The Final Storm (Part 3)

Cahal Rains Fire

Cahal was a strong flyer. He had to be to be able to weigh over fifteen tons. His wingspan; of about one hundred feet in expanse, wide like a hawks, his muscles large and extending all the way down his rib cage, guaranteed him the ability to fly long distances without much strain. But the flying giant was not as fast as he liked. With every powerful wingbeat, he could feel the pain flashing in his side, a reflection of his Rider’s. Cahal’s fire boiled in him like a great furnace, churning through his blood and igniting his throat. How dare they do this to him? After all he had helped them with? There was no greater offense you can make to a dragon than hurt his human.

            Cahal promised himself that he would do the same to his phony fire brothers. He would burn the human, slowly if you will, until the puny green dragon would cry out for mercy. His red eyes lit up as he feasted on the idea. Yes, Ralem would burn. Then they would know not to mess with Cahal, the fire king of the North!

            Another wing pump and he decided he was high enough. Now the land below looked like a patchwork quilt of hues and rugged terrain. Cities, once tall and proud, dwindled under the acrid gaze of Cahal the red. He was the king of the skies, with only the sun as his equal. Once the ruler of the fire dragon tribe of the north, he now travels alone with only his Rider and the birds at his side. And he was going to rain hell on those who had hurt him.

            He saw them. Like little ants crawling upon the face of the earth, he saw them fight their puny war with their puny weapons. He could also see the Felinus, casting aside their mortal bodies for their true form, lashing at the unsuspecting Barokians with their foul claws and lashing teeth.

            Cahal pulled his wings into his body, angling his huge triangular head towards the battle. And he dove.

            At three hundred miles an hour, a fire dragon is a paralyzing sight. When what you first believe to be a benign bird, small and insignificant, starts to move at a terrible speed, becoming larger and larger, scarlet as if it were a star thrust from the heavens, you start to realize that the bird was not of the ordinary kind. Indeed, Barokian and Vulnairian alike froze, their gaze pulled to the sky as the glittering beast.

            That day fire rained from the clouds.

            Cahal was ruthless. Seconds from exploding against the ground, his massive wingspan unfurled, catching the wind in their fiery expanse. Like an eagle would swoop up an unsuspecting mouse, he thrust his front talons forward, raking through the front lines as if it were top-heavy wheat. And the fire burst forth.

            The fire of a fire dragon was not wimpy red, but a blast of blinding white framed by an infernal shade of blue. It is not partial; it burns metal and flesh alike. The only creature immune to the blast is the dragon’s Rider.

            Cahal blasted a searing line of fire, cutting the battle field in half. Screams rent the air as skin melted off bones, a knight’s protective armor suddenly becoming his cooking pot. Horses overturned riders, Felinus screeched, and men howled as Cahal turned wing, preparing to dive at the enemy with another scorching arsenal. Then; Cahal. Stop this madness.

            Cahal pumped his wings, just out of arrow range. He shook his head, smoke puffing out of his nostrils. But, Rothai, they have hurt you.

            He heard Alroy’s dry chuckle, but it was one of bitterness. Cahal, yeh winged idjit! I’m not bally dead, ain’t I? It wus jest a scratch! Yeh didn’t ‘ave teh blow everythin’ tah bits!

            Cahal roared. You are such a bad liar, Rothai! Do you not think I’d see through you after all these years?  He caught an air current and coasted over the battle, searching for his Rider with blazing red eyes. Where are you?