Steel Dragon

Part Six

"Knight-Moves"

A flush swept across my face then flooded its way down my back, at first blood warm, then turning icy cold. My fingertips felt heavy, a dangerous sign. It took me more than a few moments to bring myself back under some semblance of control. "Let me get this straight," I finally ground out. "You'd take some runny-nosed, green-as-grass kid over someone with over twenty years of field experience simply because he has a silly little scrap of paper from some no-name college and I don't?"

I'll give that clerk some credit; she took the glare that had made more than one combat trooper squirm, and stared just as stonily right back. "I'm sorry sir, but our employment policies specifically state that we can't consider a person for this type of position unless they have a college degree." She paused to riffle through some papers. "There is, however, a position available on our cleaning staff--"

"Lady, is this firm traded on the open market?"

The Personnel clerk blinked, knocked off-balance by the sudden change of subject. "Um, you mean traded on the stock exchange? Well, uh, yes--"

"Thank you," I replied, cutting her off "that's nice to know, because you've just given me a great tip on an excellent short." With that, I spun on my heel and stalked out of the building, out into the dreary weather of a Midwestern February. Upon reaching the parking lot, I took the luxury of smashing my fist into the trunk of an innocent oak tree before climbing back into my battered little car. Once there I sighed and rubbed my eyes, then stared out at the gray skies as I slowly forced myself to relax.

Cleaning staff.

Jeez.

I gave my head a little shake, then, muttering to myself in disgust, flipped open the notepad that lay upon the passenger's seat and drew a line through yet another entry on the list. Bloody civilian firms. I wouldn't have even been talking to them except NSA was under a hiring freeze. Langley was in the midst of another mole scandal and wasn't even answering their phone.

Hard times in the spook market, I guess.

I closed the notepad and sat back, absently chewing the end of my pen as I thought of Dithra and what she had said to me the last time we spoke. Her offer of protection had been a sincere one, I had no doubt, but against the full weight of the entire Council it had little to recommend it beyond that sincerity. No, it would be better to lose myself within the seemingly endless ocean that was humanity, where Ksstha and the others dared not move against me openly. Lose myself, find a place to live.

Get a job.

I glanced down at the notepad again, made a face, and tossed it back onto the other seat. I sat there and pondered a bit more, absently trying to massage some semblance of warmth into my aching left arm. I really hated to use the Old Boy Network so soon; it smacked of defeat. But I didn't think I'd be able to stomach this crap for much longer without breaking something, or someone. I started the engine on my little car, trying to ignore the puff of blue smoke the worn engine produced as I did so, and drove off to find a phone.

"So, find anything yet?"

I chuckled bitterly, leaned back in my seat, cheap vinyl creaking beneath my backside. I took a deep pull on my glass of Merlot before answering. "Oh, yeah; lots of things, most of them with a mop as part of the job description." I set the glass down and gave the lanky, tweed-clad geek across the table from me a cynical smile. "There was one, though, that sounded interesting. This heavy manufacturer over on the north side wanted me to take all their UNIX and Windoze machines, integrate them all into a real-time network, and then extend that net out onto the factory floor so they could have automated process control of their machining equipment."

Schmoo blinked at me from behind his thick glasses. "Hey, that sounds pretty good. You going after it?"

"Not till they offer something a bit better than eighteen a year, I'm not."

Schmoo almost choked on his wine. "What?"

I smiled at the expression on his face. "Yup; eighteen a year. I was making twenty in my last year of service, and these pukes are offering eighteen. They're going to be waiting a long time before they fill that slot."

"No joke." Schmoo dabbed at his face with his napkin. I watched him, feeling better than I had in days. No, of course Schmoo isn't his real name, but it's the nickname that's stuck after all the years of him showing up at just the right time with just the right thing to make everything come out okay, just like the little critters of Li'l Abner fame. He'd been one of my few friends back during the ghastly years of my teens, and had remained so even after I had left home to go soldiering and he became, of all things, a librarian, got married, built a house, lived happily ever after. As the years went by I'd drop in from time to time, and he and I would compare notes. Occasionally he'd show some regret for his quiet life, for which I'd promptly call him a fool.

"Got a little secret I'll let you in on," he continued as he tossed his paper napkin onto the tiny table. "You know why everybody's wanting people with a college diploma these days? 'Cause college kids are dumb," he chuckled, answering his own riddle before I had a chance to. "They haven't the experience to know when they're getting ripped-off by some asshole employer offering peanuts, unlike us older guys. Most times, the diploma's just an excuse to get away with some perfectly legal age discrimination. So don't hate the kids, man; they're getting screwed just as thoroughly as you are." My friend sipped again at his wine. "Anyway, anything I can do to help? I'm not sure there's all that much over at the university, but I could--"

I waved him off. "Don't worry about me; I called up a sergeant-major I know in one of the local reserve units. He's seeing what kind of strings he can pull."

Schmoo looked dubious. "Think he'll find something?"

"I hope so. There doesn't seem to be anyone he doesn't know in this town, though, so I'm inclined to be optimistic." I tipped the bottle over my almost-empty glass, frowned when nothing emerged. "Out again. Another?"

Schmoo chuckled. "Naw; I think three bottles're plenty. It's going to be hard enough to find the door as it is." He worked his way to his feet, peered owlishly down at me. "Hey, why is it you can just soak this stuff up like a sponge and hardly get a buzz?"

I smiled conspirationally at him as I wormed my way out of the cramped little booth. "Want to know my secret? It's because I'm not really human. I'm actually a dragon in disguise."

Schmoo seemed to think that terribly funny. "Well, that explains a few things," he chortled. "C'mon, let's get out of here before my wife comes looking for me."

I took him back to my little bungalow, stuffed him into his own car, and waved as he drove off in the general direction of home. A few moments after Schmoo's brake lights disappeared around the curve, an all-too familiar figure separated itself from the shadows and approached me.

Damn. For just a few hours Schmoo had helped me forget, had lifted the weight from my shoulders. Now it came crashing back down, its burden seeming all the more crushing after the short respite. "Stefan," I sighed, almost whining, "it's late, I'm tired, and more than a little drunk. Couldn't this wait until tomorrow?"

The ex-Stasi agent's eyes were cold as he sized me up, the corner of his mouth twisting slightly in disgust as he caught the stink of alcohol on my breath. "No, my Lord, I'm afraid it cannot." He turned and indicated a big black BMW sitting by the curb not too far away. "Lady Dithra wishes to have a word with you."

The chill, leaden feeling in my left side intensified as I surveyed his grim features. Stefan didn't need to be wearing his proper form for me to read the emotions boiling within him, and any additional protests on my part died, stillborn. I meekly climbed into the passenger's side, silently grateful as I sank into the vehicle's leather upholstery that the agent would be driving, giving Stefan's eyes something to do besides boring holes into the side of my head.

The trip was surprisingly short; up and over the ridge, down into the other river valley, scarcely five miles from my little bungalow huddled next to the railroad tracks. The architecture, however, was radically different. We drove down a small, two-lane road past large estates and lovingly tended landscapes, then up into a driveway flanked by high walls of quarried stone. Stefan did something, and the ornate, somewhat rusty wrought-iron gates swung ponderously aside. As we wound our way up the long, cobblestoned drive I stared out my window, contemplating the neglected, winter-blasted gardens that slid by, my thoughts equally bleak.

The house was a huge stone Gothic affair, built years ago by a local real estate tycoon who never had a chance to live in it, as shortly after its completion it turned out that the man's success was due more to fraud than talent. For years it stood vacant, an enormous white elephant until now, and as I stared up into the dimly lit windows I pondered the wealth and power capable of transferring such vast structures on such short notice.

"My Lord, please." I blinked, turned, and trudged towards the place's oversized door, where Stefan waited. Before entering, though, I turned to Dithra's agent, but whatever I was going to say to him fled from his icy face. Wordlessly I went in.

What did I expect inside? Scuffed, trash-strewn floors, cobwebs, a water stain or two, perhaps a few abandoned pieces of furniture scattered here and there, either covered with dust or draped with grimy sheets that made them look like misshapen ghosts sulking sullenly in the shadows. Instead, I found the place spotlessly clean and warmly lit, gleaming floors of hardwood and marble stretching in all directions, the rooms fully furnished and decorated in a rich, elegant and personal style that would have left an interior decorator weeping for joy.

For the fifth time in as many minutes I blinked in amazement as Stefan led me into a vast, deserted chamber that for lack of a better name I'll call a living room and left me there to await Dithra. The space was done in a medieval fashion complete with a huge, roaring fireplace and high, beamed ceilings, the polished hardwood floor softened by a large centered square of plush white carpeting upon which a number of well-worn, pleasantly mismatched pieces of comfortable-looking furniture were scattered. On the walls were more than a few paintings, mostly of landscapes, their pigments cracked and darkened with age, and a handful of framed photographs. I wandered about the room, studied one of those black-and-white photos. It showed a woman in a dress fashionable in the 1930s standing on a dusty hill, nameless mountains rising in the background. Another, equally anonymous, was of some ancient castle ruin perched precariously atop some forested peak. Set both parallel and perpendicular to the walls were numerous bookshelves/display cases constructed of long, thick panes of glass and filled with various knickknacks. Some of the items were obviously valuable, such as the large Oriental vase of porcelain so thin it was positively translucent; others, like the glass dish containing a handful of brownish pottery fragments, seemingly worthless. Another case held what looked to be some sort of crude helmet and dagger made of bronze, green with age, both half-melted as if from some terrible heat.

Further on. . .I paused, staring at the set of Samurai blades where they lay within the case upon their simple stand of black-lacquered wood. Both the katana and wakizashi were old, so old that age seemed to radiate from them like a gentle warmth. The decoration and knotwork of the grips, only slightly dimmed with the years, were lavish yet quite functional. Breath escaped from me in a long sigh at the sight of those ancient and utterly beautiful weapons. Somehow, without any really conscious thought on my part I found my hands inside the cabinet, sliding beneath the katana's dark, sheathed length, beginning to gently lift the sword from it's resting place. . . .

"It is said that the master that created that blade was quite mad." I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sound of that voice from behind me. Feeling like some kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, I gingerly set that marvelous sword back down on its stand and turned, surreptitiously wiping my hands on my trousers, my face warm.

"It is also said that the weapons he made were accursed, that they possessed an uncontrollable thirst for blood, and in time would come to rule their wielder." Dithra smiled, though her eyes remained cool. "Perhaps there is a grain of truth in the legend, for in the end, nearly all of the weapons he made were hunted down and destroyed. This--" She reached her slender hand into the glass case, her fingers hovering over the dark scabbard, but not touching"-- is one of the few that still survive."

Beware, beware the dragon's hoard. . . . I swallowed, then inclined my head in respect. "My Lady."

"Dear Hasai." Again she smiled, again it did not touch her eyes. She turned, one arm lifting to gesture towards the furniture nearer the fireplace. "Come. Sit with me."

With a feeling of apprehension I plunked down upon a sofa, Dithra seating herself with a graceful swirl of her long, gray-green dress in the chair across from me. There was a long pause at that point, during which Dithra slowly tilted her head in a dragon's expression of inquiry, one of her elegant eyebrows arching quizzically, her eyes still cool.

Finally I could stand it no more. Fighting to shove the last of the cobwebs from my befuddled head, I cleared my throat. "You were aware of the situation down there, of course?" I asked.

"Of course."

"Then you know that Ksstha had me pinned inside the base. Once I left it, I knew it would be but a matter of time before he pounced, at the place and under the circumstances of his choosing."

"He spoke with you there. What exactly did he say to you?"

I hesitated, looked away, then after a few moments brought my eyes back to Dithra's. . . . . .Slashed in a thousand places, his eyes red ruin from their weapons, he cried out in a voice so filled with despair that I hear it even now, and fell dead, leaving me alone. With them. . . . "I'm sorry, my Lady; but mostly it was a private conversation."

Dithra studied me, an indecipherable expression upon her face. "But you did tell Stefan."

"Only the portions of tactical significance," I sighed. "Ksstha attempted to get me to come over to his side, even dangled a few small incentives in front of me, like North America and my own Line." Dithra blinked at that; I smiled wryly. "Yeah; can you believe it? The whole bloody continent for myself and my Line, to do with as I wished. Forever." I shook my head. "There's still something inside of me, somewhere, that still screams curses at me for having turned it down."

