Morning wrapped itself about Mysak like a gray cloak. Clouds lay in stagnant layers, sunlight diffused like dim light in a tomb. The bleakness was fitting, he thought.

A wind whipped suddenly about him, as from the flapping of invisible leathery wings. Sporadic gusts blasted the morning chill into his face. It will be like the wind, he thought. The Dragonride.

Many months and miles of searching stretched behind him, endless episodes of soaring expectations and plummeting hopes, of dreams dashed against rocks as hard as those which reared themselves around him, cold and merciless, where not even moss could find a foothold.

The Dragonride. The possibility, perhaps the inevitability, had dwelt on the fringes of his fears since hearing tales in old Xatharsis. The Dragonride. Many had been swallowed up without trace in pursuit of its promises, kings and princes as well as those from nameless walks of life. He traveled in diverse company, among those who were strangers to each other, but bound by the bonds of desperation. And yet he went alone.

The place had presented no difficulty in finding. Rumor and talk dispread throughout the Seven Kingdoms had assured him of its existence. And now, after the exhaustion of all other avenues, his feet sought out the Hills of W'erlone, to climb the sloping cliffs to the summit ringed by the blighted ebon forest.

No night creatures disturbed the realm nor inhabited the woodlands where black briars and thorns sprouted like fingers to clutch the earth. Countless ages beforehand the path had been lined with calcedony and onyx, conveying like a beacon those whose feet dared to tread its stones.

From his vantage point, even now Mysak could discern the outlines of the mansion, resting in grim silence, dominating the terrain.

Wizard houses, he mused, without humor. In legend and lore they ran invariably to dilapidation, to blackness and decay despite the power at the disposal of their owners. But on closer scrutiny, as he drew near he perceived that the mansion itself, unlike the leprous grounds, stood as a masterful piece of architecture, glistening with a baroque but decidedly macabre artistry. What at first impression appeared to be cracks and rents in its stone, were but the natural veinings of purpureal marble, and the blood-hued twistings of ivy and other long-dead growths.

Mysak stood for a moment under the towering of high walls and mazelike spires. A chill wrought by more than the dawn breezes ran along his neck. It seemed that invisible eyes peered down in mock silence from the walkways and balconies and odd-shaped constructions that characterized the upper levels of the structure. Strange pillar-shaped platforms reared upon the four corners of the mansion, whereon might perch a hawk, or vulture, or --- as the whisperings of old men had informed him --- a dragon.

Atop the stone-tiered stairway, a huge door of iron-banded wood beckoned his approach. But no door-knocker graced the ancient portal, and the mouths of carven chimera heads upon either side were barren of the bronze rings, as though long ago they had been removed by hands undesirous of visitors.

In their stead, there rested before the portal, dangling from thin iron pillars, a brazen gong, whose center seemed dulled and pitted by the impact of countless strikings. A bronze-handled mallet hung suspended from chain rings even as the gong itself.

Mysak knew the lore of the gong, and raised the mallet aloft without hesitation, letting it fall against its mate.

He winced. The sound made him cringe, for it was no mellow moan or low resonant hum, but a piercing clangor, like the sudden clashing of scimitars against shields. The gong belched forth a bitter sound, a sound to summon cacodemons. Yet in answer, there appeared no wizard, nor skull-shaven servant, no adjutant or monk-robed apprentice. The door remained solemn and still, while echoes of the strident noise wormed heavenward on the icy fingers of wind.

At length, there drifted to Mysak thick flapping sounds, as of huge leather bellows pumping air. It was a sound such as had never fallen upon his ears, but unmistakable nonetheless. Dragonwings.

It alighted with vulturish ease before him, thereafter remaining unmoving, conserving motion, with only its red-glowing pupils darting from side to side beneath puffy eyelids. A restrained anticipation seemed to mark the dragon's bearing, while it considered Mysak like a carrion-eater eyeing its next meal.

"So ---"rasped a voice thick and deep as the night. "another, so soon after the last. Well, foolhardy one, let us hear your tale, so that we may begin."

The suddenness unmanned Mysak. He stood mutely before the creature, overshadowed by its size, large of girth as a behemoth, with legs of prodigious musculature and a wing span of a full ten feet.

"Wait," Mysak stammered. "Do I not speak first with the Wizard Tharabane?"

"If your resolve wavers, go. Waste no further of my time. I hold no tolerance for curiosity seekers or wet-kneed varlets. Those who come here know well their purpose. If you have found this place, then you have been apprised of the terms of this compact. Tell me your tale so that we may begin."

"But Tharabane, what of ? ---"

"I am empowered to speak for him. Proceed, then, or else depart."

Uncertainty grew upon Mysak like a sore, but he locked eyes with the dragon and began his narration. He had come too far to retrace his steps. His words were well rehearsed.

"Five years ago, I dwelt in Kemphlar, near the sea. There I loved a maiden with all the ardor and devotion of youth. The fields were our bed, the stars our blanket. In time, she retired to the temple of Vayestra, to the matrons who have grown old within its walls --to prepare herself for our marriage, as is the custom in our land.

"But on the following dawn, when I came to greet her on the temple-steps, to convey her in the marriage procession to the house of my father, and thence to my own, ---she did not come forth. Like smoke upon the wind, she had vanished, without word and without trace."

"The matrons would vouchsafe nothing, but merely gaze upon the ground, shaking their heads and weeping. One of the virgins of their Order had likewise vanished, and they mourned a twofold loss.

