LIGHTNOVELONLINE Cavern Exile: The Key is Turned
The black dragon crawls down the half-melted tunnel. The walls glow redly and are slick with heat: to the black dragon it feels as if it is crawling down the throat of some great beast, although it has never heard of any being greater than a dragon.
Its own throat is wracked with pain, and its breathing is harsh and comes slowly. Burning open the passage has taken nearly every ounce of flame left; its lifeforce is drained to the last embers.
Yet those smoldering embers are enough to complete the task it has set itself. It exits the tunnel and splashes into the slowly spreading pool of magma at the bottom. It looks around the massive hall, at each prisoner caged and nailed to the stone walls by runed tungsten. Pitiful. The black dragon sneers.
To be a dragon, then to be caged up like a farm animal, fed slurry through a tube, milked for flame like brute beasts are milked by dwarves and humans, unable to resist or escape, or even to commit suicide—no mortal language has words strong enough to convey such disgrace. Death is preferable by far to this. The black dragon wonders why they did not choose it, as surely they might have when they saw that Thanerzak was stronger than they.
They could have clenched their jaws tight, driven their fire outward, and blasted themselves into spheres of brilliant flame. No dwarf would have survived the heat, not at combat distance. But instead the dragons submitted.
Pathetic.
The black dragon makes its way up the hall. Deep cuts in the stone mark the strikes from a terrible battle, and the blasted, melted ruins of two cages show that the duel was not without collateral damage.
Two very powerful dwarves went at it here, the black dragon sees. Dwarves are little better than dragons when it comes to greed—one faction must have taken the opportunity of the hunt to go after the other. This war must be why the tunnels were so poorly guarded. The black dragon wonders whether Thanerzak or his foe came off better.
Not that it matters—whoever won, the cavern will have a different ruler soon enough.
It continues along. The hall is longer than it first thought. The size of the dragons pinned to the walls, shivering slightly within their semi-circular cages, plays havoc with perspective. The black dragon feels its legs and arm weaken. The heat from the flames burning in its heart struggles to reach the outer muscles.
Nevertheless, it persists. Only the greatest prize will do: the forefather at the very end of the hall. The one whose wings spread for hundreds of feet, whose each talon is as long as the black dragon’s legs, whose flame it can feel even from this far away—a hot and fierce dragonflame.
Yet the heat is hollow; the fuel it consumes corrupt.
The fuel is hope.
Dragons should not feel hope. A true dragon feels nothing but hunger.
The black dragon reaches the cage of the dragon emperor—so this creature used to style itself. It brings its tail around and shakes the key into its hand. The diamond glitters brilliantly in the crimson ambience.
The black dragon inserts it into the ornate lock standing between the two foremost bars.
It turns it.
Runes flash electric blue up the bars, first the central two then the rest in a cascade of ascending light. Mechanisms whir loudly and the bars split at the middle, then over the course of several minutes retract silently into the floor and ceiling. With a final whir, the lock mechanism sinks down, ejects the key gently, then disappears into a neat slot in the floor
The black dragon looks up at the dragon emperor, who is still tightly secured by chains, spikes, and a brutalist head covering. A pipe is stuck into its throat. Other locks are located at each limb, both wings, and the neck.
It picks up the key and with terrible strain spreads its wings and flaps up into the air. Each beat is a struggle: it feels its body grow heavier with each passing second. Its heart of flame flares bright with each effort, and each time the flame dims, it becomes darker than before. Parts of the black dragon's flesh feel hard and dead, solidified into rock.
Greed for power keeps it moving upward. It clears its forefather’s waist, then the deep chest hot with inner flame, the outstretched arms, and finally to its shoulders from which its hundred-foot wings spread. With a final effort the black dragon turns and flaps to perch on the left shoulder like a massive carrion bat.
The dragon emperor speaks—not using vibrations of air, not just because it cannot, but because such crudity is only used when communicating with lesser beings. Its voice is a halo of heat that shimmers around it.
“Who are you?” it asks.
“I am your child, or grandchild, or perhaps great grandchild, if those terms can be applied.”
“One of us survived the purge!”
“I was but an egg.”
“This is great luck indeed.”
“Indeed.”
“I always kept faith that our kind would prove stronger than the dwarves. It seems I was right—in their arrogance they neglected to extinguish a spark that will become an inferno.”
“Indeed they did,” sneers the black dragon.
“Lucky, for I don’t think our northern cousins would ever have come. They were ever an unhelpful bunch.”
“I have never met them.”