"A continent, and formal recognition of your own Line," Dithra repeated, her eyes distant. "There are many of us who would be sorely. . .tempted, by such an offer." Her gaze came back to me. "And yet you turned it down."

"Yes, my Lady."

For a moment I thought Dithra was going to ask me why, but she stopped herself, that indecipherable look coming to her face again for a moment. Then her eyes dropped to study the floor between us. When she again looked up, her gaze was far warmer than it had been. "What happened then?" she asked quietly.

"We talked a bit more, then he apologized for what he felt he had to do next, then left."

"I see." Pause. "Ksstha gives you formal warning, and then you seemingly ignore that warning and expose yourself in such a manner that invites attack?" Dithra's head tilted again, a slight edge creeping into her voice. "Dear Hasai, to myself your actions smack of insane recklessness. Perhaps you can put a better face upon them?"

I grimaced, then sighed. "My Lady, please believe me that I took Ksstha's threat quite seriously, especially after I talked to Stefan about it. Stefan himself was so concerned, he offered to. . .distract Ksstha to buy me the time I needed to get out of the country."

I settled back into the sofa and deliberately let my voice carry through the room. The place was seemingly empty save for Dithra and myself, but I strongly suspected we had another, unseen party to our conversation. "I couldn't let Stefan do it; Ksstha strikes me as being far too canny to allow himself to fall victim to something so obvious. He would have destroyed Stefan despite his best efforts, and continue to zero in on me. Stefan's sacrifice would have been worthless, and I will not see good people thrown away for nothing; not for myself, or anything else. I had to come up with another way, and quickly.

"My Lady, in the realm of conflict, one of the worst mistakes one can possibly make is to allow your adversary to choose the time and the place. If I had simply fled, if I had allowed Stefan to make his sacrifice, all I would have done was delay the inevitable, and cede all control of the situation over to Ksstha. So, instead, I chose the time and place."

Dithra stared at me. I leaned forward, putting as much intensity as I could into my expression. "I gave Ksstha a situation so in-line with what he needed that he had no choice but to accept, for such an opportunity could quite possibly never come again. So, he attacked, but at my time and my place, lacking not only those advantages, but a third, even more crucial advantage that he sorely needed; the element of surprise."

Dithra's eyes were lost in thought as I completed my spiel, pondering the strange military logic of the situation. "So; you were ready for him," she said at last.

"Yes, my Lady; just as ready as I could make myself."

"If this was indeed so, Hasai, then I find myself with two questions." Dithra leaned forward slightly, her eyes intent. "First; why did you not take Stefan with you, and, second; if you were so well prepared, why did Ksstha survive the encounter?"

Hoo-boy; this was beginning to remind me of an After-Action Review. I could feel myself starting to sweat as I took a moment to order my thoughts. "Well, the best I can offer you on your first question, my Lady, is I had a very bad feeling that Ksstha was going to throw the kitchen sink at me when next we met. Stefan has proven to me that he can be quite formidable in the tactical realm of conflict, but he has never shown nor indicated to me an ability to handle the sort of Power that was tossed around that night." I paused, mindful of a possible eavesdropper. "I feared that his life would be needlessly thrown away."

"I see." Dithra tilted her head back slightly, her eyes elsewhere. "That would explain his use of the most powerful magus in his camp." She looked back to me. "It may also explain the news from my spies that she has been gravely injured somehow. Your doing, Hasai?"

My lips tightened against my teeth as I grimaced. "Yes, my Lady. I'm sorry, but she was far too dangerous to treat lightly."

Dithra made a slight hand-motion that could be equated to the dismissive flick of a tail tip. "Being the assaulted party, Hasai, you would have been entirely within your rights if you had torn out her throat." She paused, gazing at me thoughtfully for a long moment, then leaned forward again. "But what was it that made the one who calls herself Niata so dangerous to you? You handled Ahnkar with relative ease the last time you met, and Ahnkar has a great deal of ability in the workings of Power. What did Niata do that made you consider her dangerous?"

Damn; I screwed up. I really hadn't wanted to mention this. . . . "Um, my Lady. . . ."

"Dear Hasai, I must know, else we cannot guard against it. She did something to you, did she not?" Dithra pressed, her eyes intent, and concerned. "When I watched you moving through this room earlier, I could tell from your movements that you were favoring your left side. What was it, Hasai? What did she do?"

I stared back at her, my face bleak. I did not know the term our people had for the weapon that Niata had wielded, so I at last framed it in terms my tutor in Power might have used. "She used a soul-snare, my Lady."

For long moments Dithra's face was completely blank. Then the meaning of the term I used sank in, and her face slowly drained of every vestige of warmth, leaving a visage terrible to look upon. Without a word, she arose from her seat and moved to stand before the fire and gaze into the flames, her right hand laid upon the massive stone mantelpiece as if to brace herself. At first I thought she looked remarkably calm, but then I noticed the thin stream of powdered rock beginning to trickle out from beneath her grip.

"I will hunt her down," she began in what was a quiet, conversational voice, but with an undertone that made my skin prickle "I will pursue her beyond the ends of all that is. Nowhere shall she find rest, nowhere shall she find sanctuary, as I shall see every dragon's fangs bared against her. I will find her, and when I drag her down. . . ." Dithra's voice trailed off into silence as she stared into the flames, and I thanked the Ancestors that I could not see what was reflected in her eyes.

Finally, her head slowly lifted. "Dear Hasai, tell me," she began, still facing the fire. "Tell me that Ksstha had nothing to do with such a thing." Pause. "Please."

I felt my lips turn downwards in a grimace of regret. "I'm sorry, my Lady, but I cannot."

For long moments she did not respond, then she gave a deep sigh, her head sagging. "You were right, dear one, you were right. Fear does indeed make monsters of us all." The ancient dragon turned, her voice sharper. "Why did she release you?"

I blinked. "My Lady? Niata did not release me; I freed myself."

Dithra made an abrupt gesture I did not understand. "Impossible. If she had your true Name and invoked it, then you had no hope. Was it Ksstha? Did he at last come to his senses and wrest control from his magus?"

"No, ma'am," I replied doggedly, "I freed myself."

Dithra started to make that gesture again, but stopped herself in mid-motion. She studied me, her face, silhouetted by the light of the fireplace, nearly lost in shadow save for the gleam of her eyes. "You truly believe that," she murmured at last. Slowly she approached me until she stood staring down at me. I started to rise, but at another gesture from her sank back down again. Her hands lifted, then paused, awaiting any objection from me. When I gave none, Dithra placed them at both sides of my head, her cool, dry fingertips just touching my temples.

Perhaps a moment passed, then Dithra gave a small hiss of annoyance, letting her hands drop. "We wrought too well, dear one. I can sense nothing beneath my hands but the mortal that you appear to be. Will you shift to your true form for this? Forgive me, dear one, but I must ask this of you."

I stared at her for a long moment, then dropped my eyes and nodded silently. I closed my eyes, concentrated for a moment as I braced for the pain that was to come, and. . .nothing. I blinked my eyes open in surprise, then tried again. Still nothing. A cold dread began to fill me as I bore down yet again, frantically searching for that barrier, that door that I had to push my way through. I was panting with effort, my face wet with sweat by the time I finally found it. Somewhere, I could hear Dithra calling out to me in alarm, but I blocked her out as I threw myself against the barrier once again, pushing, finding the way so much more difficult than before, pressing harder, then with everything I had. . . .

PAIN. Far worse than it had ever been. I welcomed it at first. Then I felt the wrongness, the cold leadeness of it even as my form twisted and changed. My forelegs touched the floor, held for a moment, then my left side crumpled and I toppled, to lay there on Dithra's snowy white carpet, panting raggedly.

Something touched me, I opened my eyes to see Dithra kneeling next to me. I blinked, fighting to force my left eye into focus, and tried to get to my feet, but her hands pressed me back down.

"No, Hasai; hold still." Her hands moved back to my head, brushed away the steely strands of my mane, touched my temples. A soft glow the color of sapphires began within her palms, soon wrapping her hands within a nimbus of Power. I watched her face as her head bowed over me with concentration, watched as that concentration changed to consternation, then to a slowly dawning horror.

"Oh. Oh, dear one. Oh, my dear Hasai. . . ."

I watched her with a growing sense of dread as she pulled away, the glow of Power slowly guttering out like some neglected candle as she clenched her hands into fists and pressed them to her breast, her eyes looking right through me, unseeing.

Finally her head bowed again, her eyes closing as she fought for, and finally won, control. "And so it ends," she whispered at last.

"My Lady?" No response. I studied her face, saw how old she suddenly appeared. "Dithra?"

Eventually she looked up. At first her face was utterly empty, but then her lips curved slightly into a small, sad smile. "Yes. Forgive me, young one, but. . . ." She trailed off, the smile shifting into something far grimmer as she looked away. She sighed, then resumed. "If you wish to declare Blood-Feud against Ksstha for this, know that I will place both myself and all of my resources at your disposal."

I blinked, stunned, as Dithra looked back to me. "I saw the reason for his failure," she replied to my unspoken question. "He, myself, all of us had forgotten that you are more than merely dragon, and that duality that I sense in you is what I think allowed you to escape." Her head tilted slightly. "I am right, am I not? The part of you that is human is what defeated Ksstha, was it not?"

I studied her, feeling a strange reluctance to answer. "Yes, my Lady; I believe it was," I replied at last.

She managed another small smile at my tone. "You make it sound as if it were something for which to feel shame. Do not, for it saved you from far more dire a slavery than any human could ever imagine." The smile faded. "But you did not escape without damage, and you know that as well." She ran a hand across the metallic scales that feathered the corners of my jaws in what was almost a caress as she sought the words. "Dear Hasai, that part of your spirit which represents your Dragon self is sorely wounded, as if a portion has been torn away from it. It is fraying away into nothingness, and if we cannot find a way to heal the damage, young one, I believe that you will soon die."

I stared up at Dithra, her face the sole point of stability in a world that had suddenly become distant and blurred. The leaden chill in my left side seemed to intensify into an icy gnawing ache. Finally I closed my eyes and let my head sink back to rest fully on the floor, my breath going out of me in a single long sigh. "Damn," I said at last.

The mutual silence that ensued lasted for several long moments, then I felt Dithra's hand once again touch my jowl. "Perhaps there is. . . .There may be something that we may do, although I know not what. I must consult with. . .others." Pause. "Hasai, would you be willing to be my guest for the night? It should be safe for you here, at least for a little while, and perhaps I myself can do something to slow this. . .this. . . ."

I opened my eyes, and felt them widen as I saw what might have been unshed tears within the ancient dragon's eyes. If it were possible, my spirits sank even lower. I looked away. "Yes, my Lady; I'll stay the night if you wish."

I blinked my eyes open to stare at the seam where the wall met the ceiling, the sounds of early morning filtering faintly from the window. I lifted my head, and knew immediately that I'd slid back into human form during the night as I slept. First time that ever happened, and I didn't like the implications. Frowning, I sat up in the midst of the huge bed that Dithra had loaned me, and scrubbed at the sleep still gumming my eyes. With a sigh I rolled to my feet and trudged to my quarter's bathroom, then grimaced again at the image in the mirror above the sink. Damn, but I was a sight; my eyes were bloodshot with hangover, sunken cheeks stained with beard well overdue for a shave, and my clothes looked like I'd slept in them, which of course I had.

I washed up as best I could, then stumbled downstairs, blindly following the heavenly scent of bacon, fresh coffee, and other wonderful things. I found Stefan in the house's monstrous kitchen, putting together breakfast. He looked up from the stove when I came shuffling through the door, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly in amusement at my appearance. Without a word, he lifted the skillet off the burner and walked into the dining area with me doddering along behind, to find the table already set, a large white ceramic pot full of java already steaming in the middle.

I plopped into one of the dining room's large wooden chairs, and Stefan promptly slid roughly half the contents of the skillet, Canadian bacon and scrambled eggs, onto my plate. I gave him a grateful look, and he smiled in return as he emptied the remainder onto his own china.

Things got a little busy for the next several minutes, but at last I looked up from my second cup of the best coffee I'd had in years and caught Stefan's eye. "Dithra?"

He gave his head a shake as he set down his own cup. "Not here, my Lord. I don't know where she is, save that it has something to do with you."

A worried frown creased his brow as he said the last, but I chose to ignore it for the moment. What I found far more interesting was that I wasn't getting the deep-freeze treatment anymore, for which I was very nearly as grateful as I was for the scrambled eggs. I nodded. "Think she'll be back soon?"

