Storm Dragons

Chapter 20. THROUGH THE GATES OF DEATH

TEMPLE OF THE DRAGONS TRAINING FIELD

In the dark, starless night, a drizzle blends with the sweat that covers Jygar's whole body. He trains with a wooden dummy, incessantly hitting it, rage boiling in each strike. With concern and unnoticed, Feigon watches the warrior. Jygar raises his shield with his crippled arm. His face contorts in pain. Furiously, he hangs the shield on the dummy and strikes it over and over until the shield is almost destroyed and his healthy arm exhausted.

Feigon draws his ceremonial dagger and throws it to Jygar, who grabs it in the air. The old warrior throws the dragon-adorned dagger. It vibrates as it sticks in the exact center of what remains of the shield.

Feigon: "A lighter weapon can be useful."

The Storm Dragon's eyes show grief, and his lips contort in a forced smile as he heads to the High Priest.

Jygar: "Thank you, my old friend. But you know that won't be enough."

Feigon: "Do not lose hope. You still are a Storm..."

Jygar: "...cripple! Little Bear was in his best form and wasn't able to stop Orgath's champion."

Feigon: "Do you know I still remember the day I found you in the streets? The heart and the soul of the dragons united in a noble child. Every night for a whole cycle of the moon, I saw in my dreams how you and an upcoming child would change the world. You and Zairos."

Jygar: "Yes, but we are changing a free world to a world of slaves. Zairos started the fall of the Storm Dragons and my defeat will seal the end of our legacy... And that damned Orgath? Do you believe that stupid fool thinks he can be the Immortal?"

Feigon: "Faith, Jygar! You are the last Storm Dragon. The Dragon God will not abandon us. Have faith!"

THALDERAN'S OUTSKIRTS

The sun rises, staritng to illuminate an wide and almost deserted street at the Sacred City's north area. There, three drunken old men, each one from a different people, bottles of wine in hand, walk in shaky and unsteady steps. In the distance, Zairos gallops toward the three men. They talk in slurring voices without noticing the rider who approaches them at high speed.

Sunphire's Man: "Today, Thalderan, the only city where men from the Three Nations can drink together, will fall."

Axengard's Man: "And our hopes with it. The legendary Jygar, with his crippled arm, won't be able to beat the young and powerful Champion of Axengard."

Darkhforst's Man: "Then, let's toast to us, the last free men, in the last free nation, in their last free night."

Sunphire's Man: "And to Jygar, our last champion, the last Storm Dragon. Let's pray for him!"

They toast, but before they can drink, the increasing sound of hoofs against the stone ground interrupts them. Startled, they step aside, two to the left one to the right. Zairos rides his horse as an arrow between them.

Zairos: "He's not the last of us. Pray for me!"

Astonished by his words, the men keep their eyes on the naked back of the warrior fully covered with scars, as he leaves the city galloping at full speed.

THALDERAN'S NORTHERN PASSAGE

Lightning streaks across the gloomy sky. A snowstorm begins. Blue Wing approaches, flying over a great marching army. The raven passes by the three riders ahead of the countless soldiers. Orgath leads in, riding his imposing white stallion. On their horses, Lissa and the Axengard Dragon stand just behind him. They look up as Blue Wing flies over their heads. He lands on Feigon's shoulder. Staff in hand, he caresses his bird's neck. Jygar, standing beside the priest, breathes heavily in apprehension and rage. In his left hand, he holds Zairos' shield, the blood of the battle against Night Eye's men encrusted forever in the grain of the wood.