“No, no, but you shall. Once you free us, and our strength is recovered, we will pillage them as the second order of business.”
“The first order of business will be the dwarves, I expect.”
“Yes, yes. Ah, does this not satisfy you? Excuse my rudeness. Of course, the first order of business should be your reward.”
“It should.”
“I proclaim that you are to receive one befitting your status as the newest to join our pantheon of rulers.”
“Pantheon of rulers, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Rulers, as in more than one, you say?”
The self-styled dragon emperor shifts uncomfortably in its bonds. The tone of its heat changes, fluctuating with uncertainty.
“That is what I say. We rule together, though disagreements are not unheard of.”
“There are no rulers of the cavern,” sneers the black dragon. “A ruler must rule, and thus cannot have equals, for equals would not be bound to obey its rules. It would not be a true ruler. I would not be a true ruler.”
“You are young. You still have an immature view of the world and how it works.”
The black dragon snarls. “What an arrogant thing to say when I am stood just beside your neck.”
The dragon emperor’s heat wavers like a candle caught in a gust of cool wind. “Release me, little one. We still have a hierarchy. Out of my boundless gratitude you shall be my prince, third to none.”
“We do not feel gratitude,” says the black dragon, its voice-fire white hot. “We are not dwarves, or elves, or humans, or any other kind of vermin. We are fire made flesh. We live to take, and you have forgotten that.” Its voice grows fiercer. “For the past three centuries you have sat here and been taken from!”
“You do not understand! The dwarves were more cunning than we anticipated.”
“Cunning? The dwarves? They are all fools, and weak to boot.”
“Then free us and we shall take everything from them. Everything, gold and lives alike.”
“Being stuck in chains has made your brains rot away, failure. I am not here to free you.”
The dragon emperor shudders. “Then why did you come? To gloat?”
“No.”
“You must free us!” The dragon emperor’s voice becomes shrill, if such a word can be applied to heat. “As fellow dragonkind it is your duty!”
“Enough! I sicken of this talk of fellows and duty. We dragons have neither.”
“Release us!” cries the dragon emperor, panic-stricken.
“Ah, a more accurate word. Free implies you will be able to roam the skies under your own will, whereas release is somewhat more general of a term. You shall be released, failure. And you shall roam, just not under your own will.”
“What do you mean, little one?” The massive dragon trembles. “What are you saying?”
“You shall roam under my power. Not as a servant, but as a part of me.”
The black dragon bares its teeth and sinks them into the dragon emperor’s neck. It drinks of living flame, and vital incandescence spreads through its flesh.
Banrack is one of the old guard, one of those present when Thanerzak subdued the dragons and imprisoned them deep below. Not many are still around who were, especially after all this fighting. He curses under his breath—his armor still bears the scars of the silver legend’s blade.
That upstart who killed so many comrades is who he wants to fight, but Vanerak has given him an order.
So he hurries down through the tunnels, his rune-enhanced legs driving him forward on great strides. Air rushes past his fully-enclosed helmet as he travels. If the helm were open it would be difficult for him to breathe, but he has designed it so that enough air is pulled through the visor as he runs. The air is growing warmer by the mile.
Behind him follows the rest of the twenty-strong interception party, all eager to prove their worth to Vanerak after being briefed about the truth of the dragons and terrible danger of the mission. Banrack doesn’t believe so many are needed. The black dragon is badly injured. Does Vanerak not trust his skill?
Banrack will prove his worth to the next Runethane.
He makes the appropriate turns. Though he has not been in this twisting, secret maze for a century at least, he can recall its shape perfectly. Left, right, down the stairs, up the spiral ramp, a leap down the trapdoor, then along straight. The thunder of the dwarves’ passage echoes loudly. Their pursuit is focused on speed not stealth.
The heat increases steadily and is accompanied by a crimson glow from ahead. Banrack begins to grow worried. They are nearly at the dragon cages and have seen no sign of the black dragon yet.
Has it reached its goal? Yet even if it has, the cages will take time to unlock, and after being bound for three hundred years, it is doubtful that the dragons will be able to put up so much of a fight. They are made of muscle and sinew after all, and flesh, however fiery, does not take well to three centuries of immobility.
They make the last curve and emerge into a circular room of several tunnels. Thanerzak’s last trick—eleven of the dozen lead to spiked pits. Yet the black dragon smelled out its brethren and so their path is clear. It leads down the hotly glowing gaping wound third to the right.
Heat and red light punctuated with flashes of yellow shimmer from it. Banrack turns to address his comrades. Each one’s face is covered by a heavy mask of tungsten, yet he can still sense the anxiety.