"My Lord, I have no idea," The former Stasi agent replied, his eyes studying the liquid in his cup. "I am sorry. My Lady has instructed me to ask you to remain here until she returns, however."

At that, Stefan looked up, an eyebrow lifting questioningly. I felt my lips pressing into a thin straight line, as I looked down to study my own cup, thinking. "I'm not all that sure that I should; I'm thinking we're too isolated out here in this place. There could be trouble. Maybe it'd be better if I headed back home. Dithra could give me a call when she gets back."

Stefan's face stiffened with poorly-concealed alarm at my words. "My Lord, please don't. You are ill." He cut off my attempt at protest with a sharp, almost frantic gesture. "No, my Lord, listen. Dithra has told me that your injuries are grave, and could worsen quite quickly. I agree there is risk, but your going elsewhere, away from our immediate help, could spell your end." He drew in a breath, let it out in a short, frustrated sigh. "My Lord, I beg you to at last realize that we cannot afford to risk you, even if it means surrendering you to our opponents. I, Dithra, all of us are expendable, if it means keeping you alive. All of us. Tell me that you finally understand this, my Lord, please."

I stared stonily at the young dragon for a long time, but at last was forced to drop my gaze. "All right," I sighed "but don't expect me to like it."

"There are many things in this world that we do not like, but have little choice but to live with, my Lord." Stefan paused to sample part of his meal, then smiled at me ruefully. "If I dared to believe otherwise, I would quite probably be in Ahnkar's camp."

I almost choked on my eggs at that. I waited until I got my breathing straight before speaking. "That is. . .an interesting statement to make. Why? Do you hate humans that much?"

Stefan shook his head emphatically. "I do not hate them, my Lord; they frighten me. They have so much power, yet at times they behave little better than infants. They charge headlong into everything, with little or no thought as to the consequences, or whether there is a way back out." The ex-Stasi agent sipped his coffee. "Do you remember the Cuban missile crisis?"

"Yes."

"I was there. On the ground, in Cuba. Oh, Ancestors, the idiocy." Stefan took another sip, then carefully set the cup down. "The fools. Both sides would have destroyed everything, for both human and dragon, for nothing more than their petty political maneuverings." He sighed, then looked up at me with tired eyes. "Forgive me, my Lord, but after that- that madness, if there were any way that I could see to wrest control of our world back from the humans, you and I would not be talking like this."

I gazed at Stefan for a long moment, mentally revising my draconic definition of the word young. Funny thing, how I kept thinking myself one of them, yet was constantly being jarred by these reminders of the vast gulf of understanding between them and myself that I had yet to span, and perhaps never would. "So, what is your solution?"

Stefan shook his head, laid down his fork, and waited until he could reply. "If I claimed I had a answer, then I would be arrogant indeed, my Lord. War, however, is most certainly not it, for if there is one thing that the humans truly excel at, it is conflict. No; what Dithra considers the best course, and the only viable way, I have realized, is to guide them."

"Guide them? And how does Dithra propose to guide the entire human race?"

Stefan's face pulled unto a quick, rueful smile as he once again lifted his coffee. "The same way I suppose the humans would guide an avalanche or channel a tide, my Lord; very, very carefully." Sip. "But Dithra believes that it can be done, and after seeing her plans, so do I." He stared down into his cup. "But the first part of her plan. . .worries me."

"And that is?"

"Where we make ourselves known to the humans again."

I fumbled my fork, and it clattered noisily to my plate as all the social, religious, and political ramifications of that quiet statement went roaring through my mind like Stefan's proverbial avalanche. "That would be extremely dangerous."

"Not so dangerous as remaining in the shadows, where both ourselves and our manipulations could be discovered, and inevitably would," Stefan replied. "Better to take that initial risk, then operate in daylight. Then, if our influence is felt, we would simply show it to be what it truly is; our own self- interest making itself known."

I dropped my gaze to stare unseeingly down at my plate, then recovered my fork and went back to work on the remains of my breakfast, my mind churning. I should have seen it, really; it was obvious-- or at least it was now-- that Dithra's plans for accommodation with the humans would eventually require us coming back out into the open. Remaining in the shadows was not an option, seeing as how poorly humans reacted to such secrets. But ye gods, the risk. All it would take would be one power-hungry clergyman or politician of any significant standing to declare jihad and it would all drop into the pot. Still. . . .

I finished my meal, dropping my napkin onto my plate with a sigh. "She's right, I'm afraid. I really don't see any alternative. I just hope that she intends to take it slow and easy."

Stefan smiled wryly as he began to gather up the remains. "Indeed, my Lord; very slow, and very easy." He glanced back to me as he headed towards the kitchen. "Would you be interested in anything else?"

"No," I smiled, "but thanks. Appetite isn't in the best of shape right at the moment, I'm afraid."

Dithra's agent immediately sobered. "Yes, of course." He paused for a moment in the doorway, as if unsure if he should say something more, then turned and silently left the room.

I sighed and leaned back in my chair, my right hand absently massaging my left, then stood and went to collect any calls from my home answering machine. There were a few; the most interesting a message from the sergeant-major, asking me to contact a person he knew was looking for someone with experience in digital communications. I did so, and sat there in the hallway for the next fifteen minutes or so, talking shop with an engineer working at a site downtown. He finally asked if I would be interested in setting up a formal interview, and I told him I would.

Stefan was waiting for me in the lobby downstairs where I'd left him, albeit none-too happily. I smiled at him as I exited the elevator, and he fell in with me as I headed out the side way, out into the shopping mall that lay adjacent to the office tower. "Looks pretty good," I said at last. "Need to come in for another interview next week, though."

Stefan didn't respond at first, looking distinctly unhappy about something. "My Lord, is this really necessary?"

I glanced at him. "Is what necessary?"

"Having to-- to labor as a subordinate to a group of humans? We have more than sufficient funds to--"

"--To have me living in the lap of luxury for the rest of my life. Yes, I know. Unfortunately, that isn't how I operate. I won't be beholden to anyone, Stefan. Not even Dithra."

The ex-spook's lips pressed together into a thin straight line, his eyes automatically sweeping our immediate surroundings. "We are not asking you to accept charity, my Lord; none of our people would ever offer another of us such insult," he replied, obviously choosing his words carefully. "Instead, if we were to offer you, um, compensation for the difficulties we've. . . . My Lord, what is it?"

We were nearing the mall's central mezzanine, heading for the stairs that would take us down to the parking garage when I was hit by a wave of vertigo and wrenching nausea. I staggered, my hand, already dripping with an icy sweat slapping against a nearby wall for support. "Don't know," I gasped, bent almost double. "Dizzy. . . ."

The collar of my dress shirt suddenly felt as if it were constricting around my throat, strangling me. Desperately I tugged at it, trying to loosen it, only to stare in surprise as it shredded beneath my fingers. Fingers? No, talons, their black, razor-sharp points sliding smoothly forth from hands whose skin was rapidly hardening, segmenting, metallic scales racing their way up my arms. Clothing ripped and split, bursting from my warping form as my center of gravity changed and I toppled, my arms, now forelegs, hitting the floor with a thump.

I shook my massive head, my mane jangling as around me the typical sounds of a shopping mall seemed to abruptly cutoff, almost as if someone had thrown a switch. All around, shocked, pale faces stared at me. Tail lashing in agitation I opened my jaws to speak, but all that came out was a coughing snarl. Suddenly a woman screamed, the sound striking my now-far keener senses like a blow, and the place erupted into pandemonium as people exploded away from me in an almost-liquid wave of fleeing bodies.

No. Oh dear Lord, Ancestors, no. I took a step after them, horrible sounds issuing from between my fangs as I stove to speak, then was brought short as I felt my left wing-barb snag a section of overhead lighting, tearing it loose and sending it crashing to the ground around me. I was growing, rapidly expanding to my normal size, which was far too large for this place.

I struggled to extricate myself, fighting down panic as the walls squeezed down upon me. A forearm bumped a balcony railing. The marble structure broke loose, sending large chunks of stone to rain down upon several people on the lower level, crushing them. I tried to turn, and felt my massive tail smash a storefront in, bringing several more portions of the ceiling down in a hail of twisted metal and sparking wiring, killing more.

I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here. I fought my way out into the open-air well in the center of the mall, leaving a trail of devastation in my wake. There was a shout, and I whipped my head about to see two police officers on a balcony above me, their eyes wide with fear and disbelief as they drew down on me with both shotgun and sidearm. I flinched as bullets and buckshot caromed off my armored skull. I opened my jaws to reason with them, plead with them, but was horrified to feel the warmth at the back of my throat surging upwards unbidden, a gout of azure flame spearing forth to transform the two men into twisting, burning scarecrows, within seconds falling to smoking ash--

"Sir?"

I jerked violently, my breath drawing in with a tearing gasp as if just emerging from far-too long underwater. A rolling eye caught the concerned face of one of the mall's security men.

"Sir, are you all right?"

A voice replied; it took me a moment to recognize it as Stefan's. "Just a momentary problem, sir," he said smoothly. "My friend spent many years in the tropics, and unfortunately collected a few souvenirs in the process. Occasionally, they announce their presence."

As he spoke, I slowly became aware of the mall bench beneath me, of the sweat dripping off my face to further soak already sodden clothing, of two strong hands steadying me. I watched the security man recoil slightly as the implications of Stefan's words sank in. "Is he con-- Um, should I call for an ambulance, sir?"

"No, he should recover in a moment. We thank you for the offer."

A small frown creased the security man's face at the dismissive tone in Stefan's voice, but finally nodded and left. Stefan watched him out of earshot, then bent to me. "My Lord? Can you walk?"

Hell, I can run! I almost laughed at the sudden recollection, then nodded dazedly. "Get me out of here, Stefan."

"Yes, my Lord."

Stefan glanced at me, the fifth time he'd tossed me that anxious look in the past ten minutes as he piloted the massive BMW back to Dithra's estate, at a speed not-quite great enough to attract the attention of the local police.

Finally, I answered his unspoken question. "I don't know," I replied, rubbing my pounding head and slumping lower into the leather seat. "All of a sudden, everything went nuts. Hallucinations. Bad ones." I started to sit up, but the cold winter sunlight streaming in through the windshield made me wince painfully. I scrubbed at stinging eyes. "Damn," I pronounced with feeling.

"We should be back at the house in just a few minutes, my Lord," Stefan said in an obvious effort to be reassuring, but giving me yet another worried look in the process. I simply nodded, and nothing more was spoken for the duration.

I was still pretty wobbly when we got there, so Stefan helped me inside, eventually depositing me on one of the sofas in the room where Dithra and I had last met. I settled into it with a groan. The ex-spook seemed to almost flinch at the sound. "How are you feeling, my Lord?"

"Like I've been run over by a main battle tank," I replied wryly. "Don't worry; give me a cup of coffee and I'll be fine."

"I fear I must disagree with you, my Lord; I believe that you are under attack."

The statement was delivered so quietly and with such stone-calm that it took several seconds to register. I blinked. "Say again?"

Stefan's expression was pensive as he seated himself in the chair facing me. "My Lord, although my personal abilities for wielding it are very poor, I can assure you that I know Power when I feel it, and Power was precisely what I felt surround you in the mall just before you collapsed."

I stared at him, Mary's dust-dry voice whispering in the back of my mind. Mortals are as clear air to the magic. It passes around and through us as if we did not exist. "Stefan, that's impossible. There's no way that Power could latch onto me when I'm in this form."

"Then someone has found a solution to that restriction, my Lord," the former agent replied implacably, his face set. Dark eyes lowered to study the floor for several long moments. "Dithra must be made aware of this," he said at last. He rose to his feet. "My Lord, if you will excuse me for a moment?" I nodded, and Stefan turned and strode swiftly from the room.

I sat there alone for awhile, thinking, slowly recovering from that afternoon's ordeal. Finally I felt it safe to move about on my own, though that damnable weakness in my left side was worse than ever. I wandered to the kitchen to fix myself a quick cup of Joe, then returned to spend a few minutes hobbling aimlessly about the room, eventually finding myself standing in front of the case containing that ancient, supposedly accursed katana and its companion blade, studying them as my thoughts went round and round to little effect.

