Page 33 of The Ballad of the Last Dragon
Chapter Thirty-Three
U tter blackness. The darkness weighs me down.
A harsh cough rips from my throat, carved from deep in my chest. I cry out as sharp pain jolts through my ribs. Each inhale is wet and crackling, like I’m drowning in my own breath.
Strong hands rub soothing circles against my back, and I flinch, regretting the action because it stabs through my ribs again.
“Are you all right?” Jaromir’s voice floods me with relief, and I desperately grapple at his arms, his shoulders, any part of him that eludes my sight in the darkness of the hole we’ve tumbled into.
“We fell… I fell…” I gasp and break into another coughing fit, gripping the back of his neck with each punctuating bite of pain. “Why are you down here, too?”
Jaromir scoffs, and I’d bet the last coin in my pocket, if I could see his face, I’d find his brows furrowed in disapproval. “I wasn’t going to let you out of my sight.”
Interesting choice of words, since we can’t see a thing, but the sentiment sends a different sort of pain pulsing through my chest.
“But the pressure plate… are Neith and Cadoc safe?”
“I’m sure they’re fine.” He doesn’t sound convinced, but it’s not like we can do anything from down here. We need to find a way out, and then we can search for them.
“Do you have a lantern? Something to keep us from stumbling around in the dark?” With how easy it is to set off traps with the aid of sight, I don’t trust my ability to survive this cave robbed of it.
“If I did, it would have shattered on impact. I wasn’t wearing my pack when I jumped.”
A simple no would have sufficed.
“But,” he continues, “I do have this.” The sound of flint striking, and a spark flies between us, flashing me a glimpse of his handsome face frowning down at his hands. “Hang on, just need—” His words stop short as his fingers find my neck, untying the knot of his mother’s samite kerchief where it rests beneath my chin. I shiver against his touch, and his hands still for a space of a heartbeat before he pulls the fabric away from my skin.
Another strike of flint, and a spark illuminates his face once more before catching a small flame on the precious fabric he’d never sell. He’s wound it around a wooden haft, a makeshift torch.
The room appears, walls carved into stone to form a perfect circular prison. The air is dank and thick. Shadows dance along the too-smooth rock face, and beyond Jaromir’s shoulder, a dark hallway comes into view.
A means of escape or another trap. Who can tell anymore?
Jaromir stands, helping me to my feet. I wince at the movement, and his large hands skirt up my side, seeking the pain. When he finds the expanse in my ribs where it stabs with each breath, he stills.
“This won’t burn long, so we need to be quick and find something else to keep the fire going, but I can bind this so you aren’t in pain.”
I don’t think I can handle more pressure on my ribs at this point. “It isn’t necessary. We should move on before—”
“Hold this.” He’s already shoving the small torch in my hand and dropping to one knee. Without hesitation, he pulls his leather jerkin off and tugs his tunic over his head. Ripping the fabric into neat strips, he sets to work wrapping each one around my torso, tying them on tight enough to offer support, but not so tight as to inhibit my breathing.
Well, maybe a little. But it hurts to take full breaths anyway.
“There,” he says, rising to his feet, keeping his hands firmly on my waist. His upper body is now clad in only his jerkin, and it must be terribly uncomfortable having nothing between his skin and the hardened leather of his armor.
I’m still holding the torch out to the side, allowing us to stand far too close. I glance up, finding his face mere inches from mine.
“Thank you,” I whisper, and my words ghost against his mouth. His brows draw together, and his eyes drop to my lips. Gently, he takes the torch from my numb fingers, claiming my hand in his, and putting much-needed distance between us.
“We haven’t much time.” His voice is rougher than it was a moment ago as he leads me out of the circular room. As we pass the entryway to the hall, more of that hissing noise fills my ears.
“Does dwarven technology include hissing pipes?”
“Pipes running through stone, yes. I came across an old ruin I believe ran water through the walls, so nobles didn’t have to dredge it up from wells. But no, nothing quite like this.”
I’m familiar with the theory of running pipes through walls for water. That particular advancement, along with most dwarven architectures, was banned after the catastrophic failure that led to the death of Lady Margaret, the favored cousin of King Elvard. He’d commissioned a Hawthokian engineer to build his palace out of a cave, like the dwarven kings of old. Complete with mechanical doors, heavy enough to hold back an army. The pipes burst, causing a flood, and no one could get the door open to save Lady Margaret.
I suppose it’s a comfort that these pipes hiss instead of carrying water. At least we won’t drown.
Jaromir stops short, causing me to collide into his solid wall of a back.
“Here we are.” His voice is triumphant, and when he turns to face me, I realize why.
He finds a torch on the wall and lights it; the hall is illuminated with a bright glow. He drops his makeshift torch on the floor as the last of the samite scarf burns away and tugs me along.
“I’m sorry about your mother’s kerchief.”
Jaromir grunts. “I’m not. We needed light.”
A thing is a thing and all the wealth in the world matters naught at the end of it all. Yes, yes, I know and understand all this. But sometimes an item is more than the sum of its parts, and the loss is keenly felt. Not by way of greed, or inconvenience, but the loss of an ideal tied to the item. Sometimes our hopes are too fragile to survive without a sort of conduit for them.
But I don’t bother arguing my point. If he wants to pretend he doesn’t care about the loss of something important to him, so be it.
The path twists and turns, cutting deeper into the stone. The walls remain smooth, carved with care.
