Almost two weeks of flying, with sparse moments of rest, Prydon landed atop a mountain and stared at the fortress in front of him. Barely visible, even to those who were called to it, Mount Tyria was a place none would dare to enter. But he had matters that needed to be dealt with, and there was no point in delaying further.
Prydon circled the mountain to make sure no one else was there. Segrath would be much less inclined to hear him out if he were to disrupt a young wizard, struggling to discover himself and to receive his strength before training.
He found no sign of movement, so he landed just beneath a large outcropping of rock near the top of the mountain. He could feel the presence beyond the opening and slowly entered.
Prydon wound his way through the snake-like paths until he reached a large chamber. In the center stood a cauldron, as large and any human home, swirling with wisps of blue mist.
A young boy stood, bowing before…a dragon.
“You dare enter here, Prydon?” the dragon said, turning its head to look up toward the small ledge on which Prydon was now standing.
With a few flaps of his wings, Prydon, in seconds, stood before the other dragon. “I come with matters of great urgency. I have no desire to interfere with the happenings of this great domain.”
By this time, the young boy had moved to stand behind a large boulder.
“Do you know who I am? What I am?” the dragon bellowed.
The large dragon, nearly twice Prydon’s size, began circling him, never blinking or taking her eyes off of Prydon’s. Her scales were deep green, but when she moved, ripples of black seemed to form waves over the huge muscles that framed her entire body, and her eyes blazed red.
“You are Segrath, guide to those who enter here and maker of a wizard’s staff and sword,” replied Prydon, moving in unison with the larger beast.
“And you are not surprised that I know your name?” Segrath replied.
Prydon could feel Segrath’s breath as the other dragon moved in closer.
“I would not insult you. You are the culmination of generations of our kind. You are the one who has sacrificed for the good of this world, never to find rest but ever to find respect in the eyes of those who would come to understand themselves as they travel these great paths.”
“You flatter me, but I need no such words.”
A rumble began to swell in Segrath’s chest, and Prydon quickly replied, “I seek not to flatter. I speak only the truth. May we have conversation? Or am I to perceive your actions as an answer before you even know my task?”
Segrath stopped. “It takes great courage to enter here uninvited…or foolishness, but I will indulge you. Why are you here, Prydon?”
Prydon bowed and then looked up, directly into Segrath’s eyes. “I am here to retrieve the staff and sword for Darius, son of Thyre.”
“Only the wizard…or sorcerer…himself can retrieve such tools. Certainly you know this!” Segrath screeched out the words followed by a stream of black and red fire and steam.
Prydon flew into the air, avoiding the blaze. “You know why he cannot complete this task! You know of Klavon and the curse!”
“I know nothing!” Segrath shot into the air. “And I care even less.”
Prydon flew in and out of pillars of rock, followed by Segrath, as she continued to spew flames that Prydon could feel scorch the tip of his tail. He swerved upward, a sharper turn than Segrath could make, and as he looked back to see where she was, he saw the fire, raining down into the cavern, and the boy, running to avoid each blast and seeking refuge behind the huge cauldron.
“Stop this!” yelled Prydon. “You will hurt your charge!”
As if forced beyond her will, Segrath turned to look at the boy and landed at once next to a small pool of silver water. Prydon flew down and perched on a small ledge across the chamber.
“Prydon, you will not move or interfere with what is to happen, or I will kill you,” said Segrath. She then turned to the boy. “Come. Stand here.”
Her charge approached slowly and bowed before her. She then took her clawed hand, held it over his head, and an iridescent net formed a cage around the boy.
Segrath reached into the cauldron and retrieved two stones, swirling with an opaque mist. She turned and sliced at a large wooden wall until a huge gash was cut into it. As she pulled her arm away, the tear mended itself, and in her hand, she held a wizard’s staff. Segrath then took one of the stones and held it at the end, and with one breath, ice blue fire came from her mouth, fusing the stone into the staff.