A tiny movement just inside the shadow of the weapon's simple wooden scabbard caught my eye. Mildly startled, I tilted my head for a better view. It was a spider, a wolf spider from the size and shape of it. The black, velvety fur covering its spare, elegant form was marked across the top of the thorax and abdomen by a jagged, narrow stripe of metallic silver. The creature moved once again, and tiny eyes like polished onyx gleamed in the cabinet's light as they seemed to stare up at me. I found myself smiling at the sight of the deadly little predator. "You're beautiful," I whispered. The spider didn't respond.

"My Lord?"

I jumped slightly, then turned to see Stefan approaching, his expression not looking particularly pleased. "My Lord, I was unable to contact my Lady Dithra directly, but I did leave a message where I know she will find it." His gaze dropped for a moment, then back up to me. "Hopefully, she will find it soon."

I felt my lips quirk up into a wry smile. "That bad, is it?"

Stefan gave his head a small doubting shake. "I do not know, my Lord; my knowledge of these things is very weak. It could be that whoever attacked you is limited to little more than harassment, perhaps they can do much more." He returned my smile. "In any case, it would be wise to err on the side of paranoia, don't you agree, my Lord?" As he spoke the gleam of the katana's metalwork caught his eye. "Ah; one of my Lady's most prized possessions." He smiled more openly as he approached the display, obviously trying to change the subject. "The humans of the lands of your Ancestors craft many beautiful things, do they not? Even instruments of death become works of art."

"Yes," I replied, deciding to go along with it. I glanced down at the sword, but the spider had silently vanished. I frowned. "Stefan, I get the idea from talking with you, Dithra, others, that our people don't like to work with material objects. Surely we must create something. Tools? Art? Music? Anything at all?"

Stefan studied the case and its contents for a few moments before replying. "A difficult question, the simple and terribly inadequate reply being no, my Lord, we do not. I have no proper answer for you as to why, but I do have a personal theory, should you care to hear it." I gestured assent. He frowned slightly, gathering his thoughts. "Among the humans, I have from time-to-time encountered those who, for one reason or another, cannot see color. Then there are others who look at Man's written language, and no matter how hard they try, see nothing but random marks. What I believe, and many a dragon will hotly deny, is that when it comes to tools, our people suffer a similar selective blindness. We know that tools exist. We can pick them up, examine them," he gestured at the case and its contents "possess them. But we do not understand them. Like some blind being that has never seen the color blue, we know the concept is there, but, infuriatingly, it is forever just out of reach." He smiled, a trifle sadly, his eyes sweeping across Dithra's gleaming display cases. "Many elder dragons are avid collectors of humans' work, did you know, my Lord? Some collect art, some collect objects of wealth, some collect other things." He smile broadened. "I know one elder female who collects musical instruments. But it is not greed, as the old human legends claim. Rather, it is because of our endless fascination with these tools, these riddles, forever begging to be solved."

"But I saw you use an automatic in Baltimore, Stefan," I objected. "And a firearm is most certainly a tool."

"Indeed it is, my Lord," Stefan replied, gesturing respect. "But I am quite sure the concept of tools would have been beyond me as well, had I not been forced to live as a human child would for the first fifteen years of my life." He looked at me. "I can use Man's tools, but creating them is still beyond me, I regret. That particular talent belongs only to you."

I gazed at Stefan thoughtfully for a long moment. So. I started to say something, but quickly decided to change the subject. "And the other things? Music? Art?" I said at last.

Stefan gestured negation. "Art, in the physical sense, is simply another manifestation of humans' abilities with tools. As to music, a dragon's voice does not accommodate such a thing easily." He then gave me a sidelong smile. "We do, however, have some quite excellent poetry. Perhaps some time, when there is a season available to us, I will be privileged to recite to you one of the more popular ones."

I blinked. A season? I gave my head a small, sharp shake. "That, um, sounds like something to look forward to, Stefan, thank you."

"You are quite welcome, my Lord," he replied, a faint sound of almost-laughter in his voice, doubtless due to my expression. "But come back to the sofa, my Lord; you should conserve your strength."

I felt a twinge of annoyance, and my lips tightened. "Stefan, I'm not in that bad a shape. I can still--" I took a step towards him, and as soon as I unlocked my knee my left leg promptly collapsed. Had Stefan not reacted instantly to prop me up I would have fallen heavily to the floor. "Then again, maybe not," I mused dazedly as a wave of dull nausea rolled over me.

Stefan half-helped, half-carried me back to my former seat, where he propped me up with some cushions. His face was closed as he did this, but the way his eyes refused to meet mine spoke volumes. I must have looked like hell. "My Lord, if I could get you anything--"

"Coffee, Stefan. That would be just fine." The ex-agent stared at me worriedly for a moment, then nodded and hurried off to the kitchen, eventually returning with a steaming mug that I sipped at gratefully. "Thanks."

"You are welcome, my Lord," the agent responded soberly. He stood there for a moment more, as if unsure as to what to do next, then finally seated himself in the chair across from me. "I am quite sure Dithra will have received my message by now, and is on her way back," he said at last.

And just what the hell would she be able to do? I quickly quashed that bitter thought and changed the subject. "You know, I never did get the opportunity to hear more from you about our people. Why don't you tell me some more? Tell me how the politics work."

Stefan blinked at me for a moment, then, almost grudgingly, a small wry smile began to battle its way across his face. "My Lord, the term 'Byzantine' does not even begin to describe our politics. Do you truly wish to learn about them? You may find them to be more than a little confusing. By the Ancestors, they certainly confuse me."

He wasn't kidding, either.

"Battleaxe One, I got something, bearing, ah, two-three-zero, low and slow."

I blinked behind the tinted visor of my flight helmet, then turned my head in that direction, keying the stick-mounted transmit switch as I did so. "Where-- um, okay, got it. We have any traffic in this sector?"

I glanced over to my wingman in time to see him shake his head from within his armored canopy. "No sir, nothing out here that belongs to us. Take a look-see?"

"Affirmative on that, Battleaxe Two." I tilted the joystick and the Warthog responded instantly, the nose dropping and swinging to the left, the thrumming of the two big turbofans behind me increasing in pitch and intensity as I advanced the throttles, quickly coming up to attack speed. Once again our target glinted in the sunlight. Metal? Did some damned fool blunder into our sector, or-- I shook my head slightly in self-annoyance. At this closure rate, we'll find out soon.

The glinting object must have detected us for it seemed to hesitate, then change to a heading leading directly away from myself and my wingman, but still far too slow to escape us. Hm, no, not a single object, but a group. Lizards. Metallic scales? New one on me. Two large, several small; looks like a family, trying to sneak out of the combat zone. Not too far from making it, either, save for sheer rotten luck. I keyed my mike. "Identified, Two. Hostiles. Selecting cannon." Battleaxe Two acknowledged as I flipped the master switch to ARM and the huge 30mm Gatling gun in the nose of my plane came alive, the kill-dot illuminating on my heads-up display as I dropped the nose, playing with the rudders a bit until my targets were firmly centered. "I'll take first pass, Two; you can mop up."

"Battleaxe Two, roger," my wingman responded as he dropped back. We were closing rapidly to killing range. Through the HUD I could see one of the larger of the group, the male, possibly, moving to interpose himself between us and his family. I felt a twinge of regret as my finger found the joystick trigger and began taking up the slack. Sorry, pal, but you should've thought of them before you started this stupid war.

The male was turning towards us now, jaws agape in a defiant roar that I couldn't hear. I tweaked the rudder pedals again to make sure the first burst of AP would catch him in the head, a quick and painless death, I hoped. As my finger tightened the last fraction of an inch and the cannon began its own deadly snarl, my eye finally met my prey's. Abruptly the A-10, my wingman, everything was gone and I was falling, falling into that golden gaze. . . .

I found myself in my true form, flying through a starry blackness, alone now after one brief, agonizing glimpse of my mate and children. Something was drawing me on, across some vast, shadowed, twisted terrain, leading me as surely as if there were a leash around my neck, its owner pulling steadily.

I don't know how long I flew through those unknown skies, but finally I saw something ahead, a flat, circular area in the midst of that tormented land, from the center of which emanated an eye-hurtingly bright blue-white glow. Something within me yearned towards that light, and whatever was leading me on seemed to oblige by tugging me down towards that clearing.

I landed, moved forward. The light had resolved itself into a luminescent spark held within a cage consisting of lines of sullen crimson light, tiny flames of grimy orange and blood red seeming to lick fitfully along them. As I drew closer, the yearning within me for that glow swelled into a strange, terrible hunger. Beyond the cage, I could just make out another form, large, draconic in shape. The form's pale blue eyes shone coldly in the light, and it was to those eyes that I began to bow in submission--

TACK!

My eyes opened to stare at a blank white ceiling. There was a moment's disorientation, then I realized where I was; on the bed in Dithra's guest quarters. How'd I get here? Did I drop off while talking with Stefan? Did he carry me all the way up here? What--

TACK!

My gaze snapped to the window from which the sound had come. The rest must have helped, for I left the bed and moved across the darkened room with relative ease, carefully peering out the window into the gloom of the overcast night.

Nothing-- no, down there in the yard, someone was looking up at my window. I felt my breath drawing in sharply as I recognized Pasqual's face a moment before she abruptly spun to look behind her, then darted away into the night. I stared after her. What the hell? Then I lifted my eyes in the direction she'd been looking, and down by the road saw someone illuminated by the light of a passing car as they rolled over the top of the perimeter wall.

We were under attack.

I cursed silently to myself as I eased myself back away from the window. Damn. I knew I shouldn't have stayed here! I gave my head a savage shake to clear it, then closed my eyes and did my damnedest to shift to my proper form, but after long minutes of agonizing, utterly wasted effort I was forced to realize there was nothing there. The dragon was gone.

I clutched at my throbbing skull, a horrible feeling of loss crashing through me. But I had no time for this and I brutally shoved those paralyzing feelings aside. Stefan. I had to find Stefan. I felt a dull gratitude that the agent hadn't seen fit to remove my clothes as I padded in stocking feet to the door, easing it open to listen intently. A few moments of silence, but then a quiet clunking noise from somewhere else in the building, followed by sounds of hurried movement confirmed my worst fears. They were already in the house.

What to do? If Stefan detected the intrusion, he would come to get me, so I should stay put. If not, however, staying here would leave me a sitting duck. The dilemma was resolved when the sharp bark of a Makarov 9mm suddenly split the night, quickly followed by several rapid clacking noises. The Makarov spoke several more times, paused, then fired once more and went silent. I listened intently, but those sounds of movement continued. Stefan was down. I had to get out of there. I thought of the window, but it was too dangerous a drop. Carefully I eased the door further open, then moved into the hallway, staying low and close to one wall.

I moved forward through the inky blackness, all my training quickly coming back to me. My foot carefully swept forward, feeling for obstructions, then came gently down, outer edge first then the rest of the foot rolling flat to the floor, silently, followed by the next. Several steps, then listen, breathing through the mouth, eyes scanning continuously to preserve visual purple, using peripheral vision to detect movement.

Nothing. Several steps more. Nothing but my pounding heart. Several more, listen. Someone was coming. Avoid? Not possible; they had the only way out of the hallway blocked. I began to back up, following the wall back to my room, where I pushed the door nearly closed.

Damn. My eyes swept the room, searching for weapons and finding precious little. I went quickly to the window and opened it, wincing at the noise the under-maintained window frame made as it moved. Outside in the hallway they must have heard it as well, for footsteps quickly approached the room. Seconds later a black-clad man carrying some sort of weapon came bursting in. He quickly scanned the room, then spied the open window and hurried to it, looking out and down, his weapon's stubby muzzle questing for a target. He didn't see me emerge from the room's walk-in closet, nor the coat-hanger in my hands.

I whipped the expanded loop down over the intruder's head then yanked hard, burying the stiff steel wire deep in his throat. Instantly the man's hands snapped up to claw at it, his weapon dangling forgotten from its strap as he frantically threw himself backwards, but I already had a knee firmly planted in his back and was rowing back with all my strength, my hands giving the hanger a vicious twist to lock it tightly behind the man's neck.

A few more seconds of deadly struggle, then he collapsed, the heels of his combat boots beating a ghastly tattoo upon the floor as he died. Even before he stopped moving I was going through his equipment. Stuff looked like old Soviet-issue; Spetznaz, perhaps. Mercs? A lot of KGB goon-squads decided to go independent when their paymaster went under. . . . No night-vision gear, thank God, else I'd already be cold meat. Strange weapon, though. A second cylinder lay atop the short barrel, and what looked like a compressed-air cylinder bulged from the side of the skeletal stock. A curiously flat magazine stuck out of the receiver at an odd angle. I pulled it out, and blinked at what looked like tiny hypodermic syringes with a bit of fuzz at the back end. A dart gun of some sort? I smiled grimly. Then they wanted me alive, which gave me an edge.

