PROLOGUE
The First Drop of Rain
The twin moons were at their zenith, casting a silvern radiance onto the unfretted surface of Eshenakaree, elvish Lake of Origins. Brooding cliffs surrounded, imposing a supernatural silence upon the scene. A lone owl in the valleys beyond dared to utter a haunting cry, then its echoes fell mute once more.
On the east edge of the lake, where the ridges fell abruptly to make a valley at the lake’s gravelly outlet, three figures stood waiting near a large, domed structure composed of a living, leafy membrane with ribs. One figure, the Speaker of the elvish Hall of Emeralds, leader of Peshilaree, watched the stars intently, his staff leaning against his shoulder. Dressed in his most formal attire, the Speaker’s live, multi-flowered headdress stood out garishly against the dulling effect of midnight darkness. The light of the moons conjured an ultraviolet glow from the stamens and veins of the flowers and created a halo around the Speaker’s head.
Next to the Speaker, scanning the hillsides with ecstatic eyes, crouched an elvish cleric, a Padgarun. She held her broad-bladed spear at an acute angle toward the water. Long, dark green hair lay untamed over her shoulders and back.
Looming over them both, a dragon the color of dried blood raised its head and stretched its wings. Muscles as thick as tree trunks shook and popped under skin covered with scales the size and shape of imperial shields.
The dragon yawned, its lion-like roar shredding the solemn stillness.
The Speaker wheeled to face the dragon. “Have you no respect for the sanctity of this moment, Iron Dragon?” he said in the elvish tongue.
The dragon smacked his broad lips. “No. Let’s get on with this.” He smirked, briefly exposing rows of razor-sharp teeth.
“Look to the sky.” The Speaker thrust a staff toward the moons. Giant hornets perched on a hive at the fork of the staff moved in restless discomfort at the sudden jerking. “In moments the Millennial Starfall will come. As you surely know, it appears but once every thousand years, and only for a short span in the night. Tonight will be the fiftieth starfall since the death of Peshiluud. It is the signal for His rising.” The Speaker narrowed his eyes at the dragon. “So exercise patience, dragon, or you will have me to deal with as well.”
The dragon huffed but said no more, choosing instead to examine a claw of his massive left forefoot.
The Speaker turned his gaze once more to the sky. “Has the Doom Empress yet moved her troops to the border of the White Lands Federation?”
“It is going as planned. I have taken care of everything,” the dragon growled.
“And the Namistad traitor –”
“I said I’ve taken care of it!”
The Speaker was unmoved by the dragon’s indignation. “Let us hope the Gold Dragon joins us, and such preparations are not necessary.”
The Iron Dragon grunted.
The Speaker pointed upward. “Behold!”
The Padgarun and the Dragon followed his gaze. First one, then another, then a score of shooting stars darted across the sky directly above. In moments the firmament was filled with fleeting shots of white and azure fire that drowned out the stars.
“Praised be the Creators,” said the Speaker. He looked down to the Padgarun. “Phasgala, the amulet!”
Dropping her spear on the ground, the elvish cleric reached into her leatherine riding clothes and pulled out a clay amulet – a triangle surrounded by a circle. She stood, lowered her head to whisper a prayer, then reared back and threw the amulet as far into the lake as she could. It landed with a whispered splash and disappeared beneath the surface. She crouched again, then reverently touched her fingertips to her forehead then to the water’s edge.
“It is done,” the Speaker murmured. “All great storms begin with a single drop of rain.” He spread his arms wide toward the lake and spoke in an exuberant voice. “In moments our lord Peshiluud will arise and a new age will begin.”
The storm of shooting stars still glowed upon the still surface of the lake when a shadow passed overhead. The shriek of a griffin steed betrayed its exhaustion and fear as its rider forced it to land next to the dragon.
The Padgarun brandished her spear and approached the rider.
“Ektibal!” the Speaker said, calling the rider by name. He stepped toward the elvish mage, his brow furrowing in anger. “You dare interrupt us!”
“You must stop this insanity,” Ektibal said, dismounting the griffin. His austere face showed little emotion despite the ire in his deep voice. His living, silkbark robes slid across the gravel as he strode toward the speaker, finger pointed at his leader. “Your obsession with the Triumvirate gods has gone too far.”
“You’re too late. We’ve just performed the Summoning. Soon the world will be in flame, and elvenkind will resume their rightful place beside the true makers of this world.”
“Elves have lost in nearly every war with humanity, right back to the time of your precious Peshiluud!”
The Speaker made a flourish toward the shooting stars. “Yes, but now the Triumvirate will be unleashed, with Him at their command!”
“You’ll doom us all to oblivion! I have taken steps to head you off.”
The Padgarun stalked toward the mage.
The Speaker narrowed his eyes. “What steps, Ektibal? How have you betrayed us? Even if I should disappear, others stand in my place to warn the White Lands and the Tower of Light of your attack. The Gold Dragon would stop at nothing to protect against an invasion.”
