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The Cloudmare telepathically relayed to Boton, “Phoenixes. I’ll go low by the nest. Show them respect and they may grant you a feather or some down.”
The Cloudmare Urra descended and paused near the nest, which contained a single chick. Fluffy down surrounded the little Phoenix. The mated pair cooed gently. The Cloudmare eased toward the nest slowly. The larger Phoenix nodded.
Unspoken words appeared in Boton’s mind and warned, “You may touch the chick. Be gentle. It’s a great honor.”
Boton slowly extended his left hand and touched the little bird. He had never felt such softness…or pleasantness. For a brief moment all his grief left him and, instead of a warm little bird, he felt the softness of his mother’s skin, smelled her sweet breath, and for a moment felt fully comforted. Scratches on his arms and legs healed. The incantation for the Fifth Level Light Sorcery Spell Cure Critical Wounds appeared in his consciousness. What Boton Klarje Jhundi didn’t know was that no other person who professed to be a Dark Sorcerer had ever known this incantation.
The female Phoenix extended her beak and presented Boton with a bit of the precious down.
“It’s the material component for the spell. The gift is given by the Phoenixes at the request of their friend Innycines who is bereaved beyond saying. You are honored, young one. If you are ready, we will return,” Urra silently suggested.

“Uh…can I help you with your wings…and tail? I’m not exactly sure where it would be appropriate for me to touch you,” the male stammered.
“Touch me as you would any lady, Innycines,” she said demurely.
He turned and gently held her fragile wings as she sat. Maranna deftly flipped her thick brushy tail aside and joined the stalwart male on the precipice.
“Thank you. You’re lucky you don’t have wings and a tail. Oh, I forget, you do. I would like to share your ability to transform to a wingless bipedal shape. Your body in this form is pleasing to look upon, you know. Are you not tired?” she asked. “Can’t you sleep?”
“Nature’s gentle nurse, sleep, escapes me,” he said somberly.
For a moment they stared silently at the sheer drop before them.
She sang.
The strong male felt his eyelids getting heavy. Her lyrical phrases penetrated his psychic barriers and caused deep blue ripples in the tissues of his mind.
He slept.
Maranna glanced at his peaceful expression. She did not regret her first song in a millennium. She reentered the cavern where the vigil continued and sat with the healer through the night and well into the next morning.

Boton tentatively opened his eyes. He lay on soft bedding, was surrounded by pleasant light, and heard voices.
Strands of his flaming red hair were matted over his face. He felt enough pain to make him aware that he still lived, but nothing like he had felt when the dragon’s fiery breath surrounded him.
“He awakens. I doubted he would survive,” a raspy female voice said.
“Yes. Thank you for your help, Maranna,” a male answered.
“You know that we- my ilk- prefer not to get involved in your wars, Alisskirin,” the woman answered.
Boton fully opened his eyes and saw a tall man standing over him. The man wore an elaborate green robe and held an ornate staff in his left hand. At eye level the young sorcerer saw seven sets of distinctive symbols circumferentially etched into the artifact at its midpoint.

Ǿ ∞ Ǿ

Although he had never seen such a Staff, he had read of them and his mother had sung about the Thirteen and Two Staves many times. Staring at the symbols gave Boton some feeling of reassurance, strength, and peacefulness.

Innycines wailed inconsolably and sat forlorn upon the rocky ledge outside the ancient cavern.
His anguished cries echoed off the canyon walls and traversed the wide expanse over the tumultuous waters that raged through the thousand-foot gorge far below him. There was no need to fear an enemy in this place. His greatest foe at the moment was not from Koorlost but his anguished mind. In his torment, he was unaware of her approaching footsteps. The svelte female brushed her long orange-red hair aside and silently touched his shoulder.
He sobbed and asked, “What is the word of the boy?”
Maranna answered, “He has not left the lad’s side since the Cloudmares ferried them here. He will not rest though it’s been three days. I know you arrived shortly thereafter and you have not also sought the peace of sleep. Your wounds are deep. You should take rest.”
“I have taken innocent blood. There is a stain upon me that no amount of rest, waters, or atonement shall ever remove,” the muscular male answered.
Tears fell from his injured eyes. Having removed the arrows from his eyes, his remarkable healing abilities had them well on the way to recovery. He did not look at Maranna but instead glanced to the area where the three smoky gray almost translucent steeds grazed on the thick foliage that surrounded the cave’s entrance and covered the small plateau to the left of where they sat. Similar to elves’ tears, small iridescent droplets fell from his eyes, and struck the stone at his feet, and burst into an array of colors.