"For days I searched, far and wide, levelling accusations against every youth or traveler who had exited the city that night. I followed trails more elusive than bird paths through air. I accosted frightened caravaneers, detained merchants, and searched through the captives of slave traders come to Kemphlar from Sodomph and Jareed. In my frenzy and in my desperation I even crossed swords with highwaymen and kidnappers, and at the point of a blade extracted oaths of ignorance. All to no avail. None in Kemphlar could lead me to my betrothed."

"I began to travel, vowing that I would not abandon the quest until I found her. For a year I sold my services to a shipmaster, so that I might extend my search to the Southern Isles, where fair-skinned girls are sold to the priests of Sodomph. But the effort bore no fruit, and for season after season I have roamed the continent, through isolated villages and seaport towns. In every city I stare for hours over crowds and throngs, seeking for a glimpse of her face, or word of her presence. Contentment eludes me, and I have come to know that without her, my life holds no meaning."

"This is no endeavor for heartsick boys," the dragon sneered. "Go. Find yourself another maid. The world abounds with them."

"Even that I have tried," Mysak admitted. "For a time I fought to forget her, to banish her from my heart. But in the arms of no one else could I find her touch. And her face spoke to me in dreams and fantasies and could not be erased."

The dragon considered him in silence for a span, narrowing its eyes to slits in a scaly face. Claws long enough to shred a man with a single swipe flexed and moved in small circles upon the ground. "As you wish," it stated at length. "It is a unique request, but as selfish after its own fashion as all those preceding you."

The voice issued forth as a growl, and despite its alienness, Mysak could detect a great disdain in the tones, a disdain borne out by the creature's further observations.

"Again and again I have seen men driven by lust and avarice, and every other trait peculiar to humankind. Endlessly I endure their requests, their petitions of blood and death. Some come seeking the murder of rulers, in hope of gaining their throne, others the dispatching of virulent curses in hideous revenge. I have seen men in filthy desperation clutching at power, or the ugly bartering their souls for beauty. I have come to know the deceit of man, his treachery. He is a vile creature undeserving of that which is granted him by life and the universe. He spurns its treasures, tramples its beauty, and sells himself and his fellows for selfish ambition and greed. I hear their tales, their disgusting requests. Some have failed, some have won their desire. The responsibility is upon their own heads, for the bargain is laid out beforehand. There is no inequity." The creature paused, eyeing Mysak with a piercing stare. "There is yet time for you to turn and leave this place, nevermore to return. Consider well your choice."

Mysak stood in silence, recalling the lore of the dragonride, the promise of its rewards, the mystery and terror if what it held forth. All who risked the dragonride did so blindly, for no tongue could swear to its nature, and none could prepare him for what lay wombed in the future. Mysak felt as one stepping off the edge of the blackest abyss or journeying into a maze of serpent-pits and concealed danger, with no lamp to guide his path.

But he made no motion to depart.

"You are aware of what you forfeit should you fail?" the dragon queried.

Mysak replied as if by rote, "I must fulfill the request of the Wizard Tharabane, and supply him whatsoever he demands of me."

"And have you never wondered what those who have lost everything have left to give?"

Mysak did not answer. And the dragon's eyes flashed with a malevolent fire, while the edges of its lips curled away in an evilly suggestive grin. Rows of serrated teeth sprouted from the jaws in more profusion than those of ocean sharks.

"I have endangered my life in pursuit of this request before," Mysak replied bravely.

"And the prize outweighs the peril."

"Noble sentiments," the creature muttered with an ill-concealed sarcasm.

"We shall see."

"On the extremity of the eastern wall," the dragon went on, "--- you will find a tower whose portal remains forever open. It will convey you to the upper catwalk where the ceremony will begin. In due time I shall join you there. Go."

With that, and a sudden bellowing of its black membraned wings, the dragon soared aloft, leaving Mysak to follow its behest in silence.

To Mysak, it seemed that the tower wound upwards interminably. But at length he found himself standing atop a wind-swept expanse, beneath the stagnant dawn shadows of one of the curious perches. A strange pillar-like construction loomed before Mysak, ominous and evil-looking, blackened and stained like altars imbrued by the blood of a thousand sacrifices. Purple stone co-mingled with veins of bluish grey like charnel corruption, while bas-relief faces of ifrits and beasts adorned the pillar's lower portions. In the center, level with Mysak's face a unicorn head stared with gaping sockets. And from its forehead, in lieu of a twisted horn, there protruded a slender metal spike, narrowing to a point finer than a needle, glistening like a polished scimitar despite the gloom of early dawn.

Almost without sound the dragon appeared beside Mysak, sullen, ominous, limbs flexing with power. "Swear by the Bloodstone your portion of the compact, open-eyed and without pretense. And mark carefully your words, for once the droplet falls, there is no withdrawal of them."

Mysak raised his hand to the slender spike, piercing his forefinger on the poniardlike tip. "I desire that the maiden Tarina be returned to me," Mysak asservated, "thereafter to dwell with me as wife."

The wound stung far moreso than he had anticipated, as though the tip had been dipped in mordant acid, or baptized with some venomous sorcerer's brew. His hand he held slowly until, glistening like dew on a spider's web, the droplet of blood oozed downward to merge with the darkness of the stone.

"It is sealed," the dragon vowed, with a crimson glow streaming from its eyes, mingling with the roar of its voice.

Mysak stood in utter silence until the last vestiges of the dragon words died, snatched away by rising gusts of wind. No barrier, no waist-high balcony or parapet bounded the edge of the rooftop platform. And Mysak's vision stretched away to an illimitable horizon.

