Why did I leave him behind? How could I leave him behind? He was my father, my friend, the only one I had...

"Wyldfyre?"

He’s always stood by my side, taught me, protected me, and the first time he ever really needed my help I ran away and left him to that... that thing! How could I...

"Wyldfyre??"

And now he’s gone and I’ll never see him again and it’s all my fault. I was the one who came here, I was the one who made him follow, I was the one who...

"Wyldfyre?!"

"Huh? What? Art? What’s the matter?" Wyldfyre shook himself out of his thoughts, bringing him back to the hard reality of flying over the dead land of Athyria. His wings ached from the strain of flying for hours with two passengers in the state he was in, despite Larieth’s attempt to heal him and his own attempts to block out the pain. Ligthning lanced downwards from the dark clouds overhead and high winds buffeted the course of the silver dragon, but thankfully it looked as if Grimweir did not intend to pursue them. Wyldfyre tried not to think why that was.

"You’ve been quiet for a while, Wyldfyre." Art said as gently as he could against the howling winds flowing around Wyldfyre’s silver neck. "What were you thinking about?"

Wyldfyre paused for a moment, trying to think of a response. He couldn’t. "Nothing really."

Art nodded to himself. "I understand," he said gently, yet loudly against the wind. Silence reigned for a few more moments between the pair before he ventured, "how is Alara?"

The silver dragon looked down a little, to the half-cat still curled up in his paws, unconscious. "I think she’ll be all right, but she took a heavy blow. She might be unconscious for a while, but it’s probably better that she sleeps the journey out."

"I agree, Wyldfyre." The swordsman paused and glanced backwards, half expecting to see Grimweir chasing them to finish what he had started in Korylth, but he was not there. Art began to wonder whether or not Grimweir could actually fly to reach them, stopping himself moments later with a shiver running down his spine. No foe had unnerved him so much before. Maybe it was the effect of this forsaken land, seeming to draw the very light from his soul. He needed a distraction. "How long until we enter the dragon lands?"

Wyldfyre looked out to the mountains climbing above the horizon, knowing there could be nothing there he would recognise, and then tried to remember how long they had been flying already. He glanced upwards, looking for the sun to give him an indication of the time of day before he realised, as he had done a few times already during the flight, that with the dark clouds here it was difficult enough telling whether it was night or day, more specific times were impossible to judge. "I’m not sure. Larieth," his voice trailed off as he spoke the name, before he shook his head and forced himself to continue. "Larieth said it had taken a couple of days before to fly from Hyaralene to Korylth. But how far it is to the edge of the dragon lands, I have no idea."

Art sighed and looked around at the land passing beneath them, seeing nothing but desolation and ruin. "It must have been hours already."

A few moments of silence passed between the pair, the empty wind howling around them as Wyldfyre adjusted his course slightly to travel through a cleft between two of the mountains that were rapidly approaching. A bolt of lightning flashed down from the clouds nearby and struck the bare ground below. Art watched, quiet and emotionless, the space left by the lightning as the resulting thunder rolled past them.

"Wyldfyre," Art paused briefly, the words almost too heavy to be lifted by his voice. "I’m so sorry."

The silver dragon let his head sag a little as he flew, almost missing a wingbeat as he felt a tidal wave of despair again threaten to wash him away. "There’s nothing to be sorry, for, Art. You did what you could. We all did what we could. Larieth did... he just did what he always has done. He protected me, in the only way he could think of. Besides," he continued, "it was all my fault that you all got dragged up here in the first place. If I had just listened instead of being so stupid-"

"Don’t blame yourself," Art interrupted. "You didn’t know the whole truth of what was here. You couldn’t have known about Grimweir. Even Larieth didn’t know the truth about that black wizard. He knew that there was someone who had opened the Black Door, that someone had released the power into this world, but he thought we would not be detected, not just four of us if we didn’t stay for long. The dark magic there had been dormant for so long, he really thought that we would be all right if we didn’t linger. He explained that to me during our journey from Aspinara, I knew the risks and it was my own choice to follow you here."

"But why?" Wyldfyre asked, his strained voice belying the difficulty he was havng in reining in his emotions. "Why did you follow? You barely knew Larieth and I, there was no reason for you to come here to find me."

