Dream III - Chapter 1 (Patreon)

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Race: Draconian

Bloodline Powers: Improved Strength+, Rending, Firebreath+
Greater Mysteries: Fire (Noble) 5, Wind (Noble) 4, Sound (Advanced) 2
Lesser Mysteries: Heat 4, Oxygen 4, Embers 4, Pressure 4, Current/Flow 4

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Flames roared around Samazzar, kissing his scales and brightening the brisk mountain night.  In his hands, a dull red stone sat silently, cool to the touch despite the inferno raging around him.

“Faster!” Tazzaera shouted over the rush of noise.  “Put your shoulders into it, we need the fire hot enough to activate the blaze ember or we will need to start over from scratch.”

He closed his eyes, dismissing the trio of struggling kobolds working crude bellows outside the edge of the fire pit.  Samazzar breathed in through a closed mouth, increasing the pressure of the oxygen in his throat to simulate the expansion of his lungs followed a second later by exhaling through his nostrils.

Tazzaera’s magic reached in, fanning the flames and increasing the heat of the blaze, but it wasn’t enough.  They only had charcoal in the mountains, and even that took some doing to create.  The kobold tribe was small and isolated from any real arable land or mines.

Food was scarce, and every winter saw siblings and cousins lost to cold and starvation.  There wasn’t a surplus to travel to human lands and trade for ordinary coal, let alone some of the more advanced variants Dussok and Samazzar had used in Vereton.  For now, he was stuck with the most basic elements.  Wood, muscle, and will.

He could feel Tazzaera laboring.  Her magic was trying to heat the fire further, but it wasn’t quite strong enough to push it over the edge.  Despite her talent, the low quality wood and physical weakness of her helpers was too much for her to overcome.

Samazzar reached out with his mind, grabbing hold of the wind currents puffing forth from the bellows and quintupling their oxygen content.

Almost immediately, the kobolds outside the fire pit where he sat cross-legged began to scream as the flames exploded outward.  In a matter of seconds, the wood and charcoal under Samazzar disappeared, transformed into light and heat as the fire tripled in size, licking hungrily at the side of the mountain as it turned into a beacon that could be seen from leagues away.

In his hands the stone drank in the heat.

A crack appeared on its surface and then another.  Samazzar pushed more oxygen into the flames.  The kobolds working the bellows had fled, letting the fire consume their tools, so he had no choice but to do it manually.

Oxygen increased rapidly around him, raising the air pressure and forcing the gas into the white hot coals.  It was more work than bellows and divided Samazzar’s focus, but-

A piece of the stone fell away, revealing a brilliant yellow light beneath.

Immediately, Samazzar abandoned the mystery of wind, turning all of his focus toward the layers of magic over his scales that protected him from the extreme heat of the fire.

It wasn’t quite quick enough.

The blaze ember’s husk shattered, stones ricocheting off of Samazzar’s scales as it burst into brilliant golden light.  Fire, hotter than anything he had ever experienced, curled around him burning his clawed hands.

Samazzar’s instincts screamed at him to drop the stone as his willpower clamped down, deadening the worst of the heat.  Underneath him, the stone began to bubble and melt, and Samazzar knew that he could still see his hands through the waves of light, bones would be visible underneath his charred flesh.

He embraced the pain, blotting out all other sensations as his perception explored the fire rising from the blaze ember.  It was like the mystery itself was rushing out through his fingers, whispering secrets to him as it jumped and crackled up his shoulders before escaping into the night.

It sang without words.  A beautiful song of life and growth.  Of consuming everything around it before fading into a quiet death, leaving only ash behind to fertilize the soil.  It tantalized and hypnotized, dancing in the air with the grace of a ballerina even as it hid the strength of a warrior.

Samazzar wasn’t breathing.  He had no magic left to produce the oxygen necessary to work his lungs, but more than that, the awe of the moment left him unable to do anything but comprehend the majesty of the flames.

It was beautiful.  A single tear appeared at the corner of his eye only to instantly evaporate.

The stone began to dim, and Samazzar began to feel the fires around him cooling just as his lungs began to scream for air.  In that moment, he felt a sudden and uncontrollable connection between himself and the inferno.

The air in his lungs and the air feeding the fire, it was all the same.  He was its fuel, his hands burnt into a charred parody of their former shapes, but he was also its master.  The fire could be temporarily tamed, but like Samazzar it chafed under any yoke, reaching and questing for freedom so that it could burn and destroy the being foolish enough to think that it could control him.

