Though she was still very young, she had a formidable mind and was recognised as special by dragonkind, not just because she was a rare Ice Crystal dragon, but because it was known that, in some inexplicable way, the little dragonet was touched by both the Unseen and the Rox.
She had much to learn, her thirst for knowledge and self-awareness unquenchable. Estbane, who was an ancient dragon, adopted her and spent time with her. He was most fascinated by a colour change she sometimes chose that he'd never seen on dragonkind before. Goldlas would turn auburn copper, in deep rich tonings that looked quite beautiful, but when she wore this magnificent colour her violet/purple eyes wore a haunted, sad look the old dragon hadn't seen in dragon eyes for aeons. It troubled him. Estbane noticed she'd wear that particular hue for a day and then not again for a long spell.
~~~
This day, however, was different, because she wasn't on Ice Isle. She hovered just outside a Keep in southern Ambros, her directions for her return north clearly at the forefront of her mind, the heat surrounding her intense and uncomfortable. She knew there was another dragon presence, because it rumbled disconcertingly through her mind. She'd responded earlier, tentatively, and with considerable caution and respect. Now she received a question.
"Who are you, little Crystal?"
"I'm Goldlas," she replied, with the correct deference and courtesy.
"I'm Harth. I ask what you're doing in my sphere?"
"I call briefly, Respected Elder. I'm waiting."
"I could call the mage to advise him of your presence. I serve him on occasion."
"I don't come to threaten a sorcerer." A deep chuckle rumbled again in Goldlas' mind.
"Ah, but you do, little dragon, you do." The mirth subsided, before the voice spoke again. "You're doing something I suspect may be detrimental to the one to whom I'm bound, and doubtless, if I was to follow an unwilling binding, I'd respond as expected. However, I don't choose to. You should depart in haste, little Crystal, while I'm still of this mind."
The little dragon hesitated, turning uncertainly and conscious of discomfort.
"I'm withdrawing, Respected Elder," she sent, seeing at the same moment the faint, wavering outline of the tiny estani butterfly dragon who winged closer.
"You're wise. The mage has a vile temper you wouldn't wish to experience." The voice in Goldlas' mind faded.
She moved closer to the tiring estani whose wing beats were erratic in a way that showed she neared exhaustion. Goldlas extended her left wing so the tiny creature could shelter under her scales, then, making sure the estani was securely tucked in, the ice dragonet thankfully withdrew to a plateau in central Ambros.
There she settled gently on the ground, scarcely raising a dust, only a small spray with small stones shooting up in the air. Her small passenger floated free before the Crystal's descent, coming to ground a short distance away, with a minute cage held tightly in her diminutive claws. The estani crouched, still holding the cage protectively, while the young dragon swivelled her head from side to side.
"Come to me again," invited Goldlas gently, "and show me what you've brought for us."
She watched the estani lift the delicately wrought cage and flutter over to her, purple dragon eyes concentrating on what the estani had been directed to seek and find.
In the cage was a very faint flicker of light that wavered weakly, sometimes so faint as to seem to have momentarily winked out. Lifting a huge taloned foot, the ice dragon extended it carefully. The estani alighted on the enormous foot and gently placed the cage in the webbing between the two front talons.
The ice dragon lowered her head carefully to the little estani in a gesture of affection and gratitude, the estani reciprocating by touching her head to the talon she so elegantly and assuredly perched upon. Then the frail creature was gone.
Goldlas stared down at the faint glow in the cage, her purple eyes intent. After a pause, she raised her foot with talons still extended and horizontally stretched, then bent her head almost to the ground so that she could place the minute cage carefully in her mouth. Creating a monstrous draught of air, she beat her wings vigorously to gain altitude before flying directly northwest.
Yarilan Chronicles 2473, Crescent Astral Yarilo Cycle 2211.
We're astonished to be informed by Ice Isle that an Ice Crystal has hatched. This is news indeed! We rejoice for the dragonet, though we're puzzled by her presence, at such a tender age, brief as it was, in southern Ambros.
Sophos Rox, Venerable One, has contacted our Archmage. No doubt an explanation of these increasingly unusual events on Ambros has been forthcoming. The Archmage hasn't spoken to the mages on any aspect of the upheavals on Ambros. We'll be told when the time's considered appropriate.