I patted down the now-inert corpse for more clips, found one, then moved back to the door, listening intently. Movement, but nothing close by. I eased out and once again began to slink down the hallway, trying to get to the stairs. Almost made it, too. I hurried my steps as I neared the landing, and as a result almost collided with another goon as he exited a side room.

The man hissed something in a language I did not understand as his weapon came up but I was inside his guard, my free hand yanking the muzzle down and away from me, my knee slamming into his gut and encountering body armor. He grunted, twisted, and something hard smashed into the side of my jaw. For an instant everything went away in a blaze of white light. When things came back I found myself on my back with my adversary lunging for me. Somehow I'd kept my grip on my weapon, though, and yanked it up to bear on the charging silhouette. I pulled the trigger, there was a quiet clattering noise, and the man convulsed as several needle-tipped projectiles punched into his groin.

The air went out of him in a rush as he bent over, his bulging eyes so round and white they made an excellent target in the dim light as I rolled to my feet, flipping my weapon around to smash the stock up into his jaw just as hard as I could. He almost somersaulted over backward from the impact and hit the floor like a sack of potatoes, dead or unconscious, I didn't care as long as he was out of my face.

The trip down the staircase was hellish. There was no way that whoever else was in the house hadn't heard all the noise we'd made upstairs, and any moment I expected to hear a quiet clatter from down below and feel those little darts slamming into me. If there was anybody down there they were playing it canny, though, and I made it all the way down, to almost trip on several bodies lying about the floor.

Oh, Ancestors. . . .With a feeling of dread I carefully rolled over the sole form not wearing combat fatigues, and in the faint light of a distant window stared down at Stefan's still face. A full dozen darts decorated his torso. I felt for signs of life, and found precious little. Ancestors, what was in these damnable projectiles, that could drop a dragon? Cursing silently, I frantically plucked all the darts I could find out of him, then with a silent prayer for the ex-agent, began searching for his weapon. I couldn't find it, though; one of the invaders must have confiscated it. Damn. It looked like I'd have to rely upon the dart gun.

There probably were several ways out of Dithra's place, but the only one I knew of was back through her huge living room. I gave Stefan's inert form a last guilty glance then crept towards that exit, stopping and taking cover to listen every handful of steps.

Whatever strength my rest had gained me was beginning to fade by the time I reached the chamber, now lit only by the glowing coals of the dying fire. I panted quietly as I moved through the dim, satanic light, threading my way through the ancient dragon's display cases as I headed for the door on the opposite side of the room. Perhaps not quietly enough, though. Abruptly another black-garbed man stepped from behind a case and directly into my path, his weapon clattering as it sent a cloud of darts right at me.

I flung myself to the floor and rolled behind a case, but not before several of the blasted darts had snagged my clothing, one piercing my skin slightly. I ripped it out instantly, but not before my head swam sickeningly. I rolled again, making sure my attacker heard it, then rolled once more, quietly, back the way I'd come. Then I lay there in wait. Hopefully he wouldn't know yet that I had a weapon, and that might make him careless. He wasn't, though, and long moments dragged by before I heard something moving up ahead. Silence. More sound, then a glimmer as I spied a reflection in the glass face of a display case. I quickly calculated the angle and let off a burst, to be rewarded by a grunt and a groan as I heard the intruder slump to the floor.

I tapped a finger against the side of the air-gun's clip, then removed it and replaced it with my spare. I then waited for the time to count slowly to thirty, then levered myself back up to my feet. I steadied myself against a case for a moment, then limped forward, my weapon probing the air before me. I hoped that was the last of them, but I was still going to get the hell out of here, just in case. . . .

Suddenly a black-gloved hand shot out of the gloom, grabbing the muzzle of my weapon and yanking it to one side as the man I thought I'd nailed suddenly loomed before me, his own weapon coming up for the kill. He was too close, though, and I managed to block him as well. We grappled, and I felt rather than saw the knee spearing for my groin and frantically twisted aside. Naturally it was at that moment my traitorous left leg decided to once again buckle beneath me and I toppled, but not before getting a grip on my attacker and pulling him down as well.

We fell across a display case and it collapsed beneath our weight, glittering shards and priceless objects raining down about us as we fell. I felt several blades of broken glass stab deep into my back like icy daggers as we hit the floor and I shuddered, my grip weakening enough for my adversary to rip his arm free and slam a fist across my already well-abused jaw. Once again bright sparks erupted behind my eyelids, and my right hand scrabbled for my weapon as my opponent pulled his arm back to hit me again.

What I found wasn't what I was looking for, but more than sufficient. My fingers closed about the corded grip, then whipped it up and across, the black-lacquered wooden sheath catching the man across the side of his head with a resounding CRACK. He fell to the side, clutching at his face as I scrambled to my feet, a strange icy strength seeming to flow into me as I grabbed the dark weapon's sheath with my free hand and ripped it free, exposing the long, curving ribbon of glittering steel.

My opponent was rolling to his feet as well, once again bringing his weapon to bear. I stepped into him, the katana swinging up from below and across, slashing. There was a sound like an axe biting into soft pine, and my opponent goggled as his weapon went tumbling away, part of his arm going with it. I didn't stop, though, as I followed my swing through into a deadly pirouette, bringing the red-slinging blade around full-circle with all my strength and momentum.

An arm was raised to fend off the blow, but the ancient steel passed through it without slowing, chopping down upon the juncture of neck and left shoulder, slicing through muscle, bone, and modern body armor with contemptuous ease, to finally come to rest against the sternum.

I kicked the dying man off my blade and quickly scanned the gloom for additional targets. The room empty for the moment, I allowed myself the dangerous luxury of doubling over and gasping for breath as the strength seemed to run out of me in a rush, black blobs that had nothing to do with the dimness of the room floating before my eyes. No, no, don't pass out, don't pass out. Got a long way to go yet. Don't pass out. . . .

I blinked. At first I thought it was a hallucination, what I saw as I stared down at the ancient weapon I gripped. But then I felt a wave of revulsion and dread as I realized what I was seeing was real; the blood coating the blade was vanishing, rapidly being absorbed into the glittering steel like. . .I shuddered. . .like a cat eagerly lapping up spilled milk.

The sound of a boot quietly scuffing hardwood floor snapped me out of my reverie, and I yanked my head up to see yet another of the black-clad commandos standing in the doorway from whence I had come, dart weapon in hand, staring at me. No, not me; staring at the sodden mess at my feet.

This frozen tableau lasted for several long seconds, then at last the man's eyes rose to meet mine, his own glittering with rage. With an incomprehensible curse he released his dart gun and reached into a side-pocket of his black fatigues, his hand emerging holding an all-too familiar shape.

Too damned far. I felt a hysterical giggle struggle to break free of my breast at the bitter irony of it as I began my hopeless charge, that cold strength once again flooding into me as my bloodstained weapon whipped up and back for one final slash even as the Makarov swung upwards to center on my charging form.

The 9mm bore held on me for a moment, and I could feel rather than see a black-gloved finger tightening on the trigger. Then the weapon jerked upwards as the man holding it suddenly found himself seized from behind, the fingers of his free hand scrabbling frantically at the superhuman grip around his neck as a white-faced Stefan began to slowly lift him free of the floor.

A rolling eye swung back to me, widened even further in alarm, and the automatic began to come back around, but too late. The closing of Stefan's fingers coincided with the arrival of hand-forged steel, and the sound of crushing vertebrae melded with that of sword cleaving ribs and viscera.

That eternal moment passed, and Stefan flung the corpse to the floor, a look of rage and disgust marring his normally impassive features. He then sagged back against the wall while I set the point of the dark sword on the floor and leaned on it heavily, striving to push back the blackness beginning to rim my vision. "You. . .okay?" I panted.

"I am. . .unwell, my Lord," Stefan replied gravely, a hand rising to rub at his forehead "but recovering." He glanced at the messy heap at his feet. "I think that is the last of them, but I will sweep the grounds to make sure." Still gazing at the floor, the ex-agent paused, then grimaced. "My Lord, I am so very sorry," he looked back to me "I have failed in. . .I. . . .MY LORD!"

And that, dear reader, was the last thing I heard before Lady Dithra's cold, hard, blood-spattered floor flipped up and hit me in the face.

Slowly, blearily, my eyes opened to stare up at an all-too familiar whiteness. Damn, this is getting monotonous, I remember thinking to myself as I raised a leaden arm to wipe the sleep from my eyes. I must have made some sound, for it was mere seconds later that both Stefan and Dithra were bending over me.

"How are you feeling, dear one?" Dithra's eyes searched my face anxiously, even as I noted how her own was etched with lines of exhaustion, and I felt a twinge of sympathy as I gazed up at her.

I managed a smile for her, then winced as my latest crop of bumps, scrapes and gashes made themselves known. "Like I've been worked over by the Third Armored Division," I replied wryly. "Where've you been my Lady? You've been missing all the fun."

Dithra blinked, and there was a tiny sound from Stefan's direction, almost as if he'd stifled a snort of laughter. Nah, no way. Finally, Dithra essayed a small, tentative smile. "Your definition of 'fun' is most odd, I must say, dear one." She paused, the smile fading as her head inclined, tilting slightly in an admission of guilt. "I am sorry, Hasai; I had hoped to offer you sanctuary, only to expose you to our adversaries. You were right," she sighed "perhaps it would indeed be wisest to conceal you in the midst of that which would destroy us."

"It'll drastically reduce their options, at the very least," I replied tiredly. "Not that it'll matter for very much longer. . . ." I trailed off at the look on Dithra's face. "You found something." Neither Dithra nor Stefan responded, their faces becoming strangely apprehensive. With more than a little effort I worked myself up into a sitting position, hissing quietly as the bandages across my back pulled at still-tender cuts. "You found something, didn't you?"

"Perhaps," Dithra replied, her face and posture signaling an odd mix of emotions. "There is. . . ." The ancient dragon paused, then sighed and plunged ahead. "Not far from here, we have felt something. Something that has been here for a very long time. It feels like the power of our kind, yet not. It feels of the Lung."

I stared at her for a long moment, then finally I blinked. "Kind of off the beaten path, isn't it? I thought my Ancestors' stomping grounds were on the next continent over."

"The Lung moved freely through all the lands, dear one," Dithra replied, "but they were quite secretive in their ways. Only in the lands that are now called the Orient did they act openly." The ancient dragon paused to rub her eyes. "I attempted to approach that power, in the hopes that perhaps a few of your brethren may yet live, and beg of them your succor, but I could not." She sighed. "There is. . .a protection of sorts around the place, and as I neared, that protection fed on my strength, draining me almost unto the point of death before I finally would admit defeat and turn back."

I looked at her for a moment more, then allowed my gaze to slowly drift downwards. "Well, that's that, then," I sighed at last.

"No, Hasai, you don't understand." Dithra replied, a note of urgency creeping into her voice. "It kept me at bay, that is true, but I believe that one of the Lung, one such as yourself, would be allowed to approach freely."

My eyes snapped back up to hers. "Think it would work? I'm only part-Lung, my Lady." I paused as a feeling of utter loss welled up inside me. At least I was, once, before the part of me that was dragon died. . . .

Dithra gestured negation. "I have little doubt that it would, dear one." Pause. "Besides, I do not think that we have all that much to lose. . . ."

The gorge had existed for a long time, even by a dragon's standards. Cut deep into the face of the earth by the torrential runoffs of the last set of glaciers to go crushing and grinding their way across these lands, over the millennia its innumerable crevices, nooks and shallow caves had served as shelter for wildlife, then local tribesmen, then European settlers. It was a state park now, but in spite of efforts to tame its more hazardous aspects, the gorge was far too dangerous at this time of year to remain open to tourists, which was just fine with us.

I eased myself over an even rockier portion of the faint trail that led steeply downwards into the gorge, taking a moment on the other side to catch my breath and steal a worried glance at Stefan. The further we'd gone, the worse he'd looked. By now, his face had taken on a ghostly pallor and he was puffing like a steam engine, his legs visibly trembling as he worked his way over the pile of rocks I'd just traversed. It was like something down below us was sucking the life out of him. I shivered in sympathy, and tightened my grip on the dark weapon tucked through my belt. There was little response, and I gave it an annoyed glance. I fed you. Now feed me. A reluctant surge of cold strength flowed up into me in reply, temporarily banishing the gnawing weakness that was killing me. Enough to get us to the objective? I'd hoped so, but the terrain was getting worse.