Eerily he thought of those whose feet had preceded him, whose hopes and lives and deaths lay in the balance, suspended from a slender thread, dependent upon enduring the unknown, the myth-shrouded ordeal, the dragonride.

Mysak sucked in his breath as he mounted the dragon, taking position in front of the wings.

"Are those who succeed few?" he asked, fastening his hands around the strange leather strap encircling the creature's throat.

"For those who survive, there is no need to speak of it. For those who fail, there is no opportunity." With facile ease the dragon drew near to the edge of the rooftop. "Steel yourself. For if you are unmounted in the course of the ride, you are lost.

Thick, expansive wings unfurled. And in an instant, the dragon stepped out into the air. Mysak felt a giddy rush as they plummeted perilously close to the ground before the wind caught the wings, raising them high into the sky, where the dragon drifted as easily as a ship on smooth flowing waters. As though testing Mysak, the creature soared and plunged and spiraled in a well-rehearsed ballet, before sailing out over the countryside.

Mysak, caught between tension and wonder, marveled at the scenery passing below them. Shadows of mountains molded the shape of the land, ever changing, ever mutating as the sun pulled itself loose from the coffin of night.

Beyond the hills of W'erlone, ambrosial fields sprawled below, aquamarine rivers, breathless spectacles and glimpses of earth such as no groundling could know. Mysak's eyes traced the tops of vast green forests, over hills beyond to small clusters of brown and bleached stone that marked the scattered cities of the realm. The dragon commenced its climb, transforming the rows of orchards and fields sown with multiple grains into shrinking patches of bronze and gold and verdigris. Colors merged and blended until mists obscured his vision and they soared over endless expanses of death-pale clouds.

When the dragon descended through the mist, Mysak found the rolling countryside replaced by desert, as though in a moment's time the ride had carried them across leagues of space, a thousand miles from the castle of Tharabane. Hills of sand rolled and sifted like mountains and mounds of mummia-dust, like the cremated ashes of more lives than have lived. Ambulatory shadows drifted across the face of the dunes, unwrought by any discernable sun, spilling like rivers of wizard ink, fashioning the sands into shapes like those seen in billowing cumuli, --- devil shapes, ominously suggestive, as though great forms wrestled in bas-relief in the dust, titan corpses ready to rise from coffin-less burial mounds.

Far ahead mountains loomed, of strange hues and unfamiliar silhouettes. Sooner than he would have thought possible their flight carried them over the peaks, over landscapes of intermerging fluctuant colors, where trees and fields bore no resemblance to those Mysak had known. Strange fruits hung in globules from titanic trees, clusters of diamond and opals dangling from forests whose uppermost branches pierced the clouds.

In a moment, the surroundings seemed to shift, to alter like objects viewed through a multi-colored and distorted lens. Lakes elongated into cerulean ribbons, defying all logic and gravity, spiraling like serpent coils into the skies, ---wrapping themselves about the clouds in stranglehold gestures. Mountains reared suddenly into sheer walls and fell into chaotic abysses. The trees dropped their fruit and stretched upward, clawing the air like monstrous black teeth or deadly spikes in pits of torture dungeons.

With well-honed responses, the dragon rose to avoid collision with a declivitous peak, then abruptly shifted its flight, diving downward with nightmarish speed. The world about Mysak underwent an unanalyzable alteration, spinning and turning inward upon itself in whirlpool frenzy. And the dragonflight plunged as though following an invisible roadway spiraling ever downward to oblivion.

Mysak's fingers clutched at the harness, and he huddled close, praying that he would not slip, closing his eyes in expectation of a collision that never came.

Like foul water thrown into his face, they burst into a realm of night as utter and complete as the world of one born blind. The sensation of motion suddenly grew less pronounced, as if traveling through the ether of space with no wind to gauge velocity. Mysak opened his eyes to the surroundings, unable to pierce the depths, which enveloped them upon all sides like an ebon cloak.

An eerie silence prevailed, a funereal hush, broken only by snatches of noise like far away wails in the night. And a tension found itself mounting within Mysak unlike the vertiginous terrors of the previous moments, but gripping as ghoul-clutches after its own fashion. For moments without counting the dragon moved through the ocean of darkness, with no landmark to gauge its flight, while Mysak rode and waited in helpless apprehension.

On and on beat the wings, steady, incessant, maddening, like drums, like the throbbing and pulsing of a massive heart.

With phantasmagoric swiftness, snatches of dull gray and purple illumination flew before his vision. Something whizzed past his ear, whispering words as it went, leaving the darkness in its wake thicker, if possible, than before.

On nervous impulse, Mysak extended his fingers to the side. His hand was touched by something wet, slimy, cold. Instinctively he snatched it away, with a convulsion of his shoulders, as when one reaches into a pouch, to confront a scorpion.

In the blackness, thick, jelly-like fingers slithered against his face. Something whipped like a snake about his neck, and was gone before he could even cry out,

Mysak could not fathom what they had passed in the darkness. But it carried the horror of half-remembered dreams, of things feared in childhood, nyctaloptic things dwelling in the shadows, breathing heavily and waiting.

But it did not touch him again. And like the rising of an unseen dawn or the enkindling of invisible wizard-lamps, Mysak became aware that the darkness was attenuating, being supplanted by a sullen purple twilight that waxed crimson like the afterglow of sunlight.

Distantly ahead, Mysak heard the rising of an eerie hum, a high-pitched wail like the outcry of a thousand pleading voices, the ululations of a myriad tortured souls. Long before he saw them, the sounds rose to a screaming dissonance, an evil cacophony more penetrating than the shattering of all the world's glass and metal.