The swordsman allowed himself a half-chuckle, remembering back to the moment he had agreed to come on the quest. "There was reason enough, Wyldfyre. You had assisted in the defence of my town from those creatures Korlath created. There was a debt of honour to be repaid."

"Well, I suppose," Wyldfyre considered, "though I never considered that there was any debt. But I get the feeling that it wasn’t really what made you decide."

"Yes, you’re right, that wasn’t the real reason, though it would have been reason enough." Art smiled to himself, still reliving the memory of that decision and admitting the truth of it to himself. "I think, in my heart, settling down and starting up my business as a teacher of the sword wasn’t what I really wanted to do. It was the most sensible thing I could have done, of course, I had the reputation and the skill to be very successful, and it was a lot safer than travelling around and staking your next meal on the chance that there is some evil waiting to be quashed in the next land."

"But," Art continued, "even though I was making enough money to live comfortably, even in such a slow year as this, it just wasn’t enough. All the gold in the world couldn’t buy me the freedom that I feel when I’m travelling. And," he added with a sense of chagrin, "having to teach every noble’s son who only wants to learn the sword because his father thinks he should, but doesn’t know the blade of a sword from the hilt can get rather frustrating over time."

There was a moment’s pause as Wyldfyre considered Art’s story. "So instead of staying to live the comfortable life in your home in Aspinara, you came out here to risk your life because it was more exciting?"

Art allowed himself a wholehearted laugh this time. "When you say it like that... you must think I’m crazy."

Wyldfyre was surprised to find he was smiling a little. "Actually, Art, I think I understand." He paused and the smile melted from his expression. "There’s not really much else I can say that about right now."

There was a slight pause, then Art opened his mouth to say something reassuring. But, before he could utter a word, Wyldfyre interrupted him, now with an edge of worry to his voice. "Hold on."

"What? Why?" The swordsman hesitated a moment, and gripped the dragon’s neck more tightly just in time to avoid being thrown off as Wyldfyre began to dive quickly down to the mountains below them, levelling off only a few metres above the ground. As he completed the manoeuvre, Wyldfyre groaned with pain and effort, forcing his wings to keep up their rhythmic stroke.

"Wyldfyre?" Art asked, somewhat alarmed, as he pulled himself further forwards, trying to get a glimpse of the dragon’s expression. "Are you all right? What’s wrong?"

Wyldfyre lifted a paw and pointed upwards, above the horizon, towards a break in the clouds that was just appearing, showing a deep blue sky beyond. For a moment, Art’s heart rose as he realised this must signify the edge of Athyria, the boundary of the Shadow’s power over the land. Then he realised that Wyldfyre’s reaction didn’t match what he had interpreted, and he looked again, searching for any detail he might have missed. There was a break in the clouds, certainly, but within that break there was a very small black dot, moving slightly against the flow of the clouds.

"What is it?" Art ventured.

"I don’t know," Wyldfyre answered after a moment of silence. "It might be nothing."

Art nodded to himself, but he knew what Wyldfyre was really thinking. Grimweir. Was it really possible that the dark wizard had decided to catch up with them after all this time, right when it seemed that they had made good their escape?

The dark spot in the sky seemed to be lazily circling, and for a moment Art believed they might have evaded detection. Then, just as its gentle arc brought it back in their direction, it seemed to change course, heading straight towards them.

"I think it’s seen us," the swordsman reported, feeling anew the sorrow at having to cast away his treasured sword, but for a different reason this time. Wyldfyre gave a slight nod of his head. "I feared as much. Keep holding on, this is going to be a bumpy ride."

The beat of Wyldfyre’s wings increased, and Art felt the attitude of the dragon’s body changing, streamlining, stretching, adjusting to reduce drag and try to gain as much speed through the air.

"Wyldfyre... Are you sure you can handle this? Your injuries..." Art let his voice trail off, knowing in himself that there was no other choice. If it was Grimweir that was out there, chasing them, then they couldn’t hang around to find out. Escape was their only option.

Mountains raced by as the chase continued, snow covered peaks giving way to deep chasms and valleys, filled with unpredictable crosswinds that buffeted the dragon and his passengers around, fulfilling the silver dragon’s promise of a rough ride. Art held tightly on to his friend’s neck and kept his gaze fixed on the dark spot, watching it as it fell into an almost parallel course, drawing ever closer, despite Wyldfyre’s attempts to fly faster.