The further we descended, the more the coarse, sedimentary rock surrounding us became covered with runnels, then swaths, then sheets of green-white ice. It was runoff, snow melt trickling down from above to freeze again down in the deep shadows of this vast gouge in the earth's face, and the reason the gorge was closed to visitors during this season.

Suddenly, the heel of my left boot skidded wildly on a patch of ice disguised beneath a thin drift of dry soil. I found myself toppling, then sliding towards the edge of our treacherous way, where the dark chasm waited hungrily. I can't fly! Heart in my throat, I flailed for something, anything to arrest that skid into oblivion, my left hand at last latching onto the pitifully thin trunk of a young pine sapling poking its way through the glittering ice and snow. But once again that chill leadeness in my left side betrayed me; my grip swiftly weakened, my fingers began to slowly slide free. . . .

. . . .Abruptly my wrist was seized in what felt like a grip of iron. I swung my head up to see Stefan lying flat on the ice, a leg hooked over an outcropping of rock, outflung hand gripping my arm. For a silent moment I simply stared at him in amazement, then I was rolling over to grab the pine tree with my right hand, using it to begin the slow, painful crawl back to the relative safety of the trail.

A few very long minutes later both Stefan and I were sprawled side-by-side in the dirt trying to get our breath back.

"This sucks," I puffed at last.

Stefan made a sound, again suspiciously like a quiet chuckle. Taking off his backpack, he rummaged about inside to finally come up with ice axes, crampons, and a coil of rope. "I believe that it is time to take this hike a little more seriously, my Lord," he replied at last.

"Yeah," I sighed, then began fumbling with the crampons, working them onto the soles of my hiking boots. I had to let Stefan help me with the left one, but finally I stood, the jagged steel teeth of the crampons biting deep into the soil and ice of the trail while I buckled on the safety harness Stefan handed me next. I snapped a loop of rope into the D-ring. We checked each other's gear, then I gave Stefan a questioning look. He shook his head. "I will belay, my Lord," he replied. "You should lead."

And that's the way we did it; I would slowly feel my way down the path, Stefan, braced with the rope looped through a D-ring secured by a rocky outcropping or other solid object, keeping the line taut. I'd go for a ways down the increasingly lethal trail until I found another good anchor point, then I'd brace myself against it while Stefan lowered himself with the rope, then worked it free from the anchorage above.

We'd covered most of the descent, both of us moving like arthritic old men, when Stefan finally had to stop. "I'm sorry my Lord," he wheezed, "but we're very close." The ex-agent slumped into a sitting position on a slightly-flatter portion of the trail, his head hanging between his knees for a few moments before looking up again. "Any further, and I will be of no help to you." I studied his haggard face for a moment, then nodded wordlessly and sagged down next to him. We allowed ourselves several minutes of precious rest, then Stefan began to secure the rope about the base of a sturdy hemlock whose tentacle-like roots tenaciously gripped the stone and ice about us. "I will lower you the rest of the way."

I nodded. "All right." When he was ready, I began backing my way off the edge of the trail and down the sheer face of the gorge, my crampons biting into the ice, Stefan's lifeline keeping me from falling.

When my face was level with the trail's edge, Stefan paused. I glanced up, to see him looking at me over his shoulder. Our eyes met. "May the Ancestors guide you and watch over you, my Lord," he said at last. I gazed at him for a moment, then silently nodded my understanding. Stefan fed me more rope, and I descended.

The bottom wasn't all that much further, perhaps five minutes worth of descent, but a bulge in the ice and rock quickly cut me off from sight of Stefan. At last my crampons touched the spray-rimed boulders and twisted ice of the stream that lay in the heart of the gorge, and the line went slack.

Up above, outside this place, the land had by this time begun to dream of Spring. Here, though, the iron grip of Winter was still strong, and the ice and deep snow that surrounded me seemed to pounce upon and instantly devour any sound that dared try to disturb its reign. It was in this deathly silence that I gave the rope a few signaling tugs, unbuckled my gear, and looked about myself.

It was like some strange, alien fairyland. All about me eerily beautiful columns of blue-green and blue-white ice towered, glittering, their broad, rippled bases flowing together into vast, multicolored sheets that spread everywhere. Everything else was hidden; stone, stream, vegetation, even the vast rock walls were concealed beneath layer upon layer of sparkling ice. Nowhere was there a living thing to be seen.

Winter's Palace.

I tore my eyes away from the gorgeous, deadly spectacle, and forced myself to study my footing as I began to make my way downstream. It was still quite a ways to my objective, and the going was hard. The rocks of the stream bed were large and slick, and the snow concealed many nasty surprises. I don't know how many times I fell, but it wasn't very long before I was bruised and battered, my clothing soaked by both sweat and melt from the clinging snow, my body shivering as it fought to survive in this bitterly cold place. Twice more I drew on Dithra's dark sword, the result growing smaller each time. The third time yielded nothing at all. I was in trouble if I didn't reach my objective soon. . . .

Finally, I rounded a bend and found what I was looking for. The winding stream described a sharp hook through here, and millennia of rushing water had gouged a series of shallow caves into the sedimentary rock on the outside of the curve. Or, that was what I'd been led to understand. There was no sign of any caves, or anything else for that matter; the entire stretch was buried beneath a vast sheet of ice.

I stared at it. I was too tired to curse, too weary to do much of anything except just stand there and stare, the last of my strength slowly draining out of me. I was a dead man. Perhaps Stefan would be able to claw his way out of this frozen deathtrap, but I had no illusions about myself. Soon my body's violent shivering would fade and still, and not long after that I would lie down in the soft, beautiful snow and drift off into a peaceful sleep.

Not a bad way to go.

No, not at all.

But not today.

Not today.

My legs below the knees felt like wood, but I forced them to move anyway as I worked my way closer to the icewall, my ice axe out, chopping handholds and footholds into the sloping base of the enormous blue-green mass. Soon I could see that the sheet was not seamless, but instead was a series of ice flows that had spread and merged together over time. The result was a face that consisted of rank upon rank of icy columns, most thoroughly melded with their neighbors, a few not.

I found a gap between two such columns that seemed to go a little deeper than the ones I'd checked so far. I worked my way up to it, peered into the narrow opening.

Blackness. I fumbled at my pack with stiff fingers, fished out a flashlight and shone it into the gap, where the darkness promptly swallowed the beam without so much as a glimmer.

All right; if this wasn't it, I didn't know what was. There was no way I'd get through that gap with all my gear, and I wasn't about to risk bringing the proverbial house down on top of me by trying to chop the hole wider, so I stripped most of it off and left it, my pack and the dark sword behind as I wormed my way into the hole, armed only with ice axe and flashlight.

It was a long, slick way down, and several times my axe was the only thing that saved me from a deadly headlong plunge. Finally it opened up enough for me to get turned around and let my crampons bite into the ice for the rest of the descent.

Bottom. The cliff face was undercut, leaving a small gap between the ice flows and the rock itself. I moved along it, ofttimes edging sideways through the darkness as the gap widened and narrowed. Abruptly it grew much wider, and I found myself at the caves.

I heaved a sigh of relief, immediately followed by a cough. The air wasn't too good down here, but at least it was a little warmer. I rested for several minutes, then began my search.

The caves ran along the base of the wall much like pearls on a string. Most were little more than shallow gouges in the stone; I ignored these, concentrating on only the deepest.

I found nothing. I searched again, looking for rockfalls, cave-ins, openings that may have drifted shut with sand or debris, then widened my search to include the smaller, less likely caves, a terrible feeling of dread working its way into my heart.

Nothing.

Eventually I found myself back in the largest of the lot, sitting on a heap of sand, my arms on my knees, my head in my arms, exhaustion clawing at me as I fought to hold back tears of despair. "Stefan, Dithra, I'm sorry, but I can't find anything," I mumbled. "There's nothing here. There's nothing here. . . ."

I sat there for awhile, rocking gently back and forth, staring at the stone and ice that surrounded me, mocking me. Was my flashlight getting dim? Perhaps. Not that it really mattered. The burning in my lungs told me that I was using up the air faster than it was working its way in from outside, and that really didn't matter, either. I was already dead, and because of my failure, God only knew how many, man and dragon, were going to die as well.

Finally I levered myself back to my feet, then slowly trudged back into the opening to search yet again. Four long strides took me to the back wall, where I took my ice axe and began to probe for a crack, a fissure, anything that I might have somehow missed before. It quickly degenerated into wild, flailing blows, the axe head creating showers of sparks as I smashed it again and again against the unyielding stone. At last I flung the axe down and grabbed at the rock with my bare hands, clawing, shoving at it in a gesture of utter futility. Ancestors, please, I beg of you---

Abruptly the utterly solid wall seemed to snap out of existence and I found myself toppling forward, falling into darkness. . . .

Silence. Utter silence, save for the sound of my breathing. I slowly grew aware that I was laying on my back on something soft. Several more long breaths, listening, then I opened my eyes. There was no sign of my flashlight but there was illumination of a sort, a dim, silvery, shadowless glow that seemed to come from the air itself.

Slowly I sat up, finding myself atop a low mound of dry, soft sand. I was at the edge of a cavern of some sort with a high, gently arching ceiling of unnaturally smooth stone, almost domelike in shape. I looked at the wall just behind me, and found seamless rock. I could find no hint of a passageway anywhere, no clue as to how I'd ended up here. It was like some big sealed- up bubble in the rock, yet the air was fresh. How strange.

Slowly I got to my feet and studied my surroundings. The glow seemed stronger toward the center of the cavern, so I cautiously limped across the cavern's sandy floor in that direction.

There was a circular depression near the middle, deep enough to conceal what lay within until I was almost on top of it, and there I froze, my eyes growing wide with wonder, and more than a little fear.

It was a sphere, perhaps a meter in diameter. Its glowing pearl-like surface seemed to ripple like slowly-moving water, faint streamers of every color imaginable appearing to drift just beneath its translucent finish as it hung there, perhaps two meters off the cavern floor, with nothing I could see to hold it up. I stared at it, transfixed for long moments by the artifact's unearthly beauty. Then I saw what waited just beyond the sphere, and my heart stopped cold.

An enormous, serpentine body with short, powerful limbs coiled there, its sides sunken inwards by the passage of untold years. The huge metallic scales that covered the creature's length were golden in color, dimmed only slightly by dust and corrosion. Across the massive neck and shoulders lay the remains of what had once been a proud mane, while the skull itself lay comfortably atop folded, five-toed forepaws, the eyesockets seeming to stare at me expectantly. Waiting.

Lung.

I drew in a shaky breath, then slowly let it out, fighting to get my jangled nerves under some semblance of control. Finally, I worked my way down the soft, gentle slope into the depression and slowly approached the ancient corpse, giving the glowing sphere a wide berth. At last I stood before one of the great eyesockets, staring into the darkness it held, feelings of sadness and a nearly-unbearable loneliness welling up within me.

The Lung are no more. . . .

I lifted my good hand and gently stroked the Ancestor's massive eye-ridge, the mummified hide feeling like carved wood beneath my fingers. "I'm sorry," I whispered to no-one in particular, for no reason in particular, then at last sighed and turned away to inspect that glowing globe.

The artifact was strange, to say the least. It just hovered there, putting out that cold, silvery glow that steadfastly refused to cast any shadows no matter how close or far away I stood from it. I couldn't look at its hypnotically rippling skin for more than a few seconds at a time; the surface would seem to slowly swell in my vision if I did, almost as if I were falling into some vast, luminous hole. At last I screwed up my courage and tried to touch it.

Big mistake. The instant my hand brushed its warm, slick surface, something seemed to grab my hand and slam it against the sphere with impossible force. The sphere flared eye-searingly bright, blinding me while torrents of Power came pouring into me like some deadly electrical current. Everything that was me was caught up in a monstrous grip by that force, pinned, ruthlessly examined by some shadowy, immensely powerful entity.

Who are you?

I would have gasped, perhaps did, but I could get no sense of my body. I was a single spark whirled about within a firestorm as I struggled to reply. I am Hasai. I mean no harm--

The entity swept my remaining words aside like smoke before a tornado. The strength that held me fast intensified dangerously as it asked me again. Who are you?