Like swarms of locusts they advanced in a dark cloud, a ribbon of flesh and bodies streaming towards him in that crimson realm without ground or sky or landmark.

The dragon veered slightly as a river of diabolic and lurid faces swept past, --- an intermingling of shapes, some shrieking in maniacal glee, others crying piteously, wailing in eternal sorrow, swept along helplessly by the current.

Mysak shuddered as he reflected that the screaming beings were perhaps those who failed the dragon ride, those who fell headlong into the crimson mist to be caught up, dragged along in that onrushing stream.

At length, the last of the chattering host swept past him. But the sounds of their voices did not fade and recede in the distance. Rather they waxed in strength, striking cords in his soul that set his teeth on edge, and left him quivering. Mysak, to his growing alarm, glanced over his shoulder to perceive that the stream had veered, and was turning in a wide arch, the forefront of the horde heading in his direction, in grim pursuit.

Swiftly as the wind they advanced, overtaking Mysak so that he found himself weltering in the midst of the virulent stream. Greasy claws clutched at him, fingers ripped into his hair, striking and withdrawing with the speed of swooping bats, picking at him like vultures slashing ribbons of skin from a corpse.

Claws struck at his heels.

And in a burst of grotesque laughter, talons ripped the flesh of his calf, so that pain shot white hot through his leg, cooled by the sudden evaporation and caking of blood.

Mysak screamed aloud, adding his voice to the howling chaos. Black hands wrapped about his shoulders, seizing him, seeking to wrench him from his mount. Mysak tightened his legs about the dragon. He shook his shoulders, twisting beneath their grasp. His neck ached as though smitten by a mallet, while sweat streamed in rivulets upon his forehead, blinding his eyes.

Things with multiple appendages slavered on him, drooling in hungry anticipation --hideous blasphemies of things, creatures which had never seen the light of sane spaces. They tugged, clutched, grasped, bleated at him. Something wrapped serpent-like about his leg, sending knife-edges of pain through his wound, while vainly he shook to loosen it.

Grasping the harness in one hand, wrapping his wrist tightly about the leather thong, Mysak groped for the short sword he kept at his side. And indiscriminately he lashed out, piercing one in the throat. It screamed in repulsive wet gurgles, spewing blood into Mysak's face as it twisted away. Again and again his blade met with bone and knotted tissue, filling the air with explosions of high-pitched screams. A head separated from its shoulders, twirling away, slinging back gouts of blood as it spiraled off into the crimson mist. Something grabbed the sword blade, seeking to jerk it from Mysak, only to fall away screaming, stumps where fingers once had been.

They bleated and shrieked, shouting words of doom into his ear, promising a fate worse than death if he continued to resist. The reverberations shattered Mysak's senses, echoes like the smashing of titan gongs, words of curses older than time.

Mysak stabbed again and ichor spurted in long unctuous jets, splashing into his nostrils, choking him like the venomous effluvia of their breath. Nausea swam over Mysak, and he weakened, every muscle aching, vomitous smells assailing his senses.

He battled the impulse to relinquish hold, to be done with the struggle, to let his fingers slip and be carried off into the oblivion of endless chaotic flight.

And still the assault continued, with two rushing in to replace every one that fell before his sword.

Mysak left his weapon embedded in the rent-open chest cavity of a blasphemy beyond description and huddled close to the dragon, closing his eyes to the sights, his mind to the terrors.

He summoned thoughts of Tarina to displace his fears, to fill his senses. Her soft skin appeared to him, supple lips whispering on summer eves, the breeze teasing her hair, carrying the fragrances of flowered fields and the perfume of her own matchless form.

By degrees he became aware that the shrieking had subsided, that the frenzied attack had abated, and the ghoulish things no longer slashed at him with their claws. The dragon had doubtless outdistanced them. But still Mysak shuddered, and his skin poured forth the clammy sweat of fear. And he could not bring himself to glance backwards to assure himself of his safety.

In an instinctive, unconscious gesture, he thrust his heels into the flesh of the dragon's sides, as a horseman spurring his mount on to greater speed. To his surprise, the creature lurched. And subsequent manipulation of its strange harness brought equally immediate responses, --- shifting the flight either to the right or left. Mysak felt that he had made some prodigious discovery, that no longer need he regard himself merely as a passenger clutching in desperation amid the ordeal of the ride; but he now held some control over his dragonride, some influence over the direction of his journey.

Ahead perched on a new-formed horizon, but drawing nearer with each moment's passage, he saw a cluster of white and bronze shapes, whose colors coalesced into the outlines of a sprawling city, with pillars and towers gleaming brightly in the eerie sky.

Throughout, the dragon had maintained an utter silence, but it responded easily when Mysak endeavored to affect a landing in the city now serpentining below. Without jarring even slightly its rider, the creature alighted upon a broad way, which stretched through the midst of the city, cleaving it in two like a wide river canal. There the dragon continued its advancing like a panther stalking in regal glory.

The area reminded Mysak of the marketplace of Jareed, the semi-fabulous southern seaport, with merchants' shops and cubicles on either hand, and wide, shadow-cloaked entrance portals opening out onto the street,

But in this place there seemed no overabundance of commerce. No thick crowds milled in the streets to barter over wares or stroll leisurely amid the awning entranced shops and bazaars. No askerfolk conducted their perennial begging, extending cups or greasy palms. And those few inhabitants visible to Mysak stood in deep-shadowed doorways, pausing in their fathomless activities to stare at the rider who had encroached upon their realm.