The Archmage demands that all reports we receive are to go first to him. He was unsurprised by the news of an Ice Crystal, so we can only assume the Rox had already informed him of the fact.
Yarilan Chronicles.
I'm the Chronicler of Yarilo and now keep records of activities on Ambros, in both Yarilan and Ambrosian time. To avoid confusion, I'll mostly write the next chronicles in Ambrosian time.
You may ask, why do I do this? It's simply because Ambrosian time passes much more quickly than ours on Yarilo. Those who live on Ambros are born, mature and die within a short time span, and yet, Ambrosians compress an extraordinary amount into their lives. To fully comprehend the momentous events that are shaking the foundations of Ambros, I'll try to write as if I was present there, as an observer.
We've watched, with increasing distress and dismay, the advance of the Churchik army and its cruel assaults on the Samar city-states. Ortok fell a short time since. The city was razed and her people slaughtered or enslaved. As you are by now well aware, Ortok was of considerable interest to us. Its sack has deeply distressed our Archmage.
He's sent to the Mishtok, asking that all from the Conclave who've scattered across Ambros, be watchful for five male children, sons of Melas of Ortok. They are, but one, the sons of Alfar. They are named, from eldest to youngest, as follows: Sarehl, twins - Luton and Daxel, Bethel. All are raven-haired, the eldest are black-eyed. The fourth has purple eyes. The fifth son is named Brue, son of a southern merchant and Melas. He's copper-headed and blue-eyed.
The Archmage considers the finding of these children to be critical. We've sent to the Mishtok accordingly and await his reply. We still have no knowledge of the whereabouts of our senior mage, but assume that if he was in Ortok, he escaped. We believe, too, that many reader-seekers travel as slaves with the warlord. We await news of their fate with some anxiety.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Daxel sat moodily amongst a clump of bushes, his long legs outstretched and his thin fingers plucked an auriol flower. He'd briefly left the camp, after seeing yet another arrival of wounded refugees being escorted by the riders from the south. These riders merely called themselves foresters. Of habit, Daxel looked eagerly over the arrivals desperately hoping to see his twin or any of his family, and though he knew it was probably a futile gesture, still Daxel was always the first on the scene. His dark eyes, painfully anxious, filled with tears of despair when he recognised no one.
His brother's agony recurred and swept across him, often at unexpected moments, and it was then Daxel wept for a twin he could neither touch nor help. When he saw none of his family, not even his uncle, Daxel felt choked and as if he had to get away, anywhere, to think and calm his agitation. Today, almost two seasons since the sack of Ortok he let himself think back to Sarehl as he'd not felt able to do. He tossed the remains of the flower to one side as he let himself remember.
~~~
Daxel stood in a garden on the morning Ortok was sacked. The sight of Sarehl was a happy one as he stood with his mate, Alicia, at their gate, pointing to something Daxel couldn't see. They had Brue staying for a few
days, the small child crawling aimlessly across the grass towards a shrubbery Sarehl planted a cycle before. Daxel, turning over soil, saw the little fellow escape and grinned. He was next to the shrubbery as Brue came closer.
He noticed Sarehl held his daughter and Alicia had her hand rested on the shoulder of a child about Brue's age. Both children were dark-haired, Saren a black-eyed boy like his father and Chlo with the lighter hazel coloured eyes of their mother.
It was when Daxel looked up and along the street that he saw the riders advance at an impossibly fast pace, their horses coming to an abrupt halt at the gate. Before Daxel could scream a warning, the warriors were off their horses and through the gate, their intent apparent in drawn swords and knives. Daxel was the last person to see Sarehl's family alive. Sarehl was struck so violently with a sword his face was split apart, and, as he reeled from the blow, Chlo was torn from his arms. Seconds later, there was a sharp infant's cry. Two warriors already had Alicia on the ground, spread-eagled, her skirt torn and one warrior with a knife poised above her stomach.