What did it want? What could I offer it to get it to release me? Desperately, I replied. My Name is Michael--

Again my offering was brushed aside, a dragon's true Name ignored like so much empty noise as the power intensified yet again. I could feel that which was myself begin to fail beneath the onslaught, tattering, fraying into the maelstrom. . . .

Who are you?

There was a reply, then, from deep within the torn part of myself. A whisper only, from something that I had given up for dead, and myself with it.

I am Shen Lung.

For what seemed like several eternities, there was no response. Then slowly, slowly, the power began to ebb, its force calming like a storm that had run its course. Abruptly there was a massive wrench, as if the entire universe had suddenly twisted ninety degrees, and I found myself laying on my side in the cavern's soft sand, still gripping the sphere, panting raggedly as more words formed within my aching head.

At last, at last. . . . . . . .bequeath to thee stewardship of these lands and all that lives upon them. . . . . . . .wish thee wisdom and peace. . . . . . . .at last. . . . . . . .free. . . .

The last was accompanied by an audible sigh. I whipped my head around to find the ancient Lung's remains collapsing upon itself, crumbling, dissolving into a fine gray dust that sifted down into the soil and vanished. In less than a minute there has no trace left of what had lain there for so very long. I stared at the spot for perhaps a minute more, then swallowed hard. "Go in peace, dear Ancestor," I whispered, "Go in peace."

I last I looked away. I closed my eyes and let my head sag back to the sand for a little bit until the throbbing in my skull abated somewhat. Dimly I wondered just what the hell had just happened. Did I do the right thing? Come to think of it, what did I do?

Enough; worry about it later. With a weary grunt I sat back up, the motion accompanied with a familiar jangling noise. What? Something was . . . different. Suspiciously I looked about myself, the hand I had wrapped around that strange sphere tightening. . . .

Wait a minute. Wrapped? I looked down, to find the glowing, swirling sphere nestled in the palm of my right hand. My huge, armored, taloned hand.

That which had been torn from me had not been restored; rather, the enormous forces inherent within the sphere were acting as sort of a life-support system, keeping what was left of me going for the time being. But I didn't know that yet, nor do I think I would have cared all that much as I reveled in the giddy joy of being myself again.

That joy eventually faded, though, as other issues began to intrude, such as how the heck was I going to get out of that place. I padded my way back to where I had first come in, began searching the walls for some sort of exit. Just like in the caves, though, I found precisely nothing. Even using that strange sphere as a field-expedient lantern I could find no fissure, no gap, not even the faintest crack to indicate a passageway. Remembering what had happened the last time, I placed my hands against the stony surface and pushed. I even invoked the Ancestors again. Nothing.

Finally I settled back into the sand with a sigh, and contemplated the rock sealing me in. Unbidden, the mummified remains of the Ancestor came to mind, and I shuddered. How long had he been here? Why had he been here? Had he been trapped, the only hope of freedom being that someone would come and replace-- I broke off that thought, shivering. No. There had to be a way out; I just hadn't found it yet. I renewed my search, once again examining the stone, then slowly expanding my search to the surrounding walls.

Once again, I found the way quite by accident. A biped human probably wouldn't realize it, but trying to move about on four limbs and carry something at the same time isn't exactly easy. Finally I gave a snort of annoyance and tucked that swirling sphere into my jaws for safekeeping.

It was like sticking my tongue into a light socket. Once more the world whited-out around me as more Power than I ever believed possible slammed into me, but not attacking this time. Instead, it surrounded me, infused me. Abruptly I felt this massive shifting sensation, and I once again became aware of the cavern about me. Then I was the cavern. Then I was the bedrock surrounding it. Then the entire hillside. Then. . . .

It was a familiar experience, one I'd had before, upon a tiny scrap of an island somewhere in the Caribbean. The only thing different was now I had this enormous feeling of control. When my awareness had expanded to encompass the winds about the hillside, something within me said stop, and it did.

Somehow I looked about myself, seeing once again the incandescent lines of power inscribing both land and sky, the brilliant web of light painstakingly woven about the cavern in which I lay. Studying them, I quickly came to understand the reason I could find neither entrance nor exit was because there was none; the only portal was the one created by the Power of the sphere.

A moment's thought was all it took. There was no feeling of transition, just a strange snap, and I found myself mostly within my own head again, but now located roughly ten meters above the jagged surface of the gorge's frozen stream. A moment's panic, then I realized that I wasn't falling. Instead, I was drifting through the air above the frozen stream almost like a balloon, and with about as much effort. Suddenly I understood how the wingless Lung flew; what need did one have for wings, when the very winds about you were extensions of yourself? Images of ancient woodcuts, of ancestral jaws gripping mysterious spheres came to my dazed mind, and for a moment I wondered what would happen if I took the sphere from my mouth, but quickly decided to forego the doubtlessly wonderful experience of doing a belly-flop onto jagged rocks and twisted ice.

A glimmer of Power caught my eye then, pulling me out of my vague musings. What? My eyes widened, then narrowed as I spied the still form lying crumpled atop a drift of glittering snow. In my current state, I could see the lines of Power that made up the wards of this place tangled all about the form, drawing the life out of it, very nearly to the point of death.

Stefan.

Evidently I was gone too long, and heedless of his own safety and the admonishments of both myself and Dithra he'd come to rescue me. Now it was he that required rescuing, I reflected with wry exasperation as I drifted closer.

I must have made some sort of sound, for Stefan stirred then, lifting a ghastly-pale face to stare upwards with eyes that quickly widened in both shock and wonder. Without even thinking about it I cupped one hand, and the winds that were a part of me lifted him gently from his resting place and deposited him neatly into my palm, which I held protectively close to my chest as I thought of Dithra's lair and the need to get Stefan there as quickly as possible--

Again there was that snap, and suddenly I found myself coiled upon the floor of Dithra's living room. Whoa! I blinked, then shook my head to clear it as I gingerly laid an apparently speechless Stefan down upon a sofa, then worked on getting myself down to roughly horse-size before I accidentally smashed any more of Dithra's gewgaws.

Curiously enough, the sphere had scaled itself down as well. Frowning, I took it from my mouth to once again examine it, and was staggered by the abrupt collapse of my awareness back into my physical shell. I was still trying to reorient myself when Dithra came storming into the room, still in her human guise.

She obviously thought her home was being invaded again, for the last time I saw a creature moving like that was when a German Shepherd I once owned mistook me for an intruder late one night and came at me, silent, fast, and hard. Just like my poor old dog, Dithra quickly realized her error, her eyes going wide as she quite literally skidded to a halt, staring at me in what I suddenly realized was a look of utter astonishment. Then she further confused me by drawing herself up and carefully executing a dragon's gesture of respect.

To a superior.

I felt my lower jaw sagging in shock as she proceeded to say something in the growl-purr-hiss-click language of the dragons, then shook my head and interrupted what sounded like was about to become quite a speech. "Dithra, what in the world are you doing?"

The ancient dragon froze, then slowly straightened to stare at me. Finally her eyes widened in disbelief. "Hasai? Is that you?"

I stared back at her. "Yes, Dithra, it's me," I replied slowly, then paused and looked over at Stefan, who was still looking at me like I'd grown a second head. Something was seriously wrong here. "What made you think otherwise?" I said at last.

For several long moments the ancient dragon simply stood there and looked at me, a very odd expression on her face. Finally she moved towards me, and slowly, gingerly, laid her right hand against my temple. A pause, then suddenly there was the image of some strange being in my mind. The fantastic creature's massive head was framed by a lion's mane of glittering metallic ribbons punctuated by a pair of large, upsweeping horns. The steel-scaled body was serpentine, almost snakelike, jagged dorsal spines running down the entire, seemingly endless length of backbone, the hind limbs almost an afterthought. The tail, very nearly as long as the rest of the body, ended at last in another plume of steely ribbons. No wings.

I studied the fabulous creature for almost a full minute before realization hit me and I blinked. It was me.

I am Shen Lung.

Stefan was almost completely recovered from his encounter with the Lungs' wards by the time we sorted everything out, Dithra seated in what I was beginning to suspect was her favorite chair, and myself coiled comfortably upon the floor. My metallic mane made soft clashing noises as I scratched my head. "So what you're saying," I continued, looking at Dithra "is that point of light I saw in my dream was a piece of-- of myself?"

Dithra gestured affirmation. "I believe so, dear one. It would explain much about the damage you suffered during your last encounter with Ksstha." She paused, thinking. "I also believe that the 'dreams' you've been having are attempts to use this fragment to weaken you, and, in the end, finally succeed in enslaving you." The ancient dragon looked up at me. "You didn't see Ksstha?"

"No, my Lady. There was a dragon there, alone. I don't think it was Ksstha, though."

"Interesting." Absently, Dithra began to gently stroke one of the arms of her battered old chair, almost like a cat sharpening its claws. "Most interesting. Could it be that Niata has decided to play a private game of her own? I daresay Ksstha would be less than amused."

I snorted, then smiled grimly. "Hell, he'd skin her alive. Slowly."

Dithra returned my smile. "Indeed he would, if he decided to be merciful. Niata must be quite sure of herself to take such a hideous risk." She sobered. "And that confidence is not misplaced, if she indeed has captured that missing part of you, dear one."

Things went quiet for awhile after that as I contemplated Dithra's words. We'd already figured out the reason for my change in appearance; under Dithra's probing hands we'd found that the power of the strange sphere of the Lungs that I'd brought back with me had somehow managed to flow into and 'fill' the damage done to the dragon portion of myself. The fix was illusory, however, as beneath the patch that which was me continued to unravel. As long as I stayed in close proximity to it the sphere would keep my body alive, if increasingly Lung in appearance, but eventually all it would be supporting would be an empty shell.

As for the sphere itself, Dithra could tell me little. "They house unimaginable Power, and they are a thing solely of the Lung. It is death for anyone who is not of their kind to touch. Other than that, I know nothing."

I looked down at the softly glowing sphere, now nestling in the palm of my hand. "So. Eventually Niata will succeed in drawing the remainder of my spirit to her and enslaving it. Is that what you're saying?" I didn't look up from the sphere to attempt to read either Dithra's or Stefan's expressions; their silence was eloquent enough. At last I grunted. "I see." I grew quiet again, thinking furiously. Tactically. Niata and I had battled; she had my measure. She knew my powers, my abilities. . . .

. . . .But she did not know I now had this sphere of the Lung.

A corner of my hard mouth curled upwards into a cold, cruel smile.

This dumb, worn-out old goon not only had a very big gun, he now had a damned nuke.

At last I looked up into two worried faces. "Well. I suppose I should go get ready for my next meeting with Ksstha's little renegade, don't you think?" I then chuckled grimly as those faces became positively stricken.

"My Lord. . . ." I looked at Stefan, but his voice trailed off as he visibly groped for something to say, something to offer. I felt my smile warming as I watched. "Thank you Stefan," I finally replied. He stared at me helplessly, then dropped his gaze. I then turned to Dithra, read the question in her own eyes. "I'm not quite sure yet," I answered, my smile turning grim again, "but I promise you Niata will not find it-- pleasant." I raised the sphere.

"Hasai," I paused as Dithra lifted a hand, but after a moment, it fell again. "Dear one, we will wait for you." She said at last.

I studied her eyes for a long moment, read the unspoken message there. I nodded. "That is the only thing I can ask of you, Dithra. Thank you."

Another pause, then I felt my fangs baring themselves in a carnivore's grin as I winked at Stefan, placed the sphere within my jaws, and thought of a place buried deep within the bedrock of the earth. . . .

Snap.

That bubble within the Earth was exactly as I'd left it, of course. I had no doubt it would continue to exist, unchanged, until the end of days.

It seemed vaguely sacrilegious to coil there, atop the mound of soft sand that had been the resting place of he who had abided here for so very long. Perhaps he would have welcomed me to it, but I would never know. The Ancestor was gone, leaving me with a strangely glowing sphere, and mystery upon mystery.

That sphere hung before me within easy reach, shedding its weird, shadowless glow upon myself and my surroundings. In the sand all about myself and the sphere were ring within ring of elaborate defenses, the outer patterns of actinic light hastily constructed, the inner circles increasingly sophisticated. They meant nothing, of course; if Niata did indeed possess a piece of my spirit, then anything I wrought with my own power would crumble before her with naught to show for my efforts but a moment's delay.

Hopefully, that moment's delay would be all that I would need.