Still no sign of the dragon.
We never did discuss what we would do if this was a dead end. I was so sure it would at least lead to something worthwhile. That everything we fought for wouldn’t be in vain. That this adventure was real, rather than a misguided delusion of our dead friend.
My stomach hollows at my own callousness. But the fact remains.
I convinced everyone to continue on in Aeron’s name. To seek our fame and glory at the end of everything. If all our journey yields is an abandoned cave and clever traps, where will that leave us?
Where will that leave me? A failed attempt at staking my claim in a world that doesn’t want me.
No. I don’t need to languish in these fears a moment longer. The world doesn’t need to want me, I’m here to stay. And if this fails, if this amounts to nothing, then I will find another way.
“Is that a door?” Jaromir’s voice cuts through my thoughts. He halts, his hand on the latch. “If this is another trap, take the torch, and run back to where we fell. Perhaps Neith will be at the top, and she’ll find a way to get you out.”
“There you go again, insisting I run away.” I tug on his arm, forcing him to face me. “When have I ever listened?”
“Never. But there’s a first time for everything.” He pushes the door open, a low groan scraping through the thick silence. Jaromir blocks the doorway like a sentry.
“What is it?” I try to elbow him out of the way, but he’s frozen in place. I swear, if this is the room to the secret dragon and we get immolated on the spot, I will be terribly angry. Dead, but angry.
Finally, he shifts into the room, bringing the torch with him to reveal what lies beyond.
The room is… nothing I would have expected. Bookcases line the walls floor to ceiling. Glass cases and a large ornate desk occupy the space. A neat stack of parchments sit atop, begging me to rifle through it. Jaromir lights all the candelabras in the room, only adding to the absurdity of what we’ve found.
The only wall without books is covered in a strange series of pulleys, cables, and mechanisms. The traps. The pressure-plates. Each trigger must be rigged all the way back to here.
Jaromir recovers quicker than me, searching the room and various mechanisms.
Barrels line the far wall, each one marked with a different symbol denoting its contents. Aged dwarven whiskey, wine from the Western Isles, and black powder. Four barrels of black powder are tucked away in this strange room. The use of saltpeter was outlawed after the dwarven alliance with the humans during The Great Loss. The damage caused by the explosive material was deemed inhumane… after it was used to win the war against the elves.
What have we stumbled upon?
I turn back to face the bookcases, and one of the glass cases catches my eye. A black sphere, with streaks of jade marbling its surface. A prayer stone. I’ve heard of these. The goddess’ temples used to house them as conduits of prayer and reverence to the goddess and Welkin’s guardians. Da told me they were all destroyed over a century ago during the war. When they sacked the temples and structures of elven design, all was lost in the rubble.
Except this one remains.
On numb feet, I cross the room to the desk. A letter written in looping letters and exaggerated flourishes stares up at me.
To whoever this finds,
Congratulations on surviving the tempest trials! I wish I could congratulate you in person, but if you’ve made it here, I suspect I’ve already succumbed to the collapsing lung. It’s not a glamorous way to go, but at least I didn’t have the dancing plague! As I write this, I am in my third year of being “the dragon” as my lungs slowly fail. My physician said to enjoy as many leisure activities as I can in the time I have left, and this has been most diverting! Though, I purposely made the map difficult to translate, and no one seems to survive the trials. Maybe I made them too difficult.
Should you wish to keep the tradition alive, the alchemical formula for dragon fire can be found in the top right-hand drawer. I could have sold the formula to the highest paying nation in search of an incendiary weapon at sea, but I have no use for gold I’ll fail to spend before I draw my last breath. The mixture will react with the steam I’ve sent through these little pipes, lighting any who dares venture into the dragon’s cave on fire.
Oh, now I almost feel bad. A lot of people have tried and failed.
No matter! You survived, and now here is your prize! Do with it what you will.
I have no heirs and no interest in leaving my wealth to a kingdom that refuses to grant me a title without noble blood.
I forged my own title and a legacy no one will soon forget.
Enjoy your reward; you’ve earned it.
-The Dragon, First Fruits Day, 8:54 Wolf
The date… 8:54, Age of the Wolf… that’s over one hundred and fifty years ago.
“Well?” Jaromir says from where he’s investigating the toggle switch near the bookcase. “What does it say?”
“It says… a lot.” The dragon isn’t real, or not in the way we thought it was. It’s… a clever trick. A story spun by a dying man in pursuit of leaving a lasting legacy a century and a half ago. How did we survive when no one else had? I can only assume a component of his formula has been rendered inactive by time. The corpse-eaters served as a means to ward anyone off from investigating, and soon, the story of the dragon faded into myth. Aeron happened upon an old map from that traveling merchant, a false trail to anyone else, but one we followed and soon began to believe in, because when all seems lost, it’s a comfort to find faith in something.
But how long until people stopped venturing to this mountain? Stopped searching for the hoard hidden behind impossible traps and fire and death. How long until his map was lost in a sea of forged copies lacking the true directions? It’s horrible, how many lives his scheme has claimed. Horrible, and appalling, and—
A sharp laugh bursts from my lips. Then another. Soon, I’m gripping the table unable to stop the hysterical laughter as tears prick my eyes. My ribs ache, and something twists in my chest as the weight of it all punches through me. But still I laugh. I laugh until the tears in my eyes roll down my cheeks.