Dragon Bound - The Saga of Flames and Frost

Chapter 4

Illara's body shone with joy, and her eyes remained fixed on the sky.

There.

His massive wings were leather and smoke, and glowing-hot lava steamed from his toothy mouth. He was muscle and scale, pure strength and focused desire.

And she was his.

His voice eased into her mind, deep and resonant, wreathed in musk and brimstone. "I have come for you, my dragon bound. I see into your thoughts. Your dreams. Your strength and your wisdom. I find that you please me."

Intense desire burned in her and she found she was barely able to breathe. "Illara. I am known as Illara."

He rolled the word around in his mind, drawing it out. "Illl-laaaa-raaaa. Welcome, Illara, most beautiful of the human-folk. I am Nicodemus."

Her fingers wrapped around her chains, the power of his words stunning her.

She had been chosen by Nicodemus!

Each dragon was named, and each had his own sagas in the bards' cycles. Currently a full forty-seven dragons were accounted active in the mountains. There was Zerethor the Trickster and Balam the Merciful. Xander the Mercurial. Carthian, the Father of All Dragons. And at Carthian's side stood Nicodemus. Nicodemus, the loyal protector. The defender of the dragon horde. The songs sang that he had lived for hundreds of years and would live for hundreds more.

And he had chosen her.

He arched a powerful wing-tip and curled down in his descent. "I will accept your offering, Illara the Dragon Bound. I will free you from those puny bonds which hold you and reveal the true glory of our world to you. And the cycle will continue as it always has."

"As it always will," she vowed.

She strained against the chains, waiting, waiting –

Sharp surprise sounded in her mind. "What is this?"

Sir Wytehall!

Sheer panic coursed through her, and she flung herself against her chains. "Nicodemus! Watch out! There is –"

Nicodemus's cry of pain echoed through her head, nearly shattering her. It was long moments before she could draw breath and look around.

She clenched her fists in fury, pulling hard against the implacable iron links. "No! Sir Wytehall, stop!"

The knight wheeled his steed, his eyes set with determination. The tip of his lance was broken off, and Illara realized with horror that the glistening metal was protruding from Nicodemus's beautifully scaled chest.

Nicodemus settled down onto the plateau with a cloud of dust. He looked from the wound to Sir Wytehall, and his eyes swirled with fiery heat.

Sir Wytehall lowered his head, raised his shield –

Illara shouted with every ounce of her being. "Stop it! Please!"

Sir Wytehall charged.

Nicodemus planted both feet and breathed in. It was the sound of a rushing waterfall plummeting over a massive cliff.

A pause –

He let loose.

Illara flung herself against the rock pillar she was chained to, and within its shadow she hid from the blistering heat. Nicodemus had focused his cone of fire on the knight charging him, but the smoke and flame billowed in all directions, coursing outward and upward. Her skin singed in searing pain, and it seemed to go on forever ... forever ...

Silence settled across the plateau. Her breathing sounded loud in her own ears.

Nicodemus's voice staggered in her head, jagged and rough. "Illara –"

A bellow of pain shook the ground, and then his massive tail swung high. It slammed down into the plateau.

The massive stone pillars on either side of her quivered ... rumbled ...

She pulled hard against her bonds, straining toward the mountains ...

The pillars timbered and collapsed into rubble on the hard ground. Her chains ripped loose from their moorings, and she tumbled face-first into the rock and scrub.

A deep-seated groan shook the earth.

Illara pressed up to her knees, looking around in panic.

There was the smoldering corpse of the knight's horse sprawled on the plateau's scorched surface. The ribs curled up high, blackened, and flame licked along the remnants of the mane.

And further up –

A cry burst out of her, of agonized despair.

Sir Wytehall plunged his sword down again, driving it as hard as he could into Nicodemus's darkly scaled breast. Black blood streamed from the wounds.

The knight raised out the sword –

Nicodemus launched hard with his feet, up ten feet into the air. His head turned to Illara, but no voice came. No sense of what emotion lay behind those dark eyes.

Then he spread his massive wings and flapped. He lifted up – up – up – and spiraled away to the east.

Sir Wytehall stood watching him go, his body weaving, the sword barely held in his hand.

And then he fell, face first, into the ground.

Silence.

Illara pushed to standing in shock, looking between Sir Wytehall's fallen body and the smoky trail which showed the direction Nicodemus had flown.

Her hands clenched –

Her breath drew in –

She staggered, her feet crying out with every step, past the protruding bones of the battle steed. Past the fallen body of the errant knight. The chains still trailed behind her from her wrists, but she barely felt the weight. She stubbornly climbed over the boulders and rubble which marked the entrance to the small goat-trail east. The path which led deep into the dragons' territory.

She started down it.

She had to make things right.

The lives of all who lived in the three kingdoms depended on it.