The dragon city was a breathtaking display of the ingenuity of its
creators. A spiraled staircase, carved with runes in the wyvern tongue,
seemed to be the only way down, as well as the only way to reach a
network of tunnels which traversed more than two realms and went down
just as many fathoms. The walls, along the stairs, were ingrained with
shimmering crystals that eerily resembled eyes and the steps,
themselves, were encrusted with gems as well as symbols.
Faolán, the queen’s champion, taking note of the sconces hanging from the walls, put his torch to the tinder and watched in amazement as the abyssal labyrinth came alive. Sconces, at least three levels below them, began to twinkle with star-like bursts of light. The company marveled at the beauty of the ancient city, breathless in their awe. It was unlike anything they had seen before and it was far less than what they had been told in the legends. The queen fluttered down to stand beside her favored knight, her small hand resting on his shoulder as they gazed out over the immensity of it.
Spanning the chasm were golden bridges connecting the myriad of landings. Each bridge opened the way to new tunnels, and with these channels, were alabaster cities trimmed with sapphires or rubies. Every passage seemed to hold a wholly separate kingdom, utterly abandoned and all more beauteous than the next. The darkness beneath them shone like the starlit heavens and every entrance held a beckoning new world.
At the forefront, prodded by blunted staves, stumbled a dryad witch, a captive of the faery court. She looked up with wondering eyes, wishing for even a glimpse of light from the outside world. Her henna coloured skin was smattered with bruises and tattoos. The bruises were, by far, the most noticeable, a result of the poking staves and the leather straps used to bind her at night. Her hair, chartreuse and wildly unkempt, was braided with feathers and wilting flowers. Her teal eyes darted nervously, searching for any chance of escape and her cracking lips mumbled prayers to unknown gods. Though it was unnaturally warm within the old city, she shivered, hugging herself as she walked, thirsty for just a flash of golden sunlight.
When they had traveled for a day and a half, the ocular stones judging their progress, they came to the first of many large landings. Consulting with her companions, the queen called for camp.
“Halt.” Cried the melodious voice. The company came to a full stop, a guard jerking the dryad to a standstill and turning her so that she faced the voice.
Aysel, the faery queen, slowly floated to the ground, the hem of her orchid petal gown brushing against the basanite floor. She waved away an attendant and stalked toward the witch, her plum coloured eyes blazing with fear and anger. Her wings, pale pink gossamer and as delicate as a butterfly’s, flowed behind her like water and a strand of her apricot hair slipped from its place in her intricate styling. She grasped the dryad’s chin in her hand, forcing her gaze upward.
“Where shall we find the dragon king, sorceress?” She asked, her grip tightening, slightly, on the dryad’s chin.
“If we find the underground ocean, milady, we will find the dragons.” Twisting, she tried to escape the fierce grip of the faery queen. Aysel tightened her hold, like a vice.
“If I find that ye have lied to me, Kiri,” she said, ominously. Within the caverns something seemed to echo the unspoken threat beneath her words, startling her into letting go of the witch’s face. Glancing into the sparkling void, she shivered and retreated to her stewards. As she went, a look passed betwixt her and Faolán, then quickly vanished. Yet, it did not go unnoticed by Kiri or the crystal eyes.
“We shall make our encampment here,” said the queen, holding herself very straight and aloof. “When the hourglass has emptied thrice we shall depart and continue along this path.”
Following his lady toward where the guards busily began to create a makeshift tent, Faolán glanced around. The landing provided a crossroad, of sorts, but it left the company open to an attack from all angles. He bit his tongue, reminding himself that they need only fear attack from above. It was clear that nothing kept residence in the caverns, not anymore. Bearing this in mind, Faolán approached his queen and gently pulled her aside.
“Your majesty, ‘tis not the wisest judgment to encamp here. ‘Tis nigh indefensible. T’would be better to take up residence in yon corridors.”