The Speaker chuckled. “Who would warn them, Ektibal? Your apprentices?” He pointed his staff toward the mage, its hornets leaning outward, ready to fly in attack. “Or perhaps you talk of my son, the Prince of Mirrors?”
The mage’s eyes widened.
“Yes, Ektibal. I know what you’ve been plotting. I have allies of my own. Even the Prince, whose veins run with my own blood, cannot sway me from our holy goal.” The Speaker’s jaw tightened. “If you do not stand with us, you will be destroyed.”
“Kill me, and you will never see the Book of Alasar! Without it, your plan is ruined!”
“Kill you? There are fates worse than death!” The Speaker shook his staff. The swarm shot toward the mage.
“Chasanti al!” Ektibal shouted. A force field slammed against the hornets, knocking them to the ground. He crushed one with a booted foot, then turned and thrust a palm toward the dragon. “Gontor antali!” he shouted. Instantly a shimmering field appeared around the Iron Dragon. The dragon pushed forward, barely moving against the mage’s Hold spell.
Phasgala ran forward, whooping and swinging her spear. At the last moment Ektibal turned and grabbed the spear. He thrust out a hand and pounded her chest, knocking her to the ground, breathless. The spear clattered to the rocks.
Ektibal turned back to the Speaker, raising a hand to cast another spell.
The dragon’s clawed foot came down hard upon the mage, smashing him to the ground with a sickening crunch of bones breaking. Ektibal screamed as the dragon twisted his forefoot, breaking more bones.
“Fool!” the dragon growled. “Powerful though you are, your spells are no match for the indomitable energies of the Triumvirate coursing through me!”
One of the mage’s arms was free, and he reached back behind him. Grasping a digit of the dragon’s foot, he weakly uttered, “Chrostia magnitosti!” Instantly the Thunderstroke spell emitted a deafening boom and shot a wave of white-hot electricity up the body of the Iron Dragon.
The dragon roared, falling backward, wings flapping in a spasm of pain. His howls echoed against the prominences of the cliffs.
Coughing up blood, Ektibal raised to his arms and readied for another spell. The Speaker backed to the edge of the lake. The Padgarun got to her feet and stepped unsteadily toward the mage.
“Enough.” The voice came from behind the Speaker.
Suddenly Ektibal was lifted upright into the air, as stiff as a statue and rotating slowly. Blood coursed out of his mouth and down his chin and neck.
The Speaker and the Padgarun turned toward the voice. A dark figure soundlessly strode out of the water, his left arm and hand pointed toward Ektibal. He wore dark leatherine clothes. A laurel crown encircled his head of long, green hair, dripping with the holy water of the lake.
His eyes reflected the shower of stars like a mirror.
Instantly the Padgarun fell prostrate toward the newcomer. “Hail, Peshiluud!”
“Ecaea Ecimii alu alleia,” the Speaker muttered, then fell to his knees, arms outstretched.
The dragon’s cries of pain died away as Peshiluud stepped out of the water. “Let us not war against ourselves,” he said, looking down to the Speaker, his face as serene as the lake he had risen from. Peshiluud’s voice was a melding of three different voices – two male and one female.
The Speaker did not look up. “My lord, my court mage wishes to obstruct your plans, and the plans of the Triumvirate, by passing crucial information to the Gold Dragon. If Ingal Jehai cannot be turned to our way of thinking, he may stand in our way. If we wish to attack the Tower of Light, they must not know our strategy.”
Peshiluud slowly shook his head. “No, my Speaker. Dragonkind are beloved of the Creators. They will serve their purpose in the end.”
The Iron Dragon rose to his haunches, grunting in pain, and gave a nod to Peshiluud.
Peshiluud looked back to Ektibal. The mage still hung unmoving in the air. “Your court mage is dead, Speaker.” Peshiluud released his spell, and Ektibal’s body fell to the ground with a thud. “His wounds were too extreme.”
The Speaker flashed a look of anger toward the dragon, then he dared to look up at Peshiluud. “Ektibal was the only one who knew where to find the renegade spell we need, in the Book of Alasar.”
“No,” Peshiluud said. He raised his head to look out across the valley. “There is another. So says the Triumvirate.” He turned and looked down at the Speaker again. “Send a dispatch to the Gold Dragon at once. There is a code you must include on its surface, which I will give you.”
The Speaker dropped his head again. “My lord, anything you wish. Praised be the Creators! Praised be Peshiluud.”
Peshiluud raised his face back toward the heavens. There, reflected in the curving orbits of his mirrored eyes, the Starfall waned and stopped, leaving only the glimmering stars and the glow of the moons. “Praised be the Creators,” he repeated, and turned his gaze to the southeast, toward the Tower of Light, one of the three great towers of magic in the world … and the Heartstones they protect.
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Strange Worlds of Jason Kilgore 