Information rushed into his mind.  Samazzar had studied hard in the months since he returned to the mountains, but even after all of that time he wasn’t aware of how many gaps there were in his knowledge.

Concepts sprang into being, connecting the chunks of knowledge he had amassed and explaining their relationships and interactions with each other.  Despite the pain, Samazzar’s face split into a wide smile as the images and thoughts sped up, virtually burying him under an influx of data.

When he finally opened his eyes, the fire was gone.  Even the wood had been annihilated by the extreme heat, turning into nothing more than fine ash that had blown away in the mountain wind.  The only sign that the inferno had been there was the dull red molten rock that covered his legs up to the waist.

He stood up, struggling to push his way out of the hardening magma without using his ruined hands.  In the mouth of the cave, the three kobolds that had been working the bellows huddled together, shivering fearfully as they tried to avoid his gaze.

“You used wind magic,” Tazzaera said accusingly, glaring at his charred hands.  “I told you that you couldn’t risk even a momentary loss of focus when the ember bloomed, and you used wind magic anyway.”

“But it worked.” Samazzar winced as the nerve endings in his hands finally realized that they were out of the fire and began screaming their complaints at him.  “The sixth tier of fire magic.  I’m finally a magus.”

“And you could have easily been a cinder,” she snapped back, cane clicking against the stone as she stalked toward him.  “You are the most talented student I’ve ever had, likely the most talented magus that the North has seen in a generation if Pothas was to be believed.  I’m not going to lose you to something as silly as impatience.  You were always going to be a magus, if it took you another month or three of preparation to ensure the safety of your baptism, that’s a small price to pay.”

Samazzar’s face fell at the mention of Pothas.  The air master was one of the few humans he actually cared about.  Pothas, Rose, Adam, Henry and Harris.  His mind flashed past the five of them in a second.  Pothas performing an experiment, a wild grin on his face, transformed into the older man dying on the library floor.  Rose, lecturing Sam faded into the last time he had seen her, futilely searching for help for their master.  Adam fighting off monsters, clad in steel and light.  Henry laboring away at his forge, giving Sam and Dussok tips on how to heat and fold metal.  Harris, standing atop the gate to the Academy, cracking a painfully out of touch joke that made Sam, Dussok, and Takkla all roll their eyes.

His time in Vereton had been a mix.  Despite the discrimination and distrust, Samazzar had broadened his horizons, learning more about magic, culture, and production in a half year than most humans managed in a lifetime.  More than that, not all of the humans were awful.  His friendships there were as real as any he had developed with another kobold.

Still, the attacks on the Academy and Vereton’s responses to them had made one thing clear.  It wasn’t safe to live among men.  They would cooperate and trade with a smile on their face one day while leading a bloody purge the next.

The place for a dragon was amongst his kind.  Amongst the monsters and barbarians that civilized society disdained.

“Are you listening, Samazzar?” The crone asked, forgetting to look hobbled as she picked up her cane and rapped it against his shins.  “You are too reckless by half.  It isn’t just your life that you’re gambling with.  The tribe is dependent on you now.”

“Isn’t that right Tarxis,” she continued, not bothering to turn and look at the cowering kobolds inside the cave.  “You’re terrified.”

“Yes crone,” the kobold replied miserably.

“Tell Samazzar how terrified you are by his thoughtless actions,” she pressed, never taking her eyes from where Samazzar was shuffling his feet sheepishly.

“But crone,” Tarxis whined.

“No buts,” Tazzaera snapped.  “Without Samazzar, the tribe would be rudderless and lost.  His leadership allows us to expand outside of the caves and plant crops.  His leadership is what lets us weave the grass nets our foraging teams use to sneak into the forest to gather wood, food and medicinal ingredients.  Without him, the three of you would still be trapped in the dark fighting over scraps of rat soup.”

“But I liked the cave,” Tarxis said miserably.  “I like rat soup.”

“That’s enough,” Samazzar said gently.  “I understand my mistake, Tazzaera.  If you could fetch a potion for me, I would like to take it before my injuries set in fully and become permanent.”

“And Tarxis,” he continued, taking pity on the cowering kobold.  “If you could fetch Takkla and Dussok, I would appreciate it.  Let them know that I’ve succeeded and that they can join us.”