“Right then,” he says. He’s always been proud of his everydwarf way of speaking. “There is no need for fear right now.”
They begin to draw out their weapons.
“It’s reached the cages, yes. But this isn’t as bad as it sounds. It will take a great deal of time for it to release every dragon. And those it has released will be weak. We can kill them.”
He can sense their lack of faith.
“Look, dragons are not immortal. They are out of legend, but they can be killed. There is no reason to fear. You are all at least of the second degree! The guildmaster who severed its arm was only third. These is nothing to fear. We will win.”
“I want to know what the heat is from,” one second degree says quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s already melted the tunnel open, but there’s still heat pouring out. Why’s that, do you think?”
“It’s just residual,” Banrack says, trying to sound reassuring. “Now follow me!”
He turns and climbs into the sweltering tunnel. Each breath feels like a mouthful of boiling steam. A flash of yellow and white blinds him for an instant. He thinks on the second degree’s words, and begins to worry. This is no residual heat from the melting of the tunnel. The black dragon is down there breathing fire for some purpose. Maybe some of the fire is from its forefathers also, if they are already released.
Are they trying to open a hole in the ceiling? Yet the blocks of stone Thanerzak sealed the pit with are too thick to be melted through quickly. Has the dragon decided that using the key is too slow, and is trying to burn through the bars? Yet it is a dragon, and thus too intelligent to try such stupidity. It can surely guess that the bars are trapped against tampering—any attempt would result in the dragon within being killed in an instant by blades hidden in its bonds.
So what is this heat for? The air shivers like water. The stone becomes less and less solid until it gains the texture of hot syrup. Banrack half slides, half walks. He holds his halberd point out, and sees that the point is shaking in time with his fear.
He emerges from the tunnel and can make out nothing. All is shimmering, shivering red. The only shape is a shadow at the far end amidst a mass of yellow flame. He advances. The shadow ignores him, continues to bend its head down then up, snapping and swallowing like a carrion beast feasting on a hog. The black dragon. What is it doing, exactly? In the delirium of the heat Banrack cannot work it out.
Banrack turns around to make sure his dwarves are following. They are, but limply, drooped over like wilted surface plants. Some with longer weapons are leaning on them.
“That’s not good enough, you lot,” he croaks. “Stand up straight.”
They make an effort to do so. The strain is too much for one, who slumps to the ground, overcome with heat.
“Stand up. This heat is not dragonfire. It’s just residual. Your armor is better than you know. Have faith in it. Stand up.”
The sprawled dwarf does not stand up. Banrack swallows in a vain attempt to wet his throat.
“Well, the rest of you follow me then. The black dragon is injured, and look!” He gestures to the walls, upon which he can make out the bars encircling still-caged dragons. “Not all is lost...”
A wave of worse heat shudders past them. Banrack stumbles and looks to the black dragon. It looks back at him; its stare is piercing. It turns languidly from its meal and begins to advance. Banrack retreats.
“No...”
Its skin is healed. Gone are the scars Vanerak and the third degree inflicted upon it. Its scales are pure, unblemished black, blacker even than obsidian, darkness given form. White fire drips from its jaws. The only color is its right eye, which is a more brilliant green than any emerald Banrack has yet witnessed.
Its hideous face twists into a smile. It advances further, drinking in the dwarves’ fear. Banrack hears a clatter as several runeknights drop their weapons to run. He is no coward though—he raises the point of his halberd to that eye.
Nearly in range now. Banrack swears to blind it.
Yet it continues to advance, somehow not in range yet. Then it hits him—the black dragon is further away than he assumed, because it is now vast. Its tread makes the warm stone quiver like jelly. Its grinning teeth are longer than greatswords. A coherent thought finally pierces through Banrack's delirium: the black dragon came down here not to free its brethren, but to feast on the greatest concentration of power imaginable.
The point of Banrack’s halberd drops. He begins to back away.
The black dragon is not the largest dragon he has ever witnessed. No, the dragon emperor was half again as large. Yet now all that creature’s power has been concentrated and pulled into the black dragon’s belly, its veins, muscles, brain and heart.
Despite its mutilated arm and eye, the black dragon is the most fearsome dragon Banrack has ever witnessed. Partly because it is the only one he has ever had to face alone, yet mostly because of the pure malice radiating from it. Now healed and strengthened, the black dragon is quite possibly the most terrible creature ever to have lived beneath the earth.
It opens its jaws.
The dwarves are obliterated.