive swords upon her back in a fan-like harness. Stepping forward with a blade in each hand, she approaches the dragon with her face held to the sky.

Thunder.

Under rolling clouds of crimson, the world shimmers as rain breaks upon the cliffs in violent symphony. Roused by the music, the giant raises her blades in reverse like the twin fangs of a viper, and with one plunge sinks them into the dragon’s belly.

‘KILLL MEEEEEEEE!’

No blood. The poisoned heartbeat ceases but in its place rises a hundred more. A flock of winged dragonlings, each the size of a bat, spew from its wound in a black cloud, their cries shrill and hungry like starving seagulls. In a feral wind they swarm all over the little giants, tearing into their flesh with desperate strength.

The little giants do not move. They remain still until they are bones.

This isn’t real. This is a…a vision, a dream.

But I can taste the madness in the dragonlings’ screaming voices, singing in unison KILL ME KILL ME KILL ME until the very sky echoes it, and as the crimson tide shatters itself against the cliff edge the air turns sour and metallic like spilt blood and the stink, oh the stink it’s everywhere it’s in my bones it’s in my veins boiling my blood –

White light begins to bleed into the edges of this red world. The cliffs turn ephemeral and translucent, and through them winged shadows can be seen falling out of the sky. Real dragons. In the real world.

The light of Kaishen’s phantom blooms before my eyes, but it’s no brighter than a candle. Before the all-pervasive white even Kaishen’s power seems so very small.

I can hear…words…

Kathanhiel’s voice, echoing as if across a great chasm:

‘Kastor! Let it go! LET IT GO!’

Let go of what? Is there something in my hands? My arms are so dreadfully heavy, but that’s because they’re made of lead. They’ve always been lead. So what is she talking about?

’LET IT GO!’

I hear human voices. Shouting. Doesn’t matter. The white light spreads in my mind and it’s so warm. So warm.

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