The Brazen Serpent Chronicles

“Emory, hold the line here at all costs.  Benjamin, bring your horse and come with me,” Fyan shouted as he broke into a run toward the physicians and his wounded men. 

He picked up a shield from the ground near the physicians area, and positioned himself between the wounded and the forest beyond.  He scanned the road and tree line.  Nothing moved, but he sensed seething malice among the silence of the trees.  A predator stalked prey.  His resolve steeled, Fyan walked toward the forest followed by the scout on his horse.

A stone formed in the pit of his stomach when he saw the steaming carcass of the messenger and his horse not more than three hundred paces around the base of the cliff on the trail toward Falcon Ridge.  The gleaming whiteness of the messenger’s shoulder bones and skull, and the bare bones of the horse’s haunches relayed a message of agonized death.  Large globs of what looked like spittle still steamed and scorched the grass and body of the young man partially trapped beneath the horse.  The fetid stench of a ruthless death caused Fyan to retch.

As he knelt in the grass beside the messenger, his peripheral vision caught slight movement among the trees. 

“Benjamin, can you hear me?”

The young scout leaned forward in his saddle.

“Yes, sir, I hear you.”

“Move against the cliff.  When I give the signal, put your heels into that horse and don’t look back until you find friends who can come to our aid.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll find the reserve.”

Benjamin edged toward the cliff and Fyan backed away along the road toward the pass and his men.  He struggled to comprehend what he knew to be in the foliage.  Movement of a branch revealed an appendage, and the entire vision began to undulate.  The shift among the tree trunks was a whip like tail of an immense sinuous creature covered with green scales.  The slithering rush of the dragon’s movement sounded like water rushing down a gorge.  The elongated body snaked through the tree trunks until the creature’s head emerged near the top of one of the trees near the road.

The dragon’s eyes assessed him as he stood blocking the path.  In swift action the immense creature regurgitated a quantity of deadly spittle.  The sword shocked Fyan.  It responded with a like amount of energy striking the discharge with power that caused the secretion to evaporate before it hit the ground.

In a raspy voice the dragon spoke, “What mortal dares hold the Talon of Light in the face of Grene?  I am the Lord of Marshkata fulfilling my oath to the ancient Dragon Master.  Are you an Aelfene warrior raised from the past?”

Fyan avoided the dragon’s eyes and tried to ignore the hypnotic sounds.  He perceived internal grunting and subtle inhalation of air.  Legend recalled that Grene spit acidic poison, and Fyan assumed the dragon’s conversation was a pretext to prepare to spit again or physically attack.  As he stepped toward the ancient dragon with emerald scales, a shadow filled the sky and a beautiful creature plummeted hitting Grene from above like a silver thunderbolt.

“Ride, Benjamin, ride,” Fyan shouted.

The young scout plied his spurs, and the horse responded with a burst of movement.       

A great dragon with silver scales sank its talons into the back of the lithe green dragon and clamped its teeth on the emerald neck from behind.  The girth and weight of the silver dragon oppressively crushed the green coils of Grene, but supple loops of the Grene’s tail whipped around the neck of the silver behemoth as if to decollate the intruder.  The longer length and superior experience of Grene compensated for the greater bulk and surprise attack of the silver dragon.  As the two combatants separated, hissing bellows resounded through the pass.

Men from the thin reserve line rushed to aid Fyan.

“Stay back!” Fyan hollered, but the command was too late.

A tree upro