The dragon’s neck arched suddenly, as Wyldfyre turned to glance quickly at the approaching intruder, seeing that it was still gaining. With a growl of either determination or pain, Art guessed probably some of both, Wyldfyre leaned his neck forwards and beat his wings even faster, each stroke now drawing a moan of discomfort from him.

Despite all his efforts, though, Wyldfyre could not outrun their pursuer. The black speck grew larger as the intruder closed in, Art straining his eyes and trying to discern any details that might identify the threat. The swordsman began to see movement along the edges of the speck, which seemed to grow more elongated as it closed in. Suddenly, the intruder banked, turning in to close on them more quickly, and the shape of the creature was thrown into sharp release against the brightening sky. Art held back a gasp of surprise, and turned his head back to face forwards, reaching over Wyldfyre’s shoulder to reveal his discovery.

"Wyldfyre, it’s not-!" Art was cut short as the silver dragon swerved hard to one side, away from the closing intruder, the force of the motion and shifting air currents forcing the words back into his mouth. Wyldfyre began to climb, aiming to crest the far side of one of the mountains.

Looking around quickly, Art saw that the reason for the sudden evasive manoeuvre was not a response to the change in course that he had seen their pursuer make moments before, but to evade a second incoming figure, a distant golden spot, flying at them head on from further down the wide valley they had been following.

The second intruder swept upwards and turned in a wide, sweeping arc to follow Wyldfyre and come into line with the first. As it did, it presented Art with a chance to see a wide profile view of the creature, confirming the discovery he had already made.

Pulling himself up on Wyldfyre’s shoulder, fighting against the force of the airflow over the dragon’s body, Art called out against the roaring wind to his friend. "Wyldfyre! It’s not Grimweir! They’re dragons, both of them!"

Silence fell over the pair, filled only by the rushing wind and the beating of Wyldfyre’s wings, now ever more laboured, as Art waited for a response that was not forthcoming. He slapped his hand against Wyldfyre’s shoulder as hard as he dare without hurting the silver dragon, and called out again. "Wyldfyre! Listen to me! It isn’t Grimweir chasing us, it’s a pair of dragons! I think we made it, I think we crossed out of Athyria!"

"What? I-?" Wyldfyre responded, stumbling over his confused response and sounding as if he had just been shaken out of a stupor. He groaned loudly as he beat his wings again, his pain-filled senses barely registering the flow of air over his scales now.

Art was about to reply and urge his friend to land, but the wingstroke brought them above the crest of the mountain, and the swordsman found himself silenced by the sight of the landscape beyond, rocky grey desolation giving way to a lush evergreen forest on the far side of the mountain, dropping down into a rolling, hilly grassland, dotted with crystal rivers and shimmering sunlit lakes fed by the meltwater from the mountains and watched over by a pure deep blue sky dappled with bright white clouds. In contrast to the corrupt darkness of Athyria, this seemed like paradise.

Finally finding his voice again, Art called over the wind to Wyldfyre again. "Look, Wyldfyre, we’ve made it! There’s no need to keep flying, land and rest awhile, lets find out why we’re being followed."

"Dragon!" The unfamiliar voice came from behind Art, and he turned his head to see that the gold and black dragons had somehow crested the mountain much faster than Wyldfyre, and had caught right up to them, taking up flanking escort positions behind and to either side of the silver dragon. It was the black dragon calling out to them. What came next was a language completely unfamiliar to Art. In all his travels he had never had the need to learn the draconic language. He listened closely, trying to discern any fragment of meaning from the words or the tone in which they were spoken. It was difficult, though - what he heard sounded like a commanding shout, though anything called over the roaring wind at this speed would have to be shouted to be heard.

The most telling clue, though, was in Wyldfyre’s reaction. The dragon’s shoulders seemed to slump, and his wings lazily missed a beat, causing he and his passengers to drop downwards roughly.

"Wyldfyre? What are they saying? What’s wrong?" Art called out.

For a moment there was no response, then, in an anguished voice, filled with the pain of having flown so far with injuries he should never have left the ground with, Wyldfyre managed a stuttered half-answer. "It... hurts... can’t fly... surr... ender."