The multi-colored dragon turned toward the sorceress. Although the beast feigned its injuries and incapacitation, the woman’s Fumble Spell had affected the creature. Typical of its kind, the prismatic dragon was resistant to most Magick and indeed upon attaining very old or ancient age gained the ability to reflect Magick back toward the spell caster. The Fumble Spell failed to exert its full effect but still slowed its target’s movement. The great wyrm had exhausted its spells in destroying the citadel and its garrison. Its breath weapons were ebbing. It was slowed considerably and really didn’t know how many sword-bearing Centurions there might yet be to face. It did not know that the bereaved sorceress barely had the strength to stand and feared that she might have other spell abilities that might strike it down. Archers had managed some successful shots to its eyes and weakened its vision. The wyrm did not see the little girl and boy running toward their mother. Sensing urgency and mustering its last strength, the wyrm opened its maw, exhaled forcefully, and sent a blast of flame toward the cottage. The dragon fire consumed the cottage and the sorceress where she stood. The flames also reached the children. Being further away, the boy was not slain, but the woman and younger child were killed instantly.
Boton Jhundi saw flames engulf the cottage, his mother, and sister just before the dragon fire reached him. Searing pain mercifully closed his young eyes to the carnage, and he lost consciousness.
For the moment, finding no foes to battle, the great wyrm of the Laurels slumped helplessly to the ground.

Mirian wiped her brow, found a small phial in her belt pouch, produced a drop of treacle, and began another incantation. She finished the Slow Spell, and a shimmering colorless ray left her left hand and surrounded the falling dragon. The beast’s wings stopped moving and it dropped to the ground about a hundred paces from the cottage. Suffering from many wounds and the effects of Confusion, Fumble, Suggestion, and Slow Spells, the multi-colored wyrm started to spin slowly where it stood.
Burun shouted to the four Centurions who remained, “Take aim for the neck and eyes. Fire as quickly as you can!”
He then fired another Magick Missile, which required no material component, toward the beast, and struck near its left eye.
The remaining Centurions had no javelins but obediently fired their bows in rapid succession. Thrice Burun and Mirian cast Magick Missiles.
Mirian then dropped to her knees and cried, “I have nothing more, my love!”
Burun fought exhaustion but managed to fire another Magick Missile. The archers fired again. Several arrows had struck the dragon near the eyes. The beast floundered, dropped onto its forelegs, and howled. It then lowered its head to the ground, sighed deeply, and ineffectively released a weak spew of poison gas.
“To sword!” Burun commanded.
The four Centurions obeyed, and Burun drew his short sword from the sheath at his side and ran toward the dragon. With a shout he raised the sword and prepared to deliver a blow.
Then the great beast suddenly stood upright and said, “Have you never fought a prismatic dragon?”
Burun stood dumbfounded. “He’s feigned injury! Be…”
The gallant sorcerer never finished his words. A powerful swipe of the talons of the dragon’s great left forepaw ended Burun’s life. The four Centurions also fell quickly.
“No!” Mirian screamed.
The sorceress raised her left hand and attempted to conjure, but her strength faded.
The children witnessed the battle from their vantage point at the edge of the forest. Without warning little Brie bolted from Boton’s grasp and ran toward her mother.
“Mother! Father!” she cried.
Boton stood and started after her but a gnarly root tripped him and his fall allowed her to gain ground.

Scarcely a half dozen Centurions remained. One threw his last javelin toward the dragon and struck the creature. This altered the beast’s flight and gave Burun enough time to reach the western end of the dwelling while Mirian scrambled to the eastern side.
The dragon dropped down and attacked two fleeing Centurions with its great talons. Both fell lifelessly from their steeds. The great wyrm turned and glared directly into the terror-filled eyes of Mirian Klarje Jhundi. The dragon growled an incantation and a ray of green flame fired toward the woman, striking her and knocking her to the ground. Burun screamed and extended both his hands. He shouted an incantation and broke a small glass rod. The Lightning Bolt Spell flew into the wyrm and created great sparks but did little harm. The dragon flew downward and barely missed the sorcerer when Burun dove to the ground. Mirian managed to right herself and sent a Magick Missile toward the dragon. A mauve ray left her outstretched left hand and burned into the dragon’s left wing. The creature lurched and then went into a backward three hundred and sixty-degree loop. It swiped at the sorceress with its talons, but Mirian managed to evade the attack. Burun knelt upon his right knee and fired a Magick Missile into the dragon as it ascended for another attack. The deceptive innocuously appearing pink ray buried into the beast’s already wounded shoulder. The dragon howled and withdrew toward Serenity Lake. Burun started to move toward Mirian, but halted when he heard her casting another spell. She crushed three nutshells and sent an undulating wave of gray light toward the dragon. The Confusion Spell surrounded the dragon. It shook its great head vigorously and flew irregularly. Burun felt his spirits lift and sent another Magick Missile into the beast’s thorax. Again, he saw impact, but no scales fell from the beast.
Mirian immediately began another incantation. She rubbed a dab of solidified milk fat between her fingers and sent an undulating silver ray toward the dragon. The Fumble Spell ray bathed the dragon. After furiously beating its great wings for a moment, the wyrm struggled to maintain flight and slowed its wings. The great hulking form began to drop downward. Burun pulled a dried snake’s tongue and bit of honeycomb from his belt pouch, uttered a brief incantation, performed the gestures needed to complete the Suggestion Spell, and created a pale blue ray, which surrounded the dragon.
Hoping to capitalize on the Suggestion Spell, Burun shouted, “Fall to the ground, vile wyrm. Turn your fire upon yourself!”