With more than a trace of anxiety I rechecked the patterns for what seemed to be the hundredth time. Then, for the hundredth time, my teeth glinted in the soft light as I sneered at my trepidation.

But no, I silently argued with myself, the fear was not unfounded. It was only by sheer dumb luck, the rapping of a handful of pebbles against a window pane, that had saved me the last time Niata had attacked, saved me from an eternity of slavery, I realized with a shudder.

But Niata would try again, I knew. She'd try again, then again and again and again, if necessary. I had absolutely no doubt that even now both Dithra and Ksstha were turning the world inside-out looking for the rogue magus, so Niata had nothing to lose, and all the world to gain. And she only needed to win once.

A last glance at my patterns, then with a sigh I laid down upon the heap of sand, my head upon my crossed forelegs, staring into the swirling depths of the sphere. Dithra. Stefan. If it hadn't been for Stefan's lethal efficiency and Dithra's resources I would have been meat for the wolves long ago. And that was the problem, wasn't it? For too long I'd been using them as a crutch, knowing, even as I postured a false independence, that any time the going got rough, I could scuttle back to them for protection like a pawn huddling in the reassuring shadow of other, more powerful pieces.

For too long I had been that pawn, blundering about in the dark, buffeted about by forces I could not control, but damn it, no more. No more would I simply react to another's moves, for that was the classic loser's strategy. It was time to act. It was time for people to realize this pawn was no longer going to play their games. It was time for me to execute a few knight-moves of my own.

That iron-hard resolve would last for all of an hour or so as I gazed into the hypnotic depths of the sphere, but eventually I would get up and check my defenses yet again.

Finally, it came. How long had I been there, waiting? Days? Weeks? The rogue magus must have known more than a little about strategy herself, for she waited until I'd worked myself into a frazzled, nervous wreck before striking again. My reactions were sluggish, almost zombielike when the glowing lines of my defenses suddenly exploded into sunlike brilliance, my patterns flaring and dying one after another like constructs of tissue paper before the flames of Hell. Too fast. Too fast. Caught out of position, with a lurch I threw myself across the cavern's sandy floor, jaws reaching for the sphere--

Suddenly I found myself once again flying through a starry blackness, across some vast, shadowed, twisted terrain, something drawing me on, leading me as surely as if there were a leash around my neck, its owner pulling steadily.

Dimly, I felt myself struggle, try to think beneath a cold, relentless pressure that strove to crush my mind into oblivion. Had I reached the sphere? I was sure I hadn't, and fought to bring myself back to the place where my physical form now lay, to get to the atrifact. . . .

Once again I have no idea how long I flew through those skies with their alien constellations, but finally I saw something ahead, a flat, circular area in the midst of that dead, tormented land, from the center of which emanated an eye-hurtingly bright blue-white glow. Something within me yearned towards that light, and whatever was leading me on dragged me down towards that clearing.

I landed, found myself moving reluctantly forward. The light had resolved itself into a luminescent spark held within a cage consisting of lines of sullen crimson light, tiny flames of grimy orange and blood red seeming to lick fitfully about them. As I drew closer, the yearning within me for that glow swelled into an agonized hunger. Beyond the cage I could see another form, large, draconic in shape. The form's pale blue eyes shone coldly in the light as they studied me. With the last pathetic rags of a fast-fading will I fought those eyes, my heart crumpling into despair as I felt myself begin to bow in submission--

And stopped. Something was happening. Abruptly a silvery glow flared to life about me, forcing back the encroaching darkness. The strange dreamlike quality of my surroundings splintered, then fell away like a window pane struck by some great hammer. Power flooded into me, and the terrible compulsion upon me retreated somewhat. The sphere! Somehow I'd made contact!

My respite was short-lived, however. Those glowing eyes had widened in surprise at first, the shadowy form seeming to cringe slightly from the light. Then they narrowed in anger. A dragon's forepaw reached from the shadows, its claws seeming to gently caress the cage of crimson. That glorious spark within flickered, and an all-too familiar wave of icy agony slammed into me, accompanied with a redoubled imperative to submit. But the silvery power of the sphere flamed higher as well. I weathered the assault, then counterattacked with brilliant blasts of light that tore the darkness to shreds and caused the draconic shape to writhe in pain just as great as my own.

There was no finesse, no strategy to this battle, just two beings silently slugging it out, both desperate to win a conflict that neither could afford to lose. Niata had both forepaws on the soul-snare now and used it ruthlessly, striving to crush me with the power the fragment of myself she possessed gave her over me. Though I had the sphere she still should have succeeded, but I also could sense the dark wraith that was my human half once again bolstering me, keeping us whole, and fighting back savagely with a vicious strength I could only marvel at.

It seemed to take forever, but slowly, oh, so slowly both Niata and the shadows she strove to protect herself with were forced back, then back again. At last, the rogue magus could no longer reach out far enough to influence the evidently stationary cage, and her attacks against me abruptly subsided into weak, insubstantial things, easily ignored.

Stillness. I finally stood before that glowing spark, while Niata, eyes flaming with a mixture of both rage and fear, crouched at the very edge of the circular area, for some reason being very careful not to leave it.

At last I spoke. After all the silence, my words seemed to jolt the very air, fanning away and away like ripples upon a pond. "I believe this belongs to me," I said as I raised my hand and reached. The cage of crimson light flared protectively at my approach, the flames intensifying, but it all simply dissolved, eaten away by the silvery light that surrounded me as my hand closed upon that long-lost piece of myself.

Instantly my aura exploded nova-bright, my sight washing out as I felt something warm and alive come surging into me, rushing into and filling a deep, aching hole within me, the easing of that so-long endured spiritual pain far more welcome than any mere ecstasy could ever hope to be.

Gradually that glorious light dimmed, and my vision cleared. There was a moment's vertigo, but then I realized that once again my form had shifted. The sensation of huge wings stirring restlessly across my back made me nearly weep for joy as I stretched luxuriantly, reveling in the feelings of something I had almost given up for lost.

Movement caught my eye. During my dangerous moment of inattentiveness Niata had started something. The sphere's aura about me flared again as I braced for yet another attack, but then I realized the Power the rogue magus was frantically trying to invoke was not for assault, but rather for escape.

For a moment I almost let her go; the giddy sense of completeness that still thrummed within me had me ready to forgive almost anything, but grimly I shook it off and advanced on her, her castings growing more frenetic as I approached.

A thought, a flicker of the sphere's power, and Niata's partially completed construct shattered, the backlash smashing her to the ground. She lay there, stunned for a moment, then frantically scrabbled to her feet, the end of her lashing tail leaving the circle.

It was then that I learned why the magus was so loath to leave the clearing, for instantly something came darting out of the surrounding shadowy terrain, zeroing in on Niata's wayward appendage. I didn't get a good look at it; all I knew was that it was big, black, and eye-blurringly fast. Niata instantly yanked herself back inside, and just as quickly that dark thing was gone, leaving only a deep, clawed gouge in the rocky soil where Niata's tail had lain to verify that it had ever existed at all.

Ancestors. Did nightmares have inhabitants? I was beginning to suspect this wasn't really a dream at all. "Nice place you have here," I remarked caustically, carefully masking a small shudder, then looked up at the alien constellations wheeling above us. "I wonder where we are." I allowed Niata several long moments to break her stubborn silence, then gave an elaborate shrug and looked down at the crouching dragoness. "It doesn't really matter at the moment; I'll find out eventually. What is important now is figuring out what to do with you."

Niata's eyes blazed again at that, and her teeth glinted in a desperate snarl. For a moment I thought she was actually going to launch herself at my throat, but evidently some shred of sanity still dwelled within that armored skull, for she held herself still. Once again she did not speak, and I began to wonder if she could speak at all.

My eyes wandered down her length, and, strangely, felt a pang of regret at the amount of damage I saw there, evidence of our last encounter. Burn marks, some going deep into the flesh, were everywhere, splashed liquidly across her in napalm's unmistakable signature. Her right forepaw was little more than a charred claw, one digit burned completely away, and her right wing was a half-melted ruin. It would be a long time, if ever, before Niata flew again. For a moment I marveled at how much damage a dragon could take and still live.

"Someone whom I once cherished asked me to stop killing," I spoke at last, "and in her memory, I will not. But we both know that I cannot simply let you go. You have placed yourself in a position where you must gain control over me, or face both Dithra and Ksstha, neither of whom would hesitate to rip out your throat. An interesting problem, wouldn't you agree?"

Niata's eyes filled with dread at the sound of Ksstha's name and darted about, looking for some avenue of escape. Still she did not speak. Her stubborn silence was beginning to really get to me as I stood there, staring at her tensely coiled form, my mind searching for a solution. Suddenly it came to me, and I immediately knew it came from some outside source, for it contained things that I had not thought possible, never conceived of before. From where did it come? The sphere? Where? For a moment, I had the strangest feeling that someone, or something, was watching over my shoulders. I glanced behind me, but of course there was nothing there. . . .

Never mind; ponder it later. I smiled as I turned back to the magus, and it was not a kindly smile. "Fear not, Niata, for from this day forward you are under my protection. No dragon, no being shall touch you without going through me first." The rogue magus blinked at me in momentary incomprehension, then a growing amazement. My smile grew wider, became a carnivore's grin. "Yes, dear one, you will live. But we both know that there are far worse things in the universe than death, don't we?"

I lifted my right hand. Already that silvery glow about it was intensifying, growing ever brighter while Niata stared at it in terror. Soon my hand shone like a small sun, unbearable to look upon, and abruptly I stabbed it at the battered dragoness.

Hastily thrown-up defenses, desperately grasping, slashing claws were brushed aside, and Niata stared down in utter disbelief as my hand plunged deeply into her breast as easily as into a pool of water and with as little physical damage. Then she threw her head backwards, jaws agape in utter agony as my talons stretched wide within her, gathering, then closing.

I ripped my hand out of her, and she collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. I allowed her the several long moments she needed to recover, to look back up at me, to see the amorphous red-orange glow that struggled within my grip, and finally to realize what I held.

It was only then that I closed my fist, and that glow seemed to pop like a soap bubble, scattering glimmering fragments that quickly faded into nothingness. "You will live, dragon," I ground out "but you are magus no longer."

Niata made a sound then, head thrown back, eyes bulging with utter horror, she gave voice to a long, wordless, hissing wail of mind-destroying loss, then crumpled to lay huddled in the dust, panting raggedly, her eyes staring at nothing.

I stared down at the ruin that I had created, the ashes of victory bitter in my mouth. "Get thee hence," I whispered at last, drawing upon the power of the sphere. There was a snap, and Niata vanished.

I closed my eyes then, and allowed myself a few precious seconds of rest, and perhaps more than a little regret. It was for a moment only, but when I opened them again, I looked upon nightmare. Whatever wards Niata had surrounded this place with were now rapidly fading. That thing I'd glimpsed so briefly must have sensed it as well, for it had reappeared, and now was pacing impatiently just outside the collapsing perimeter. It'd brought several friends this time, all of them watching me with hungry eyes of utter blackness.

Another moment, and then my mind finally comprehended the twisted shapes surrounding me. I shuddered back, the silvery light about me guttering, and in that instant they sprang. With an oath I backhanded one of the things that came slavering for my throat, then flamed two others. They fell back, silently clawing at their faces, only to be replaced by still more. I smashed yet another aside, saw the black wave of hundreds of the things rushing upon me from all directions, knew I had only seconds before they dragged me down. My hind legs tensed, then exploded upwards, my regained wings booming like thunder as I fought to get away.

For a moment I thought I'd succeeded, but then I felt fangs close about my right hind leg. This was most certainly not a dream! I set my jaws and struggled for altitude as the creature strove to drag me back down into the mass of blackness that now boiled beneath me, fangs and claws seeking a chink in my armor as it tried to climb my leg.

Slowly, so slowly I gained altitude, but still the creature clung stubbornly, biting and clawing at me long after the drop beneath us became fatal. Try as I might I could not dislodge it, and slowly the thing began to work its way upwards, seeking to tear out my life. . . .

Enough. I bent my long neck downwards, my jaws gaping wide as I flamed the creature directly in the face at pointblank range. After several endless seconds I began to think that not even that would get the thing off me as its claws continued to scrabble at my armor even as its terrible visage blistered and bubbled from the heat, the dark eyes still looking up at me with insane hatred even as they boiled in their sockets.

Finally something broke. The hideous, smoking thing gave a shudder, then its grip weakened and slid away, its