Before Art had time to even register what the reply might mean, Wyldfyre had missed another wingbeat, then another, and another. In seconds the silver dragon went from a steady gliding course to freefall, plummeting from the sky, barely conscious to realise what was happening, his wings limply held upwards by the force of the airflow rushing up to meet them. Art cried out in surprise and flung his arms around Wyldfyre’s neck, clinging for all he was worth.

The response of the two flanking dragons was immediate. One of them, the black, swooped downwards, wings folded in to reduce the resistance of the air against him and allowing him to dive faster than Wyldfyre was falling. The dragon fell straight past Wyldfyre and levelled out beneath him slowly, extending his wings and catching the silver dragon on his back, gently bringing him back to a level course. The gold dragon came around to the side of the black and supported Wyldfyre from the side, making sure he did not slip off the black dragon’s back in an astounding display of precision aerial manoeuvring.

Art realised that he had seen the a similar manoeuvre only hours before, when Larieth had dived beneath Wyldfyre to save him after being attacked over Athyria, the very same encounter that earned the silver dragon the injuries he bore now and that had led him to almost falling to his death a second time. Now that the pair of dragons held them safely aloft, Art allowed himself to feel the irony of the situation. He smiled grimly to himself.

Seeing that the immediate crisis seemed to be under control, Art slowly craned his head out a little from Wyldfyre’s neck, reaching to see around the silver dragon. With a sigh of relief he saw that Alara was still tightly held against Wyldyfre’s chest, two large silver paws keeping her safely restrained during the fall. Even through all the pain and agony Wyldfyre had suffered, he had not forgotten she was there.

Art kept a tight grip on Wyldfyre as the two dragons guided his silver friend gently down to the ground, carrying his weight between them and touching down on the grassy plain with almost impossible grace, so much more impressively so considering the weight they carried.

Near their impromptu landing site, Art could see one of the beautiful shimmering rivers cutting its path across the land, the sound of rushing water softly echoing across the landscape. He admired the view for a moment, but was brought back to the imminent situation with a gentle thump as Wyldfyre was lowered to the ground from the backs of the two dragons who had apparently rescued them.

The final words of Wyldfyre drifted back through Art’s mind with nearly disturbing clarity. Surrender? What had he meant? Their rescuers retreated a few paces from the silver dragon, who was now breathing heavily, unconscious due to what must have been unimaginable pain from his injuries.

Realising he was the only conscious person in their group, Art shuffled to one side and slowly slid off Wyldfyre’s back, bending to a crouch as he landed on the soft green grass. His arm instinctively went to his back to check his sword, just to reassure himself, but the action had exactly the opposite effect as his hand grasped thin air and his memory was thrown back to the moment that he had abandoned his sword to the skies above Korylth to aid their escape attempt.

For a moment, Art saw the chain of events leading up to his current predicament in an almost ironic light, and he stifled a nervous chuckle. Standing slowly and resting his back against the side of Wyldfyre’s fallen body briefly, the swordsman brushed his hand back through his hair and resigned himself to his course of action. He stepped around the silver dragon’s great forearm and paw, and moved forward to face the black and golden dragons head on.

Their rescuers had waited patiently a few large paces from Wyldfyre, although, from their expressions, Art wasn’t immediately sure if it was really from patience, or if it was more because they didn’t know how to react. The gold dragon’s expression was one of worried confusion, while the black looked cautious, but the more aggressive of the pair. Art sympathised with them; he felt much the same.

"Hail, Dragons!" He called as he approached the pair. Art had no idea if these creatures could speak his language or not, but then, all dragons were supposed to be wise and knowledgeable. At least, that was what local folk tales in Aspinara has said. Local folk tales in Aspinara also said that dragons were monstrous, brutal creatures who would eat your children in the night if you didn’t lock them away safely and pray to the right gods. Art decided to give them the benefit of the doubt.

The golden dragon considered the human facing it with puzzled eyes, as if it didn’t understand what it was looking at. Slowly, it opened its maw and began to speak in a low, thoughtful tone. "Hail, indeed," it replied. "It appears you are very far from home, human." The word ‘human’ was spoken with some emphasis, but not with insult, more with distrust, if Art had read the voice correctly. More than anything, though, the swordsman was just relieved to find that the dragons did speak his language.