At the same time as Daxel could hear her repeatedly scream for mercy, he saw Sarehl crawl towards his mate, his hunting knife drawn. Before the warriors were aware of his intention, Sarehl pulled Alicia's head back and in one swift stroke, cut her throat. The warrior who knelt over Alicia snarled. He turned on Sarehl in fury, while a second warrior drew his knife as he flung Sarehl backwards. Daxel made a move from the side of the house, but Sarehl spotted him. He weakly shook his bloodied head.
Daxel hesitated, then saw from the corner of his eye that a third warrior played with Saren by chasing the crawling and terrified child across the grass. Saren was despatched by two thrusts of a knife. The fourth warrior was busy with a dead baby. Daxel wanted to be sick. A hand went to his mouth to stop any screams. He saw little Brue crawl under a bush and he scrambled under one beyond the child.
Baulked of further prey, all four warriors returned to Sarehl who lay sprawled on the ground, his face suffused with blood. Daxel could hear them talk among themselves but he had no understanding of the language. In panic he thought of Lute.
"Shame they want young men for slaves, is it not?" snarled the first warrior, his boot busy savaging the prone figure. Daxel watched in disbelief and terror.
"He is barely alive. Let us finish him," said the second warrior.
"No," growled the first speaker. "Not that easily. He is not wanted, is he? He will die, be sure of that. Tie him by the wrists to the horse and see how he goes."
"I say kill him here. He is dead soon, if our orders concerning him are clear," complained the third warrior, as the fourth warrior already began to bind Sarehl's wrists together. The kicking of the prone figure didn't stop.
"If the horse does not kill him first," promised the first warrior, "you, Beduar, can ensure that when he is left he dies and not quickly."
A boot went into Sarehl's hip again in a gesture of contempt, before he was dragged out the gate and tied, with a long rope, to the back of the nearest horse.
"I hope the horse kicks him to death," was the second warrior's vicious comment, as he swung himself into his saddle.
Daxel doubled over to be painfully sick, prayed the warriors were too busy to hear any sounds and put his head in his hands when he heard the horses canter back along the cobbled street. He couldn't look. Blood stained the ground and Sarehl's family lay in sprawled and grotesque attitudes of death.
Daxel couldn't stop trembling. Terror kept him immobile. The ghastly scene around him seemed unreal. He couldn't comprehend it. As he crouched, incapable of action, Luton's terror and unutterable anguish flooded him and sent Daxel into a hunched ball. Luton's howls stabbed through his brain like a skewer, his twin's terror and agony washing over and through Daxel until he thought he'd die. Curled up on the ground with his hands to his head, he began to scream and scream, without pause, until he was hoarse. The anguish from Luton eased. It stopped abruptly, leaving Daxel with a deadness more frightening than anything he'd ever known. He was conscious Luton was alive, but knew in that same instant he could neither touch nor reach out to him. He threw back his head and howled with grief and despair.
It was Brue's whimpering that brought Daxel to a realisation of his danger. He crawled from under the bush towards his little brother. Brue sat with his thumb in his mouth, the child next to the sprawled body of Saren, the blue eyes quite wild and the baby face tear-stained. Still on his hands and knees, Daxel pulled the little fellow into his arms, hugging him hard as tears slid down his face.
"I'm here," he repeated into the copper curls.
He elicited no more response other than pitiful shaking from the small body pressed hard against his. Clutching the child, Daxel began to crawl towards the wooded avenue that ran for some distance behind the houses, but didn't dare walk because he knew his legs wouldn't support him. He was slowed by the child who clung to him with strong fingers.
Daxel's next hours were a trial and a nightmare. He managed to crawl laboriously past the avenue of trees and down the long slope that took him past the scholar's cottage, already ablaze. So much around the boy was torched and well alight. Daxel called out in a despairing voice for the scholar, not expecting an answer and not getting one.
Daxel crawled slowly. He heard the crash of burning timbers and the roar of flames that licked the thatched roof, sparks from the thatch igniting fallen leaves. Myriad blazes sprang up to feed more sparks to clumps of bushes and shrubs and, as it was summer and very dry, Daxel became suddenly aware he and Brue were in real danger of being trapped in an inferno. Galvanised, Daxel swung the little boy up into his arms, staggered to his feet and ran in a blind panic for the common. He pulled up short of it, aghast.
