The Ember of Life

Chapter 3

The sun shone hot and dry over the expanse of sand most dragons called Sunblaze Desert. The locals, and those who had actually experienced the terrain, preferred to call it by its more morbid name, the Wastes. Across those great, glittering dunes a single speck of green dragged itself along. Above it, a vulture lazily circled in the dry air. It had been following the creature ever since it left the jungle. The vulture knew that if it simply waited long enough it would soon have a meal all to itself. The large bird turned its head, watching the speck's progress slow more and more. Finally, the speck ceased its painful motion and came to a dragging halt. Interest glimmered in the vulture's small eyes, and it swooped lower. The speck grew in size, becoming the form of a large green dragon as the bird descended. Though the vulture at first intended to land on its prize, the dragon groaned, and the vulture prudently changed its path mid-flight so it perched on a cactus instead. 

It viewed its meal curiously. The dragon once was a deep emerald, but his scales were so coated with dust and grit that he now looked a faint greenish yellow. He lay sprawled weakly on the ground, his once-powerful limbs weak and useless, and his tongue protruding through his half-open mouth. He seemed dead enough for the vulture's purposes, so it hopped from its cactus and approached with the awkward, seesawing gait of a large bird. The dragon did not seem to notice. Boldly, the vulture pecked at the membrane of his outstretched wing. Nothing. No movement at all. The vulture climbed up onto the wing and tested the dragon's shoulder scales with his beak. It was a fatal mistake. The dragon suddenly raised his head, whipping his neck around, and sank his teeth into the bird. The vulture let out a muffled squawk and went limp as the fangs pierced its flimsy flesh. The dragon adjusted the bird in his mouth and began chewing savagely.

He spat a mouthful of feathers out, then swallowed. The bird's body had given some life back to him, but the desert's denizens were too shriveled to impart much water. He tried to drag himself forward, but his claws only sank into the soft sand and pulled great palmfuls of it back towards him. It was a futile effort. The dragon stopped and lay still, slitting his eyes against the glare of the relentless sun. For a moment, he thought he saw a flash of white wings in the endless blue of the sky. It was clearly a mirage. No sane creature would venture onto the desert in the heat of the day, and the white-scaled dragons had long since died out. He closed his eyes. The heat was becoming unbearable, and every drop of moisture in his body had fled. The white wings flashed again, closer this time, but he was oblivious, lost in the unconsciousness that precedes death. Wings whooshed above, and a few seconds later claws sank into the sand next to him.

 "Well, well, what does this bode? A Poisonhide all the way out here?" The speaker chuckled raspily. "Such aberrant behavior surely conceals some sort of information."

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Ebony perched in a tree at the edge of the jungle. Beyond the forest's cool shade and sheltering boughs waited the searing heat of the sands. He knew that the wastes took a good two day's constant travel, which meant that Dertharion had already gone almost half of the distance. He gazed out into the blinding glare reflecting off the sands. It would have been wiser to wait for dark before setting out, when the sun's merciless rays were somewhat dimmed, but Ebony had no time to waste. Gritting his teeth, he flew out into the inferno that was a desert at midday. The heat slammed into his dark scales like a brand the instant he left the sheltering foliage. As he flew, Ebony had a sudden wish that his scales were a brilliant white. A beautiful, reflective white. He pictured himself flying along, flinging light off him like a massive diamond. But unfortunately, reality persisted in reminding him that he possessed, in fact, the deepest black color that ever graced a dragon's scales.

Stop thinking, he told himself. It's too hot to think. And it's especially too hot to make up silly fantasies.

It's never too hot to make up silly fantasies, a part of his brain muttered, but subsided.

To distract himself, Ebony tried looking at the scenery. The endless dunes were pretty, in their own desolate way. Here and there the golden sands were dotted with a spot of light green where a tenacious cactus had burst through the dry soil. Occasionally the cacti were crowned with red or purple blooms, but more often the small desert sparrows had stripped the tasty flowers from the plants. A few miles away, barely visible over the rolling dunes, a straggling line of hyenas searched for prey. The desert, oddly enough, was full of life. Life that battled every day for survival, perhaps, but still life. As Ebony flew over the hyenas, he spotted a few gangly juveniles among the group.

Even here, he thought, slightly amazed, life goes on as normal. These creatures were made to endure, and even flourish in conditions that I, a dragon, cannot survive in. As he reflected, a sudden pain tore at his heart. Jet. She would have loved to see this. How she would have squealed at the baby hyenas! She loved all the living world with an intensity Ebony didn't understand, and sometimes laughed at. She had named every single one of the tiny birds that lived near their home, and she was always running up to show him some creature crawling on her palm. He sighed. He'd never laugh at her again if he could only have her at his side now. He forced the thought from his mind. Wishing for impossibilities only sickens the heart, Ebony reminded himself. But for a moment, the heat hadn't felt so terrible. It burst back down on him now, with renewed strength. He kept pumping his wings. Kept flying. There was too much on the line for him to fail.

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Elsewhere, a regal red-scaled dragon prowled back and forth in front of a window. His face was narrow and cruel, and his horns twisted in tight spirals like a ram's. Savagery was written on every scale, in every line of his skin.

"Nathoria!" he called.

The door to his room opened, and a crimson dragon stuck her head inside. "My lord?"

He gestured impatiently. "Has Zendrayus returned yet?"

Nathoria sighed. "No, he has not." Tentatively, she ventured, "And if I may, Lord Saliss, he only left a week ago. Expecting results so soon seems a bit-" she cut off as Saliss skewered her with his furious yellow gaze.

"You were sssaying?" he hissed smoothly, the spikes above his eyes raised.

Nathoria bowed her head, stammering, "F-forgive me, my lord. I w-was speaking f-foolishly." She ducked out of the room swiftly, and her footsteps could be heard fleeing down the corridor outside.

Saliss continued to stare out of the window. During the entire interview, he had not even deigned to turn and look at his servant. It was no surprise that his people had given him the title of 'the Cold-Hearted.' Dragons were his tools, and those that grew rusty or failed were thrown away without a second thought. Ambition spurred Saliss on, an ambition that grew with every success and was never satisfied with any position he held, were it ever so lofty. No sooner had he gained one kingdom than he immediately sought for another. But one thing held true through all the chaos; Saliss never forgot an enemy. He would wait for years after they had wronged him before finally wreaking his revenge in a terrible burst of violence. Strangely enough, this cold, calculating tyrant possessed a virtue. Patience. The patience of a trapdoor spider, waiting in malice for its prey, perhaps, but patience still.

Saliss lashed his spiked tail, drumming it against the carpet. Clearly, though, his patience had limits. It was shortest when he began to desire vengeance against an old enemy, and when he felt he was close to achieving it. He rested his claws on the windowsill, thin lines of smoke rising from his nostrils.

"Oh, Ebony, Ebony, where did you run to? Did you think you were safe?"