Accusatory eyes glared from adumbrations which concealed suggestively inhuman shapes. Crimson pupils glowed and darted from side to side, while restless and uneasy shufflings went on in the darkness of curved archways, Mysak could not shake the feeling that those in the doorways regarded him with some obscure form of anticipation, waiting.

But the dragon continued onward, the rise and fall of its paws making less noise than those of a cat.

Passing now from buildings which exuded an air of menace and decay to those of relaxed affluence, Mysak tugged on the reins of the dragon to slow its advancing.

On either side countless wide apartments opened onto the street. And bathed in the glow of chain-hung lamps, luxuriously robed women stood invitingly in ajar portals, or returned his gaze through windows or open leaved doorways.

And through rose and amber colored panes, tall and wide as windows in palaces, Mysak could peer into the parlors, where no curtains or portieres or arrases hung to obscure his view.

Chambers spread in more luxury than that known by kings of antiquity beckoned him, vacant, waiting for him to enter to be attended by lithe servant girls, anxious to proffer him the fruit and wine and meat of royalty.

In another chamber, serpents peeked from beneath couches of gold-tasseled silk, while luxurious wantons stretched in ease upon their divans, ---with lips parted and moistened by long purple tongues, eyes glistening warmly like the gemstones of their necklaces and rings.

Elsewhere banquets were in progress, with entertainments of lute-players and storytellers and dancers from the Southern Isles. While in yet another, scrolls and libraries containing the world's store of knowledge awaited the perusal of a studious mind. Chambers of seclusion and bacchanalia presented themselves to his view, rooms of subtle introspection and orgiastic frenzy.

And Mysak saw other chambers, and darker scenes where suppressed longings might be given free rein, where bodies lay in various states of dismemberment and torture, where maidens hung chained to pillars of polished bronze, waiting for his hand to grasp the leathern thong, flailing bare flesh or choking the life from pale soft throats --- rooms where corpses lay exposed for the necrophile, where black-hooded torture-maidens waited to sate the desire of those whose pleasures turned to masochism.

And in the recesses of each apartment, in far walls, he could discern other doors, leading to yet other places, as intriguing or repellant as the ante-chambers. And to Mysak it seemed that pleasures and terrors of every sort and conception awaited him in this city, awaited his exploration, inviting him into their company.

Desires within his breast stirred, like swirling contents of witch-pots fired to motion by secret herbs and powders, pulling him like a siren song. He found himself beckoned to apartments whose activities and deeds he would have shunned and repelled in the other world.

But throughout, in the recesses of his mind, insistent and urging, the thorn of knowledge warned him of his mortal peril --- that if he remained he would be forevermore lost. And Mysak found strength to reject his desires,his heart stirred by the one which overshadowed and supplanted all others. And Mysak felt a sense of accomplishment, of victory, as one who faces temptation and resists.

They soon reached the terminus of the roadway, passing out of the City of Abomination and Delight into a region of terraced gardens and pool-lined pathways.

Ahead, in a flower-adorned pavilion, beneath marble pillars and a dome of amber bronze, a familiar figure waited, a figure he had seen in his dreams and memories for five longsome years, in the shapes of clouds, in the faces of strangers in endless cities and villages of the realm. There stood Tarina, as on the evening of their last farewell, smiling as she waved from the steps of the Temple of Vayestra, disappearing into its many-columned halls for her night of roseate baths and emoluments, and instruction in the arts of marriage.

As in his memories, her features were matchless and radiant, flesh soft and luscious, having aged not a day, it seemed in these past five years. The maiden stood as the embodiment of his desires, like a vision snatched from his memory, perfect even to the garments that draped her shoulders, the white broach-clasped gown.

Emotions surged like new-blossomed flowers. A thousand words he longed to say, but they would not come forth, and Mysak choked, unable to speak.

But to the maiden, words were unnecessary. Her eyes told him all, and her arms out-stretched in invitation, longing to demonstrate her ardor. She stood with face abeam, like a prize, the reward at journey's end, the fulfillment of his long years of searching and questing.

"Is the ride concluded?" Mysak asked of the dragon, which did not deign to answer, but merely maintained its disconcerting silence.

Despite his inner jubilation, something ill wafted on the wind, a vague suspicion, a feeling of unease as though he had entered a darkened room, aware of hidden eyes lurking in the shadows.

One foot slid along the dragon-scales to the ground. But Mysak paused, and after a moment's hesitancy, he shifted once more astride the dragon, seating himself firmly.

"Come," Mysak invited, offering her his hand instead of his embrace. "We will return to the wizard Tharabane, and afterward to the house that waits for us in Kemphlar. "

Wordlessly she mounted behind him, wrapping slender fingers about his waist, pressing a warm cheek against the cloak which draped his back.

Mysak began to speak, to caution her concerning the unsettling sensation of flight, when he perceived that the hands clasped so tightly about his abdomen had grown black, not those of a girl, --- not even human.

Mysak screamed, thrashed, ---wrenching from side to side while instinctively his heels bit into the dragon's sides. In a lurch, the dragon was aloft, leaving the ground receeding quickly below.

 The demonous grip tightened like a vise, like the stranglehold of iron-studded straps in a king's torture dungeon. Hot breath fell upon Mysak's neck from behind, putrid, vomitous, ---and a wet scraping slithered along his neck, like a lizard tongue. Frantically, Mysak jerked from side to side, unable to turn even and lock eyes with the horror that held him in its grasp.

Mysak caused the dragon to swoop and soar, in an effort to shake loose the abomination ---all to no avail. For the fists clutched ever more viciously about his abdomen. In horror, Mysak saw the extension of talons from the blackened fingers, felt the knife-edged pain as they ripped through his tunic, piercing the soft flesh of his stomach, burning more fiercely than glass ground into a wound.