Huge, roughly assembled multiple gibbets were being assembled - some already erected and occupied by bodies that swung gently or jerked every so often - and the boy could see what looked like crosses lying flat on the ground to which he saw people being fixed with spikes. With a sob of terror, Daxel didn't wait to see anymore.
Without thinking, he threw Brue over one shoulder and ran as fast as he could for the canals, plunging straight over the edge of the first one he reached. The water was high. The boy prayed Brue wouldn't protest while he tried to keep to the wall of the canal, barely able to keep his balance on the ledge. Several times he slipped and was dragged under by the little boy when he panicked and thrashed, the child grasping frantically at Daxel's hair. At times only Daxel's head and shoulders were above the water. Fear drove him. He blessed the small boy for his terrified silence.
Daxel jumped canals several times to reach the centre of the city where he thought he might have a chance of reorienting himself. As he hauled first himself, then his little brother over the lip of the canal, both of them shivering, he received another shock. Their teeth chattered, even though it was a balmy day. Again Daxel felt weakness in his legs. Forcing himself to remain standing, he clumsily tried to dry Brue, but the child pushed his hands away. Unexpectedly, the boy saw a discarded hunting knife at a short distance, walked over to retrieve it, and turned it over in his hands as he stared down at it.
He looked over to the city they had to cross to flee, his heart in his mouth. It didn't look like daylight with the heavy pall of smoke that already covered the city, and even from where the children stood, they could hear the relentless roar of fire, and echoing shrilly above it, screams. Daxel stood irresolute and paralysed for only a few minutes, then he lifted the child in his arms and began to run towards the city. Entering it, he ran from wall to wall, wondering with each step he took when they were going to be caught. He crept and ran, sometimes crawled, hid in gaping doorways, dodged falling masonry and tried unsuccessfully to avoid burning ground. His light summer boots were no protection. They burned. Brue uttered no sound.
When they paused for Daxel to get his breath, the boy saw two men approach. Immediately he crouched. He hauled Brue in close. Though he held the knife gripped with intent, Daxel was so frightene
d he felt as if he'd choke. The two men moved erratically, as if trying not to be seen. Daxel still didn't dare move. Then suddenly the men were over him. The boy was hauled to his feet and began to scream and scream, until he felt a hand slap his face very hard, spluttered, gasped and hiccupped for air. Brue clutched hard at his skin.
"Quiet, boy," came a voice. "Quiet, for the love of us all. Let go the child. He'll be safe with us."
As Daxel felt Brue taken from him, he raised the knife, and, with tears of fear and rage dripping off his chin, he lunged, felt his wrist jerked painfully back and saw the knife spin onto the cobbles. Then, as if in a never-ending nightmare, he found himself running beside someone who held him firmly, the boy scarcely aware of anyone's touch.
How long he ran he could never remember. He coughed repeatedly as he struggled to get his breath in the dense smoky atmosphere. His lungs felt clogged. He allowed himself to be pulled and bullied, pushed against walls, hauled into undergrowth and dragged backwards through burning doorways and over rubble. All around him was horror, blood and panic. Bodies littered the ground everywhere he looked. He dimly saw warriors rape screaming women, before despatching them, and people run to and fro, but all he was really conscious of was fire, heat and dust.
Terror was thick in the air. Beams of burning buildings crashed around him and when he stared upwards, the sky was a flickering orange-red. He felt stifled by dust and smoke and wanted to scream but no longer could. Images of people became indistinct. And still he kept running, until eventually he saw and felt nothing. Before he sank into oblivion, he remembered the agony of his feet and knew a wish to die, his last desperate thought of Luton as yet another surge of agony from his twin shook him.
~~~
A healer was brought to Daxel as he lay, barely conscious, in a clearing in Blenharm forest. Those gathered about the boy stood back. Daxel's tormented screams and agonised cries disturbed everyone and set teeth on edge as the boy, yet again, curled up into a ball and howled. The healer was unable to reach Daxel, either mentally or physically, and finally, fearing for the boy's sanity, heavily drugged him to relieve the mental pain. It was an act of kindness.