"Very far, more than you might suspect," Art answered, keeping his voice pleasant, friendly and, above all, free of the nerves that he could feel building in his gut. Something didn’t feel right.

"Oh?" The black dragon moved forwards a little, retaining its aggressive posture. "And just how far is that?"

"Aspinara," Art replied openly. "A market town far south from the lands neighbouring this one." He waited a moment, considering his options, before deciding that the conversation should be moved on to more pressing matters. "My friends," Art gestured back to Wyldfyre, noticing that Alara was curled up out of view in the silver dragon’s paws. "They are gravely wounded. Please, can you help them?"

The golden dragon nodded slowly. "A healer has been called, human. She will be here shortly to attend to your friends, if we you can satisfy us of your intentions."

Art blinked with confusion, the knot of nerves in his stomach tightening even further. "Our intentions?" He asked in a puzzled tone. "We are but three travellers, I assure you. We were attacked on our way from -" The swordsman paused, pieces suddenly falling into place. Art realised what was happening just as the black dragon spoke again, confirming his fears.

"On your way from the Forbidden Land," the black finished Art’s sentence, but not quite with the name he had intended. "Any dragon," it indicated Wyldfyre’s prone form, "should know that it is absolutely forbidden to enter that place. The magic of the Shadow beyond our borders is too dangerous to risk contact with."

"I see," Art nodded. "I apologise for our transgression, but there are reasons for our journey."

"And they are?" The gold impatiently prompted Art to continue.

Art was about to answer when, suddenly, there was a squawk of draconic chatter from above the group. Looking upwards, a blue dragon had quietly drifted into view, and was slowly descending towards them. The swordsman guessed that this was the healer, and none too soon. Wyldfyre’s injuries concerned him greatly, as did Alara’s.

"This is Caraneth," the gold dragon introduced the newcomer. "She will attend to your companions’ injuries."

The blue dragoness bowed slightly to Art and moved over to Wyldfyre’s side. Art moved to watch her from a slight distance as she laid her paws over the silver dragon’s body and closed her eyes in concentration. Wyldfyre immediately began to breathe a little more easily, or perhaps Art had imagined it. "This one," Caraneth spoke slowly, without moving, "is not a dragon."

The attitude of the black and gold dragons immediately became more hostile. They straightened themselves, raising their height to loom a little more threatening over Art.

"Explain this," the gold commanded.

Art swallowed. He knew the truth would not be believed, but right now he had nothing else to offer, and any lie would most likely only draw them deeper into trouble. "You are correct, kind Caraneth. He is no dragon, Wyldfyre is an elf."

"An elf!" The black gasped with horror. "You travel with one of the Fallen! One touched by the power of the Shadow! You must be in league with Grimw-!"

"No!" Art raised his voice for the first time, cutting across the black dragon’s powerful tones. "I will not hear you associate us with that demon! How do you imagine we came to sustain these injuries? We were fleeing from him, not in league with him!"

"Deception comes in many forms," the black hissed threateningly.

"No, Varn." Caraneth gently shook her head, eyes still closed. "I feel none of the Shadow in this one."

"What?" The black dragon, whom Art assumed was called Varn, snapped. Art thanked Caraneth silently for choosing to speak in a language he could understand.

"He is gravely injured, but he is not of the Shadow," the blue dragoness elaborated. "I can feel it. If anything, from the energy flowing within him, he feels more like... us."

"Us?" The gold dragon repeated, a touch of wonder in his voice. His posture relaxed slightly, and the black followed suit, although he seemed more reluctant to do so.

"I cannot explain it, but he has the power of the air within him, which is probably why he can take our form like this." Caraneth shifted her paws slightly across Wyldfyre’s back. "I will revert him to his original form, I believe it is safe for me to do so."

The pair of dragons, along with Art, watched intently as Wyldfyre’s shape began to shift and flow, scales melting into scales and changing colour as first skin, then the rich colours of his elven-form clothing flowed forth from his body. The metamorphosis took longer than Art had expected, but he assumed that Caraneth was taking great care not to cause any further harm. After a minute or so, it was Wyldfyre the elf, not the dragon, that lay unconscious on the grassy plain.