Mysak clutched for air, barely able to draw breath.

His weapon was gone, and Mysak knew he soon would swoon, consciousness fleeing from him and bringing his doom. Blood rilled from his abdomen, coating his waist and the dragon-scales with a crimson slipperiness.

Mysak fought the pain in his vitals, fought the dizziness and faintness that threatened to overwhelm him. He bent forward, and managed to unclasp one of the ends of the rein where it fastened to the harness, so that he held a single long strap instead of a loop. Again and again he wrapped the strap about his

wrist, grasping the loose end as tenaciously as his strength would allow. If he failed the dragonride --- if he fell --- he resolved it would be of his own choosing, and not at the hands of some misbegotten abomination.

With a sudden and surprising lurch, Mysak twisted, clutching onto the harness with one hand while sinking the fingers of the other into the spongy face of his attacker. With all his might, Mysak shoved, diving at the same time off the dragon, catapulting into the air.

With a snap that nearly ripped his arm from its shoulder-socket, Mysak's plunge was halted by the strap. The force of the whiplash flung the creature loose. And in endless twisted spirals it fell, its hideous screams silenced in time with a wet smacking of bones and flesh, ---a sickening sound that clung like a clammy sweat to Mysak, and moved his shoulders to convulse again and again despite the terror of his own plight.

Mysak dangled, holding onto the thread of consciousness even as he held onto the strap with a blood-strangled wrist. But the dragon maintained its flight, smooth and even, so that, hand over hand and with gargantuan effort, Mysak managed to draw himself once more astride the creature.

Half insensate, with shoulder and wrist and stomach aching beyond endurance, Mysak slumped forward upon the dragon. Dimly he was aware that it was ascending, attaining once more to a fearful height, before plunging suddenly downward. This time, Mysak's efforts to control its flight failed. And blackness closed swiftly about him, cold and smothering as a funeral shroud, a foretaste of the oblivion that waits for all.

Mysak awoke to find himself lying before the rooftop pillar of Tharabane's mansion, clothes clinging like a second skin. He lay face down on purple stones, drenched from perspiration; his head swimming like one awakening from a weeklong debauch.

Dimly Mysak thought of the needle protruding from the unicorn head. He thought of drugs employed by sorcerers and priests to rouse emotions, to whip devotees into frenzied rites, sending them plunging into stupors or seas of phantasmical visionings.

Mysak pulled himself to his knees, his flesh unscarred, his abdomen and legs unwounded. And though the ordeal had spanned eternities to Mysak, he found the sun no closer to zenith than before. Mysak felt as one arising from a dream. The dragon stood before him exactly as beforehand, before the dragonride.

"Did we ever truly leave this place?" he muttered in a feeble voice.

"There are recesses of the mind darker than the vilest of nightmares," the creature replied. "You are one of the few who have emerged sentient. Most others are left as babbling lunatics or catatonics --- before being disposed of.

It took time before the import of this last remark sunk into Mysak's senses, but the inference of a wet tongue caressing long incisors was unmistakable.

"Where is the wizard Tharabane?" Mysak asked, drawing himself to his feet, leaning forward with hands braced on knees, his breath coming in deep draughts to dispel the shakiness.

Unconsciously, his hand drifted towards his sword pommel, as the thought occurred that he might be the victim of an elaborate deception, that the wizard might long ago have expired --- that the dragon merely remained of its own accord, subsisting on those poor unfortunate victims of the ride.

"Your master yet lives?" Mysak added. "This house is centuries old, and yet was reared by him."

"He lives," the creature replied with confidence, moving with serpentine ease towards a door portal inlaid in one of the mansion's many towers. With a gesture of its talon, the dragon directed Mysak. "You will find a corridor at the base of the stairwell. Follow it to the wizard's atelier. Tharabane will soon join you. The conclusion of this affair may best be accomplished there."

Mysak complied without further word, anxious to be out of the creature's company. For, despite his apparent survival, Mysak felt no joy. No sense of victory. Its’ precise nature eluded him. Something about the dragon's manner again over-filled him with dread and anticipation. Perhaps it was the glint of macabre sadism that had not left the creature's eyes even after the completion of the dragonride. It was obvious to Mysak that it took an obscenely perverse delight in seeing men place their hopes in such a gamble, only to be lost forever, losing their lives as fodder for a dragon.

The arched corridor seemed to span the entire length of the mansion. But Mysak's feet carried him swiftly. He did not gaze long upon the statues inhabiting the hallway, the intermittent presence of doors engraven with heteroclitic ciphers, ---the heads of creatures whose names he could not recall, mounted upon plates of brass as hideous trophies. Some bore an unnervingly human resemblance, as though by some unholy necromancy men had been bewitched into such grotesque beings before being slaughtered.

Gaping like the portal of some ancient fane, the athenaeum lay before him, without curtain or door to shroud an interior that lay thick with cases and shelves and racks of powders and liquids in pear-shaped vessels. Bookcases along one wall were heavy-laden with great rolls and volumes of leather and parchment. Skulls and vials hung from cords spun of chimera intestines, while lamps suspended upon brazen chains lent their light to that which poured in through lozenge-shaped panels of colored glass in the far wall. Several of the panes were open. And for long moments after entering the chamber, Mysak stood peering out over the countryside, a sight which brought immediate recollection of the beauty and terror of the dragonride.