Mirian heard the percussion of the great wings before she saw the wyrm. Even in the darkness the brilliant scales shimmered as the massive beast flew against the backdrop of the inferno that was the fortress. One of the Centurions in the rear halted, turned his steed, and hurled a bejeweled javelin toward the dragon.
“That’s futile. No man can hurl a missile that distance,” Mirian commented.
“Watch,” Burun said quietly and knelt down. He tugged on her shoulder, and encouraged his life-mate to crouch as well. Marian’s eyes were fixed on the javelin. The missile left the hand of the Centurion, flew with greater speed, and arched directly toward the great multi-colored dragon. The beast altered its direction, but the missile changed its trajectory, flew into the thorax of the great beast. and exploded as a great bolt of Lightning.
“A Javelin of Lightning!” the Dark Sorceress marveled.
The jolt knocked the great beast backward and sheered several prismatic scales from its massive hulk. Several riders glanced backward and took heart at their comrade’s limited success. Three Centurions arched javelins toward the dragon and, just as did the first, the missiles flew into the beast. Bolts of electricity slammed into the creature, and with each impact the monster recoiled a bit. A hushed cheer came from the riders in the column. Then the dragon righted, roared, and belched a stream of white hot heat toward the seventy men scattered along the road. The flames consumed the thirty or so in the rear of the column and incapacitated many others. Surviving steeds panicked, threw their riders to the ground, and bolted away. The Captain tried to rally the survivors, but any capable of doing so screamed and guided their horses away from the beast. After a moment the Captain started to follow, but a bolt of electricity emanated from the beast’s maw and struck him squarely, ending his life and that of the magnificent firehorse that he rode. The dragon circled and spewed a ray of ice onto several of the fleeing Centurions. The fringes of the breath weapon touched the house and sent Burun and Mirian sprawling onto the ground.

Mirian suffered another glance through the window and saw a form rushing across the lawn through the darkness. Fire flashed again in the distance and another explosion followed. The light produced by the explosion exposed the outline of the Fortress Glumtezma at the lake’s edge. Much of the wall was destroyed.
Mirian heard the urgent knock on the door, recognized the pattern of the knocks, and momentarily relaxed. The latch sprang and the door flew open. Breathing heavily and sweating profusely, Burun Jhundi rushed into the room. Thick sulfurous fumes that had only managed to creep through cracks in the windows now poured through the door. The stench overwhelmed the family.
“Where have you been? What’s happening? We’re terrified!” Mirian screamed.
“I was detained, my love. Our friends from Koorlost aren’t faring too well. The citadel Glumtezma is under attack,” Burun informed her.
“What? An attack here? An army of the Laurels has never invaded Nirgivia! We’re so far away! And the power of the explosions! What Light Sorcerer can cast such powerful spells? Has there been a defection from Koorlost?” Mirian asked urgently.
“Yes, there’s an attack. It’s neither an army nor a traitor. It’s a wyrm of the Laurels. Its wingspan is at least fifty paces and it breathes fire, ice, acid, lightning, and gas. Spells and the great catapults have had little effect in stemming the vile beast’s rampage. The Centurions flee the fortress. Unfortunately, they flee this way and the wyrm follows. Take the children. Take flight! There is no time!” Burun urged.

Vorran labored to open his eyes. A beautiful female with large wings stood over him.
Must be dead…
No.
It was Maranna.
The Blue Pegasus Dean Farrier, Venla Faxxine the Manticore, Syrrth the Cloudmare, and the Cloudmare matron Urra stood by Maranna in the sitting room of the Siren’s home.
Vorran leapt up and shouted, “Amica!”
Venla muttered, “Déjà vu!”
“She is lost, Vorran, consumed by the flames. Your son Dean is safe and rests in your old crib. The Magick incapacitated you. You should have been immune. But your cataplexy likely saved your life, Vorran. The Light Knights did not use their swords and fled when Urra approached. How they managed to evade the defenses of Koorlost escapes me! This is so painfully similar to…” Maranna stuttered.
“Similar to what? What could rival this tragedy?” Vorran wailed. As tears streamed down his proud cheek he declared, “I’ll kill them! This deed will not go unpunished!”
Maranna struggled to say, “I cannot allow you to make your father’s mistake!”

During the night the already infrequent counterattacks from the Roc’s Nest ended. On the morrow at first light, the lookouts for Gwindor’s army noted the gates of the Roc’s Nest stood open and undefended.
The observers at the front dispatched a messenger to the command center to report the findings.
“Have they retired from the field?” Gwindor asked.
Eyerthrin added, “Taekora, please investigate the fortress. I suggest we move to the front of the lines.”
Taekora rose, transformed to dragon form, flew to the fortress, returned shortly, and reported, “There is one man in the fortress. He stands, faces the east, bears two swords, wears no armor, and disdains a shield.”
“It must be some sort of trap. We don’t know the fate of the Head of the Order of Dark Sorcerers. It must be a trap,” Kirk Rowers reasoned.
“We’ll find out soon enough. He is attacking,” Eyerthrin said flatly.
A solitary figure walked through the open gates of the Roc’s Nest and shouted “For Amica.” The warrior brandished two blades and charged toward the awaiting Light Knights. About a thousand Light Knights faced the lone attacker.