The wood was left completely untouched, something that Prydon found quite phenomenal. A dragon’s fire always burned, or so he thought as he glanced at the blisters at the tip of his own tail.
Next, Segrath turned and tossed the other stone into the pool of liquid steel. She closed her eyes and plunged her arms into the silver water. It began to boil, and Segrath screamed, shooting fire around the room. The boy stood still, not a single flame touching him, protected by the shimmering net.
When she opened her eyes, the pool had ceased to move. Slowly, Segrath pulled out her arms, and in her clawed hand, she held a superb sword, stronger and sharper than could be made anywhere else—a true wizard’s sword, complete with the second stone, embedded in its hilt.
Segrath turned to the boy, and the net sparked and vanished. “You have completed your journey and are more aware of your own heart. I pass no judgment as to your destiny, be it wizard or sorcerer, but now you must train to discover your final place in this world.”
Segrath handed the tools to the boy, and in a flash of blue light, the boy was gone. Prydon knew that at that moment, the boy, with sword and staff in hand, would be standing at the edge of the training fields—the same place he and Darius had first entered.
Segrath turned to face Prydon. “No one has witnessed such as you. But with the boy gone, you have no weapon to deter my wrath!”
She flew toward Prydon, her claws reaching to tear the flesh from his chest. Prydon soared into the air and spiraled again around the stone pillars, this time taking another sharp turn to prevent Segrath from following.
He landed on a higher ledge, and she stopped, looking up at him, slowly clawing her way to where he was perched.
“Prydon,” she said with a hiss, “I know your past. I know your failure to prevent Thyre’s death.”
Prydon flinched. He could see it as if it were yesterday. Chasing Fraenir as far as he could, he had abandoned Thyre, and when he returned to Thyre’s side, the wizard was already dead. Miora was nowhere to be seen, and Klavon was rapidly consuming the village in fire and ash. He stopped on a cliff overlooking the town…and cried.
His battle with Fraenir had weakened him greatly, and even wanting to stop the carnage that played out in front of him, there was nothing he could do—nothing but honor his promise and find and protect Miora and her child. So he left Thyre there, dead in the street with minions of every kind stomping his body until it was gone.
Many times Prydon had wondered. If he had stayed at Thyre’s side, perhaps his friend would have lived. The safety of Miora and the baby did little to relieve the guilt of that one choice…a choice he could never undo.
“That is not why I am here,” snapped Prydon. You know of Klavon and the curse placed on Darius…a curse that will consume him if Darius does not complete his training.”
Immediately she shot toward him, shattering the pillar and ledge on which Prydon sat, and he crashed several feet, barely avoiding Segrath’s claws. He exploded into the air, this time flying through the open cavern. Segrath followed him closely, threatening his life with every turn.
“You left Thyre’s side,” she teased. “Who knows what would have happened if you had stayed. And after he saved the life of your son.”
Prydon curled around, flying backwards, “Stop it! I know my own guilt! But I am here only for the boy, Darius.”
Segrath grinned, and her eyes became like half-moons. She said as if baiting his anger, “Yes, but ha
d you stayed, the boy would have come here and retrieved these on his own, having spent a life being groomed by his own father. But you took that away from him.”
“Enough!” Prydon screamed, and he flew to the ground. “If you would kill me, kill me with your claws, not with your words!”
Segrath hovered for only a moment and then landed in front of Prydon.
“As you wish,” she said, and she plunged several sharp claws directly into Prydon’s chest.
Prydon stared at her, surprised at her response, but could not move. He said weakly, “I am your kind.”
“Yes, you are,” she said quietly.
Prydon choked. He could feel his heart beating, the claws deep inside it…and then he saw nothing but darkness.
It felt cold at first. He could feel the memories of the past several weeks replaying in his mind. How odd he thought it was that to die, the mind must release old thoughts. Perhaps it was his essence leaving his body, allowing him only a glimpse of what his life had been. Then he laughed. His essence wouldn’t have far to go, dying deep in the mountain, home of Segrath—his killer.