Fistandantilus Reborn - Douglas Niles [44]
After that fight, Flayzeranyx had returned to Sanction to meet with Emperor Ariakas himself. The mighty serpent had been ordered to return to the Red Wing, which was occupying much of Southern Solamnia at the time. There he was to be assigned a new rider, and he would return to the war to avenge the losses brought about by the sudden and unwelcome involvement of the metallic dragons.
Instead, Flayze had decided he’d had enough of fighting, at least, enough of the kind of violence required for the execution of the emperor’s grandiose plans. The rogue red dragon had veered south, crossing the New-sea, finally coming to rest in this rugged region of Kharo-lis. The cave where he had recently secluded himself had been a fortuitous discovery on his earlier campaign. Subsequently it had provided a refuge wherein he could wait out the war in safety and comfort.
Now clean of the sticky mud, Flayzeranyx took to the air, flying high through the night and wondering about the fate of the world during the interval of his long nap. For a long time he glided through the skies, skirting the massif of Thorbardin-he knew that even the most deadly attack of Ariakas’s legions was not likely to have reduced that dwarven stronghold-and seeking familiar spoors on the night breeze. He smelled proof of humans and elves in the forests and plains below and caught the acrid stink of a hill dwarf village well to the north.
Finally he detected the reptilian scent that he had been seeking. He soared low, silently gliding through the skies, drawing closer to the source of the odor that brought so many familiar and tangible memories. Acrid smoke tickled his nostrils, and he suspected the creatures he sought were gathered around a dying fire. A glance at the stars showed him that it was nearly dawn, and then he crested a low ridge and saw a dozen or more human-sized figures wrapped in cloaks and lying motionless around the embers of a large blaze.
Settling to the ground in a rush of wings, the dragon lowered his head and glowered balefully at a lone sentry, one who dozed, half standing against a nearby tree.
“Y-Your lordship!” stammered the draconian, dropping its sword as it scrambled to come to attention. “Get up, useless scuts!” it barked at the sleeping company. “Greet his crimson lordship!”
Alerted by the shout and the wind of the dragon’s landing, more of the reptilian dragonmen rose from their sleep, muttering and cowering, regarding the monstrous serpent with slitted, fearful eyes.
Flayze was pleased to see that the draconians reacted to his august presence with instinctive obedience and fear. The red dragon huffed a deep breath, a thudding sound like a distant boom of thunder, and the creatures cast themselves facedown onto the ground.
“Tell me, little snakes,” he hissed, slowly articulating each word. “What news of the war?”
The draconian guard, apparently used to the slower time sense of great wyrms, raised his head to ask a question. “You refer to the Draconian War, Mighty Lord? The campaigns of the Highlord Ariakas?”
“I do.”
“Sad to say, Excellent Fire Breather, the dragons of Paladine and their cruel lances inflicted tragic defeat. The highlord is dead, his armies disbanded.”
“I see.” Flayze was not terribly displeased by the news. “And what of these lands? Who rules?”
“Much of this land is wild, O Mighty Wyrm. That is why we are able to survive here. The Plains of Dergoth, to the north, are a barren desert. But we have seen a brass dragon there, near the mountain of the great skull.”
“Aye, Skullcap.” Flayzeranyx remembered flying over the place. He had been curious during that earlier exploration, had even thought to land and investigate, but his rider had ordered him on, no doubt driven toward some other pointless matter of the war.
“He is a bold one, that brass,” declared one of the other draconians in a sibilant accusation. “He killed Dwarfskinner, just last month.”
“Aye, a killer,” murmured several others. They looked at