With this thought, he wheeled into a tight spiral, whirling through the darkness above the great subterranean lake. A thousand thoughts tumbled through his mind as he sensed that this was the last lesson he would ever bestow upon the young wyrmlings.
“Make your lairs far from here, in secret places,” he told them. “Be true to each other, for you are the strongest allies your nestmates will ever have. When you have eggs, guard them with the last breath of your lives! And know that each of you is strong, strong in his own way. Find those ways, my children, and survive!”
He was about to dive toward the exit cave when Auricus pulled him up with a word. “Sire, can we not prepare for this battle with spells?”
“Yes!” he agreed, chagrined at his own impetuous speed. “But not for battle but for escape.” Aurican spiraled tightly, thinking. “Those of you who have learned the haste spell, cast it upon yourselves.”
He knew this would allow most of the golds and silvers to fly with great speed. The patriarch cast his own spells of haste on Dazzall and Krayn, giving the two largest brass wyrmlings the advantage of magical swiftness.
“I will cast mine upon Tharn,” little Agon said, startling the copper with the abrupt enchantment, then turning to face Aurican’s scowl. “Should we not see that two of each color, a male and female, have the best chance to escape?”
“And my spell goes to Horim!” Arjen agreed, enchanting the copper female before she knew what was happening.
“A good thought, my brave wyrmling,” Aurican agreed, powerfully moved by the crippled silver’s sacrifice. Brunt and Dwyll, the largest male and female bronzes, were also enchanted with the spell of speed. “Now fly to the Valley of Paladine and beyond!”
In moments, Aurican burst out of the entry tunnel in a golden explosion of speed. The sun blazed in a cloudless sky, and the shimmering brightness of daylight seemed an incongruous contrast to the darkness in his heart, the grief and shame that would be the legacy of their flight.
And there was Deathfyre, poised above the entry, already sweeping into a reckless dive. Two crimson females flew close at his sides. Other flecks of color appeared in the sky, widely scattered over the High Kharolis, and Aurican immediately understood the reason: Only the trio of reds had been able to teleport with accuracy, since the other serpents had formed their destination based only on Deathfyre’s descriptions. Still, a pair of blues plunged swiftly toward the valley, and more spots of color appeared in the near distance.
Aurican’s mouth gaped wide and fire spewed forth. The three reds flew through the flames, breathing infernos of their own. Golden claws reached out, tearing a crimson wing, and one of the females shrilled a cry of pain and fury. Aurican felt talons rending his own flank and knew that Deathfyre had whirled around to attack from behind. The mighty gold flipped and twisted, slashing down at the other female but unable to reach the tenacious foe clinging to his back.
“Get the rest!” cried Deathfyre, in a shrill tone of command, and Aurican knew that his nestlings had flown into view. “Kill them all!”
“Fly, my wyrmlings, for the Platinum Father. Escape and live to gain vengeance!” Aurican roared.
Then there was a shape of black wings, like a monstrous, snake-limbed bat, poised before him, and a blast of acid seared the golden scales of Aurican’s chest. He groaned, an involuntary explosion of pain, and then felt his body pummeled by another smashing blow. Dazed, he wheeled in the sky, vaguely surprised by the sudden silence that seemed to have descended. He felt no pain, merely a gentle serenity. Only when the scent of ozone stung his nostrils did he realize he had been struck by the lightning of a mighty blue.
Frost and fire blossomed around him, and the serpent writhed in renewed efforts to escape, to fight. His fiery breath seared a black, but more lightning hissed into his flanks, ripping away his wings, gouging deep into his ancient flesh. A cloud of noxious gas swirled as a green dragon dived past, and Aurican’s desperate thrash tore at an emerald-colored wing, shredding the membrane and sending the wyrm spiraling into a doomed descent. Once more he breathed, the great fireball engulfing several blues and a screaming white.
But then more power, another barrage of deadly dragonbreath came together with lightning and fire and cold. For a moment, Aurican’s struggling body was lost in a cloud of murky sky.
And then that murk closed in, darkening his vision, finally seeping through the pain to draw a final curtain across his life.
Chapter 25
2693 PC
Deathfyre turned into a reckless dive, shocked at the speed with which several of the young wyrmlings were fleeing the deep valley. He had expected the creatures to fight to the death and had not anticipated the desperate flight that drove them toward the high ridges. Clearly the cowardly serpents intended to escape.
Now the powerful red twisted in the air, seeing that many of the metal dragons had in fact remained to do battle. Other wyrms swept above, and he saw a blue dragon shriek and writhe in the clutch of several silvers and a brass. A red pulled through the melee, rearing its head to blast a desperately maneuvering bronze from the sky. Recovering his own equilibrium, stabilizing himself on his powerful wings, Deathfyre curved through the air, still looking for victims.
The memory of Crematia’s death was a fire within him, a driving force for vengeance. Her loss was not a cause for grief-there was a clear advantage that came to Deathfyre, heir to the Dark Queen’s empire-but it was a wrong that called for revenge.
Deathfyre wheeled to pursue the fleeing dragons, but he saw several silver shapes slashing toward him, and his instincts compelled him to protect himself. Though all of them were small, they flew with deadly purpose.
Twisting like a corkscrew in the air, Deathfyre whipped his neck toward the enemy attackers. Jaws gaping, he belched a cloud of roaring flame, a billowing fireball of death that wrapped two of the silver shapes in its killing embrace.
Pushing down with hard strokes of his wings, Deathfyre fought for altitude, trying to avoid the scorched bodies that would tumble out of the dissipating ball of fire-but there were no bodies! The remaining silver serpent curled around, and the red barely pulled his wing out of the way of a vicious blast of frost. He saw that this young silver was a cripple, that its rear legs were weak and shriveled, but that did nothing to tame the deadliness of its breath weapon. Deathfyre tumbled backward, out of control, with a burning pain of ice freezing his tail.
At the same time, he knew how the crippled silver had eluded him. It had been the simple spell of the mirror image, an enchantment Deathfyre himself had known since his first hundred winters. Yet when it was used against him, the simple trick had fooled him completely. There had been only one silver dragon, not three, and his lethal fire had been wasted against a pair of magical impostors!
Infuriated, he swept after the silver as that gleaming serpent flew close to the ground, carving a wide arc back toward the battle raging in the skies. Some of the wyrmlings had escaped, aided by magical speed, but most of the brood had remained to fight. This silver newt was small, little more than half of Deathfyre’s awesome length, but he proved to be a surprisingly fast flier. The withering of his body clearly did not extend to his wings. Straining to the limit, Deathfyre found that he could close the distance only gradually. Finally he breathed, spewing a hellish cloud of fire that surrounded the impudent silver for a searing, fatal instant. The red dragon was already wheeling away as the wrinkled, charred carcass tumbled from the sky.
Clouds of dragons whirled through the sky overhead. A young bronze tumbled, horribly slashed, while blues and blacks caught a pair of coppers in a deadly crossfire of acid and lightning. Fire and smoke drifted through the air, and flashes of flame and clouds of green and noxious gas added a surreal beauty to the scene.