“And be trapped with no hope of escape? Nay, good Faolán, we shall camp here.”
“My lady, we are out in the open, entirely unprotected.”
“Aye, we be in the open, but we have room if we are to run.” The queen turned away, looking over her people and sighing. Taking her hand, the champion pulled her toward a dark corridor, out of sight.
“Aysel,” he began, but she waved her hand to silence him.
“Nay, I shall hear no more. We have been marching, nay, fleeing, for almost two days, Faolán. The men are exhausted. I am tired. We must rest. And I would have us rest where we have at least a chance of escaping if there be trouble.”
“Pray, Aysel, what wilt thou do if we find the fabled ‘prince of dreams?’” He looked down at her, his black curls serving to accentuate the dark look in his vibrantly blue eyes. He was troubled. The desire to serve, to protect his queen from any harm, was at war with his disbelief in tales of old.
“I know not.” She replied, the words leaving her lips in defeat and resignation.
Taking her in his arms, the faery knight held his queen, burying his face in her sweet smelling hair.
“Ah, my sweet, Aysel,” he sighed, breathing her in. “Ever shall I protect thee with my very life.”
They stood there for only a moment before he was forced to let her go. Distantly, he could hear a voice calling for her. As she walked away, he asked her,
“Wouldst thou have a small troupe of men, and myself, to scout our position?”
She did not look back at him, only nodded her acquiescence. Retreating to a small pavilion, hastily erected by her men, Aysel began laying out the maps of the Caverns of Omra. She studied the tracings, feverishly searching for any short-cut or secret passage that might lead her to the dragon king. All the while Faolán’s words, and the threats of Emyr, played war with the fear racing through her veins.
It had been a week’s time since Emyr had stalked into her court and commanded her to be his wife or suffer his wrath. It had been, at least, that long since she’d had the dryad witch kidnapped and brought to court as prisoner. She looked down at her locket, a gift from the goddess of the moon, and paused before opening it. Immediately the locket began to glow, showing only a sliver of silver. It had been three days since Emyr sent a missive demanding her surrender by the end of the lunar cycle. She had one more night, before her time was up, and she did not doubt that the goblin king was already on his way to retrieve her.
Faolán, the queen’s champion, taking note of the sconces hanging from the walls, put his torch to the tinder and watched in amazement as the abyssal labyrinth came alive. Sconces, at least three levels below them, began to twinkle with star-like bursts of light. The company marveled at the beauty of the ancient city, breathless in their awe. It was unlike anything they had seen before and it was far less than what they had been told in the legends. The queen fluttered down to stand beside her favored knight, her small hand resting on his shoulder as they gazed out over the immensity of it.
Spanning the chasm were golden bridges connecting the myriad of landings. Each bridge opened the way to new tunnels, and with these channels, were alabaster cities trimmed with sapphires or rubies. Every passage seemed to hold a wholly separate kingdom, utterly abandoned and all more beauteous than the next. The darkness beneath them shone like the starlit heavens and every entrance held a beckoning new world.
At the forefront, prodded by blunted staves, stumbled a dryad witch, a captive of the faery court. She looked up with wondering eyes, wishing for even a glimpse of light from the outside world. Her henna coloured skin was smattered with bruises and tattoos. The bruises were, by far, the most noticeable, a result of the poking staves and the leather straps used to bind her at night. Her hair, chartreuse and wildly unkempt, was braided with feathers and wilting flowers. Her teal eyes darted nervously, searching for any chance of escape and her cracking lips mumbled prayers to unknown gods. Though it was unnaturally warm within the old city, she shivered, hugging herself as she walked, thirsty for just a flash of golden sunlight.
When they had traveled for a day and a half, the ocular stones judging their progress, they came to the first of many large landings. Consulting with her companions, the queen called for camp.
“Halt.” Cried the melodious voice. The company came to a full stop, a guard jerking the dryad to a standstill and turning her so that she faced the voice.