The kobold nodded fervently, scampering off and leaving his two shivering companions without a moment’s hesitation.

“Fine,” Tazzaera replied grudgingly, walking over to him without any hint of a limp as she began rummaging around in the pouch at her side.

Despite his pain, Samazzar had to suppress a smile.  Tazzaera’s injured hip had been healed in Vereton but she insisted on using her cane.  It had been a constant companion through most of her adult life, and the old kobold refused to give it up simply because she no longer actually needed it to walk.  Personally, Samazzar suspected that she kept it on hand mostly so that she would have a stick to wave around for emphasis. Not many things drew the attention of disorderly kobolds like the threatening jab of a stick in your face.

He knelt down, letting Tazzaera pour the potion into his open mouth.  Almost instantly warmth began to gather in his stomach before traveling down his arms and legs before gathering in his crippled hands.

Samazzar hissed in pain as the medicine did its work, reconnecting nerves and knitting together frayed and severed flesh.  One potion wouldn’t heal the entirety of the damage inflicted by the fire, but it would set him on the path to recovery.  So long as the injuries weren’t permanent, he could suffer for a couple of days as his body naturally recovered on its own.

Takkla ran into the room, Dussok walking at a more measured pace behind her.  Almost immediately her sharp eyes caught sight of Samazzar’s visibly healing hands.

“Samazzar did something stupid, didn’t he?”  She asked, shaking her head.  “Seriously, we let him out of our sight for a single hour and he’s off on one of his flights of fancy, half crippling himself in the name of knowledge and power.”

“In all fairness,” Dussok rumbled, “the little dragon would have done something stupid that injured himself even if we were here.  Despite our best efforts, we were hardly a moderating force on him.”

“Hello to both of you as well,” Samazzar said with a pained chuckle.  “It’s nice to both of you safe and with fully functional hands.  Now is anyone going to ask me whether or not I broke through?”

“Of course you did,” Takkla replied, crossing her thin arms in front of her chest as her wings flared.  “I’m not sure I buy your belief that you can simply will yourself to success, but it certainly does have a proven track record.  If you say that you’re ready for a baptism, you’re ready for a baptism.  I know better than to bet against the particular brand of foolishness you embrace.  It seems to have spread behind just you, infecting all of reality.”

“That takes all of the suspense out of it,” Sammazar muttered with a childlike sulk.  “Becoming a magus is a major step, 99% of practitioners would sacrifice a limb to make it this far.”

“That’s exactly what you did you big fool,” Tazzaera snapped, cane clicking against the stone as she walked away.  “I would congratulate you, but it would only encourage more of this foolishness.”

Samazzar beamed back at the three of them, drawing a sigh from Takkla and a roll of the eyes from Dussok.

“Fine,” Takkla said grudgingly.  “You’re a fire magus now.  That’s a big deal and I am genuinely proud of you.  Now, are we ready to proceed with the plan?  You’ve had the entire tribe in a holding pattern while you studied and performed your experiments.  Don’t you think its time that we actually made a move?

“How is the tribe’s progress Dussok?”  Samazzar asked, turning to the much larger wingless draconian.  “Are they ready?”

Dussok hummed to himself, a deep bass sound that almost made the rocks of the mountainside shake.  He shrugged.

“Agriculture is going as planned.  Kobolds aren’t particularly hardy workers, but they’ve built a low fence made of rocks and sticks around the fields that have been cleared of rocks and planted berries.”

“At least those berries they didn’t eat thinking we weren’t paying attention,” Takkla interjected wryly.

“As Takkla said,” Dussok continued.  “They planted about half of the berries so we should have a good crop come early summer.  As for weapons and armor, with Takkla’s help we have about ten shortbows that wouldn’t completely embarrass a town guard in Vereton.  I would not say the same about our archers’ skills, but they know how to put arrows into their bows and pull the string back.”

“The melee warriors have spent most of the last month collecting bits and chunks of iron from campsites.  One of them has gone missing, presumably from stormcrows, and the rest haven’t returned with much, but it should be enough.  They have armor made from boiled cave rat and spears tipped with real iron beaten into a simple point.  Hardly an elite force, but more than enough for the rabble we will be fighting.”

“That rabble will be our brothers and sisters soon,” Samazzar chided gently, a smile on his face, “but I think you’re right.  It won’t take much to cow the other kobolds into submission, but the sooner we unite the tribes the better.  As soon as my hands are fully healed, we march.”

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