The Dragon Prince - Book 1: Cold War

Edge of Night

The dragon banked and pulled Aaravir hard into his saddle. An understanding smile crept across the necromancer's angular face as his mind revealed the granular magic known as gravity. Moments like these were becoming more common ever since the magical fusion that created the amalgam of a human and elf and giving him life. He couldn't be certain if it was the Startouched Elf part of his mind that allowed him to view the flow of time as a circle rather than a straight line, allowing a view of events in the past as well as in the future. What he was certain was that the human part of his mind relished the newfound power with reckless abandon.

His mind revealed an image of a grey ash tree surrounded by verdant gardens in the heart of a Sunfire village as clear as a diamond in his mind. Sure enough, Aaravir spotted the garden and coaxed his dragon to begin its dive. The beast's forked tongue lapping at blue flames dribbling from its mouth in anticipation of the coming battle. It tipped its nose over, folding its wings along its massive torso. Its mane of keratinous horns howled a demonic cacophony as winds buffeted both necromancer and beast. Just before velocity reached terminal, the dragon unfolded mithril-hued wings, sending a mighty crash of air downwards and outwards. A duct-choked blast of wind knocked over trees, statues and anything not bolted down inside the intricate garden. The dragon gave several more flaps of its wings before gingerly touching the ground with its clawed feet.

Before the dust could settle, Aaravir leapt clear from his mount. His silken robes whipping around him in whirling dust devils. The necromancer gave his dragon a sideways glance, and the beast took its cue to launch itself into the air. It's massive wings made a deep rushing noise as it circled high above the house in search of intruders.

The necromancer did not wait before he spoke words of power from dimensions beyond the darkest imaginations of mortal men. Fat, buzzing flies, anticipating the feculent birth of rot popped into existence trailing a green wake from Aaravirs' staff. He carved a rune into the air, and snarled out the draconic words, "consumptus vita." And his cheshire smile finished the spell.

The turgid rune burst like a rotted boil. Showering Zelmai's garden in a sticky quagmire of rotting filth. The filth had the viscosity and power of molten lava if not for the reek of death as it consumed. Bright flowers, succulent cacti, any living thing thrashed and died as the goo spread outwards, devouring life to power the next phase of its master's spell. The filth's slow crawl reached a feverish pace as it reached the middle of Zelmai's garden and the ash tree. Zelmai's bird Harman gave a shrill cry as he flew into the sky, distracting Aaravir for a brief moment.

"Get the hell out of my garden," growled Zelmai, reaching out into the darkness with his cane.

Aaravir cocked his head quizzically. He gave the old man a leering grin, closed his eyes and sniffed the air, with a contented sigh.

"Ahhh," he moaned, "for someone so old, you brim with magical energy. You would be a welcome addition to my menagerie of living death."

"Stranger, I'll say this one more time. Get off of my land or so help me I'll rain down so much fire on your head you'll think Garlath the Destroyer has come down from the sky."

Aaravir threw his head back and made a laugh that boomed like an earthquake. He raised the palms of his hands into the night sky. Energy shimmered from his hands like heat over desert sands.

"I own the night, old man. You, however, beg at the altar of the Sun who feeds you scraps by day and ignores you at night." Aaravir began to stride towards Zelmai, savouring the moment with every swish of his long legs.

"Who the hell are you?" Zelmai called out, straining as the familiar tone in the stranger's voice tickled a memory in the back of his mind.

The necromancer paused for a moment, then spoke his name, "I am Aaravir, the peacemaker. I bring stability to a land riddled with turmoil."