Aysel, the faery queen, slowly floated to the ground, the hem of her orchid petal gown brushing against the basanite floor. She waved away an attendant and stalked toward the witch, her plum coloured eyes blazing with fear and anger. Her wings, pale pink gossamer and as delicate as a butterfly’s, flowed behind her like water and a strand of her apricot hair slipped from its place in her intricate styling. She grasped the dryad’s chin in her hand, forcing her gaze upward.
“Where shall we find the dragon king, sorceress?” She asked, her grip tightening, slightly, on the dryad’s chin.
“If we find the underground ocean, milady, we will find the dragons.” Twisting, she tried to escape the fierce grip of the faery queen. Aysel tightened her hold, like a vice.
“If I find that ye have lied to me, Kiri,” she said, ominously. Within the caverns something seemed to echo the unspoken threat beneath her words, startling her into letting go of the witch’s face. Glancing into the sparkling void, she shivered and retreated to her stewards. As she went, a look passed betwixt her and Faolán, then quickly vanished. Yet, it did not go unnoticed by Kiri or the crystal eyes.
“We shall make our encampment here,” said the queen, holding herself very straight and aloof. “When the hourglass has emptied thrice we shall depart and continue along this path.”
Following his lady toward where the guards busily began to create a makeshift tent, Faolán glanced around. The landing provided a crossroad, of sorts, but it left the company open to an attack from all angles. He bit his tongue, reminding himself that they need only fear attack from above. It was clear that nothing kept residence in the caverns, not anymore. Bearing this in mind, Faolán approached his queen and gently pulled her aside.
“Your majesty, ‘tis not the wisest judgment to encamp here. ‘Tis nigh indefensible. T’would be better to take up residence in yon corridors.”
“And be trapped with no hope of escape? Nay, good Faolán, we shall camp here.”
“My lady, we are out in the open, entirely unprotected.”
“Aye, we be in the open, but we have room if we are to run.” The queen turned away, looking over her people and sighing. Taking her hand, the champion pulled her toward a dark corridor, out of sight.
“Aysel,” he began, but she waved her hand to silence him.
“Nay, I shall hear no more. We have been marching, nay, fleeing, for almost two days, Faolán. The men are exhausted. I am tired. We must rest. And I would have us rest where we have at least a chance of escaping if there be trouble.”
“Pray, Aysel, what wilt thou do if we find the fabled ‘prince of dreams?’” He looked down at her, his black curls serving to accentuate the dark look in his vibrantly blue eyes. He was troubled. The desire to serve, to protect his queen from any harm, was at war with his disbelief in tales of old.
“I know not.” She replied, the words leaving her lips in defeat and resignation.
Taking her in his arms, the faery knight held his queen, burying his face in her sweet smelling hair.
“Ah, my sweet, Aysel,” he sighed, breathing her in. “Ever shall I protect thee with my very life.”
They stood there for only a moment before he was forced to let her go. Distantly, he could hear a voice calling for her. As she walked away, he asked her,
“Wouldst thou have a small troupe of men, and myself, to scout our position?”
She did not look back at him, only nodded her acquiescence. Retreating to a small pavilion, hastily erected by her men, Aysel began laying out the maps of the Caverns of Omra. She studied the tracings, feverishly searching for any short-cut or secret passage that might lead her to the dragon king. All the while Faolán’s words, and the threats of Emyr, played war with the fear racing through her veins.
It had been a week’s time since Emyr had stalked into her court and commanded her to be his wife or suffer his wrath. It had been, at least, that long since she’d had the dryad witch kidnapped and brought to court as prisoner. She looked down at her locket, a gift from the goddess of the moon, and paused before opening it. Immediately the locket began to glow, showing only a sliver of silver. It had been three days since Emyr sent a missive demanding her surrender by the end of the lunar cycle. She had one more night, before her time was up, and she did not doubt that the goblin king was already on his way to retrieve her.
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