A noise like the rustle of silken garments informed him that he was no longer alone. And Mysak turned to see the wizard Tharabane standing in the doorway, very much as he had envisioned him --- sere, tall, with features of a cynic, not bemused, but touched with a cruel coldness born of long years and bitter observation. It was a presence commanding equally fear and awe.

"I ---" Mysak stammered, about to begin a recitation of his tale.

The wizard waved his hand. "Explanations are unnecessary. I know all." The wizard cast his gaze about the chamber, as if to insure that Mysak had not disturbed any of its furnishings. "For as you may have surmised," Tharabane continued, "the dragon and I share a certain mental rapport. The creature is an extension of my own will and personality. It possesses no independence, no existence apart from my own. "

Mysak stammered, "But the dragon said --- "

"There is no dragon," Tharabane injected in a tone of irritated tolerance. "Or in more simplistic terms, "I am the dragon. "

He gesticulated with his hand, and in an instant, the one standing before Mysak was no longer human but saurian. The eyes, the expression, however, remained identical. And Mysak understood the source of his unease in the dragon's presence. Another moment found the wizard clothed with human flesh and flowing robes as before.

"Then those who fail ? "

"Are devoured." The wizard completed Mysak's train of thought. He smiled while Mysak shuddered, stepping back a pace under a wave of revulsion.

"Long ago a rival found the means whereby to transform me into a dragon. By the time my search for a countermeasure bore fruit, I had grown accustomed to the body. It possesses distinct advantages at times.''

The words seemed spoken more for Tharabane's own pleasure than Mysak's enlightenment. And when his shock diminished, Mysak found a sudden anger welling within his breast, an overpowering resentment that he had been so manipulated by the wizard, ---that he nearly had lost all to a blasphemous deception, to a thing that had masqueraded as Tarina.

"How many others endure the torture of the ride, only to find themselves snared at the end by deadly illusion --- vile fraud?'

The wizard's eyebrows lowered. "Take care. "

"I would expect such tricks from some sleight-of-hand magician, but you are the Great Tharabane. The storytellers still tell of how you delivered the Kingdom of Vanth from invaders across the sea."

"Events of long ago, of youth." Tharabane retorted with a voice slow and calculated. "Were you to live as long as I, you would abandon such affectations. For you would see the true nature of man. The vileness they encounter on the ride, and afterward, is only fitting, fully commensurate with the vileness that dwells in their own souls." He paused and then with a steel-bitter voice continued, "Your ride was tame compared to that of some. They deserve such exposure to it. To mind-rending terror."

"And then you murder them, devour them?" countered Mysak, sickened, repulsed by the obscene cannibalism of the one before him. "So, Oh Great Tharabane, --- this your own private revenge for human failure? For the darkness that dwells in all of us --- that dwells in you?"

Tharabane glowered. "Beware, young Mysak. I am not one to be trifled with, you tread dangerous waters in speaking thus. I need justify myself to no one. My motives are my own."

"What are your motives, then? Why do you engage in, why do you foster, this wicked and abysmal game? Is it that difficult to obtain your guerdon? Your pound of flesh?"

Tharabane eyed him long before electing to answer. An eyebrow lowered, raised, then shifted.

""To answer, why? Amusement, perhaps. To reinforce certain philosophical tenets I hold respecting the nature of man."

Tharabane strolled about his chamber, not eyeing Mysak directly.

"You have not seen the rise nor set of forty summers, yet alone milennia---

"The rich never lack for guests to share their feasting halls. Those with power are surrounded by those eager to usurp that power, or turn it to their own advantage. Wizards who bear true claim to the name are likewise constantly besieged by supplications for aid, ---for assistance in complex conjurations, or the expelling of some satanophany, the unraveling of some spell that has progressed out of hand. I grew weary of the sycophants, the ceaseless entreaties. So I established the compact. If they could endure the dragonride, I would fulfill their requests. If not, they would fulfill mine.

"Ultimately, the petitions of sorcerers dwindled. But the offer of the dragonride has remained. And from time to time there are those who are desperate, or foolish, or brave enough to risk its perils. It serves my purposes whether they fail or win."

Mysak's expression remained one of revulsion. And Tharabane turned to gaze full into his eyes.

"You --- you who think to judge me. You are no better than the others. It matters little that you did not come seeking riches or power or revenge. You are governed by greed and selfishness even as they. You think yourself impelled by such noble and lofty motives --- out of love for your lost maiden. But had you been able to forget her, had you found fulfillment with another, would you have journeyed here? I think not. Admit it to yourself. It is out of regard for your own contentment that you ventured here."

Mysak had no reply for the wizard.

"Still, I have won the compact," Mysak said, at length. "Unless you scheme also to cheat me of my request."

"I will not prove false to the agreement. You shall have your request. Although its fulfillment may not be as you expect."

The final words were spoken ominously, with unveiled cynicism, so that once again Mysak grew nervous, fearful that he should have restrained his outspokenness. "Where is she, then? Do you know?"

Tharabane whirled, weaving between tables of wizard-implementia, to a huge globe of amber borne on a wooden pedestal, marked with delineations of the continents and runes writ in foreign script.

"She is here," he replied dryly, letting his fingernail trace over the slowly spinning globe, coming to rest in a quadrant near the continent's southern extremities, in the Parothian Gulf where ships sail, laden with goods bound for the seaport of Jareed.

"You will bring her to me? Here? Now?" Mysak breathed nervously, his anxiousness reflected in the quickness of his voice.

"Soon," Tharabane replied, backing away from the globe, a morbid glint passing through his eyes, born of some secret knowledge. He traced the tips of his fingers over a mummified skull, which depended from strands of braided witch-hair. His touch sent the grizzly token in motion, and it swayed and retreated from Mysak, lips stretched taut in death's mocking rictus.

"Bring her to me then," Mysak declared. "Snatch her away from the arms of a lover, from her bath, her table, her sleep --- wheresoever she is. Summon her to me now."

The swaying skull grinned in Mysak’s face, mirroring the grin of the wizard Tharabane. The inference, the association, was unmistakable.

"Unless," Mysak stammered, "unless she is ... "

"Dead?" Tharabane mused, obviously pleased with the nervousness instilled in Mysak. "The spell has progressed too far now to be recalled."

While Mysak held his breath, Tharabane turned his gaze to the open area before the windowpanes. No long arduous incantations were read, no burning of incense, or chanting words of summons from rune-writ scrolls. Tharabane merely inscribed certain obtuse designs in the air with his ring-encircled fingers. And in a moment, enveloped with a shimmering like sunlight winking off a waterfall, there stood the form of a young woman, clad in simple robes, head bowed, hands at her side.

She stood there unsure of her surroundings, like one awakened suddenly from deepest dreamings. She stammered, face mystified.

Her recognition of Mysak, however, was immediate, bringing with it both sudden joy and a welling of tears.

"No!" she protested. "This cannot be. This cannot be."

Against all his hopes and expectations, she did not rush to him. And Mysak felt a sudden resurgence of panic. With heart in throat he fought the uncertainty, the presentiment of tragedy. Never had he admitted to himself that she might not share his desire for reunion. For under the law of Kemphlar, she was as his wife, betrothal as binding a covenant as marriage itself.

Mysak found his voice, seeking to explain.

"I have searched for you these years, in a thousand places, all in vain. And now, finally, I have won this favor from the wizard Tharabane. He has brought you here in answer to my request."

Her eyes turned to the wizard, poised alongside the globe.

"You knew? And yet you have done this thing?" She pleaded, eyes filling with tears. "Why? Why? Merely to destroy his memory of me? To increase my sorrow beyond endurance?"

Tharabane expressed no apology but maintained an almost indifferent silence, face moved neither by cold cruelty nor concern.

It was Mysak who displayed uncertainty and bewilderment upon his features. "We are young," he said, consolingly. "There are many years ahead. And we shall grow old to the sound of our children's laughter."

These words brought forth a new onrush of tears, while Tarina clutched her abdomen as though smitten by a sudden dagger-wound.

Slowly she unfastened her simple robe.

"Children are not for us," she sobbed, eyes red-rimmed and overflowing. Dolorously she opened its folds to his vision. No supple flesh lay beneath the garment, but mottled skin, the crusty deadness of an advancing skin leprosy.

At once Mysak understood. The first evidence of disease had been discovered during the purification rites on the eve of their marriage. And in secret, one of the matrons had ushered her away to the leper-colony by the Parothian sea, isolated by steep mountains, and quarantined away from the concourse of humanity. She could not bear the heartache of his knowledge, or his pity, and had bound the matrons by oath not to reveal her plight.

Ashamed and sobbing, she turned away, unable to face Mysak, to sustain his gaze.

For long moments Mysak stood in the numbness of disbelief, while in low tones, the wizard Tharabane's whisper carried over his shoulder. "Shall I return her to the colony? Her malady is mightily contagious. And you imperil your own soul with each passing moment."

Mysak did not reply, but stepped forward, unafraid, to take Tarina’s hand, to cup her face in his palm, to gaze into her eyes. He clasped her to his breast, holding her tightly, soothing her sobs, comforting her resistance and struggle. All the love, the tenderness of the past re-emerged, resurging as trees, sleeping in winter, sprout in spring's warmth. Grief and inexpressible heartache dwelt in his heart, too. But they could be borne, for by joy sorrow is outweighed.

He held her close, gentle, fragile in his arms, warm as a teardrop.

"No, Tharabane," Mysak answered at length. "You have fulfilled my request. What time we yet may have is precious and sweet. If by your arts you would grant us one further favor, transport us to my mansion in Kemphlar. For I fear she could not withstand the rigors of the journey by wagon or by carriage."

At that moment, a dove alighted upon the stone sill of one of the windows, attracting their attention by its intrusion.

For an instant, it regarded them with a fathomless expression, as if undecided whether to linger or take to flight. But suddenly, as if smitten by an unseen hand, the bird collapsed upon one leg, falling to the stone-paraquetted floor, its wings unable to support it or scarcely even flutter.

It did not coo or bleat, but seemed to whiten, as feathers and skin fell to the ground like dried fish scales. Unmistakably, the bird was dead.

The whole incident spanned only a few seconds, but seemed so portentous, that Mysak turned to Tharabane for some explanation.

The wizard's features appeared to have undergone a subtle softening. And he turned, choosing not to face the pair, but stood with hands clasped behind his back, regarding instead his shelves of wizard-lore and the gathered incantations of the ages.

"I have given the bird her leprosy," he stated. "Her flesh is supple and whole. "

Mysak saw that the wizard's words were indeed true. Her skin glistened with the bronze of youth, the glow of warm afternoons spent beneath Kemphlar's sun.

"True self-sacrifice is a rarity. Perhaps it deserves to be nurtured," Tharabane muttered. 

"Now take your young lady and go quickly --- before my mood changes and I think better of what I have done."

James William Hjort

[Index] [Art] [Fiction] [About] [Links] [Email]

All Fiction, Content, Graphics © James William Hjort

Text revisions © 2003 James William Hjort