Art smiled slightly at the sight of his elven friend, realising that he had been very used to seeing Wyldfyre as a dragon. But it was Alara, not Wyldfyre, who garnered most attention from the trio of dragons. She had been revealed for the first time as Wyldfyre’s paws had drawn back to form his arms.

Caraneth moved her paw close to the unconscious cat-girl, before suddenly wrenching it away as if some unseen insect had stung her. She gasped in horror. "The Shadow is in her!"

"Explain this!" Varn demanded.

Art spluttered, not able to answer. Of course, Alara wasn’t exactly ‘normal’ human by any standard, but could it really have been the Shadow that twisted her in such a way? And if so, then why? Art suddenly realised how little he knew about his second companion.

"I," Art struggled to come up with some sort of reason. "I can’t."

The black dragon stretched its neck slowly towards the gold’s head, speaking gently, although Art could still overhear. "Noradin, what should we do?"

Noradin considered the situation carefully, but it was Caraneth who spoke first. Her slender tones carried a voice of reason. "I suggest we contact the elders about this incident. The two elves will sleep for several hours yet, and I don’t believe that our human visitor poses too much of an immediate threat."

"No threat at all, kind Caraneth," Art nodded. "I have no dark intentions. Guard me if you feel it is necessary, I won’t resist. But," Art dared to venture, hoping he wasn’t showing his hand too much by asking, "did you say two elves?"

Caraneth nodded slowly, looking slightly warily at Art. "I did, indeed. Two elves."

Art hid the confusion that erupted in his mind from his face. He had always assumed that Alara was human, and yet here, Caraneth was claiming she was an elf! It was something he decided to think about later. Worrying about it now wouldn’t deliver any answers.

Varn and Noradin had been in quiet conversation while Caraneth and Art had spoken to each other, and now they turned to regard Art once again.

"It is agreed," Varn smiled cautiously. "We will keep a vigil here, to look after you," Varn emphasised that, "as well as to guard you."

"I will contact the elders," Noradin added. "I imagine they will wish to hear your story." He paused a moment and smiled. "May I have the pleasure of your name?"

"Art," the swordsman smiled politely in return. "I thank you for your understanding, and your patience."

"Don’t thank me until you hear our elders’ decision, Art." Noradin warned, but his maw still bore a smile, so Art did interpret it as a threat.

The gold dragon turned and beat his large wings powerfully, creating a strong breeze that whistled around Art and made his hair wave wildly as the dragon took off and headed away from the mountains.

Art sighed contemplatively and watched Noradin disappear into the distance, his golden winged body quickly becoming a dot against the pure white clouds towering high above them, then disappearing altogether. The swordsman turned to his new friends, as Art decided to think of them, rather than captors, and smiled. "How long will we have to wait?" He ventured.

Varn considered the question briefly. "A few hours, perhaps, while the elders decide what to do with you. A transgression such as this is going to cause quite a stir."

"Maybe not a transgression," Caraneth said quickly, her voice gentle and calming. She stepped quickly across from where Wyldfyre and Alara were laid to place some of her body between Art and Varn. "I think," she continued, motioning with a paw to Art’s two unconscious companions, now just behind her, "that we should make these two comfortable and then settle in for a long wait." She smiled widely at Varn, then at Art.

"I agree," Varn sat back slowly, his voice cooling a little. Art just nodded in concurrence.

"Very well," the blue healer smiled again as she turned to begin tending to Alara. "It may take some hours, but I think that you have quite a story to tell to fill the time, don’t you, Art?"

Art chuckled to himself and grinned openly, the first grin he hadn’t really had to force since he arrived. "Yes, yes I do."


Art

Indeed I had a story to tell, a story that started thousands of miles away. To their credit, Caraneth and Varn listened patiently and attentively, only interrupting when they had a question. It seemed they were as interested in the lands beyond their own as I was in theirs, although they were a little more hesitant in talking about their homeland to someone who might very well have been seeking to destroy it. I couldn’t blame them for that.

The first mention of Larieth saw a flurry of questions, though. The once-Ambassador was apparently a known name in these parts, mostly because of his escape to the elven lands to rescue Wyldfyre, then known, of course, as Prince Ithera. It still felt strange to regard Wyldfyre as a prince. Most princes that I have met over the years have been spoiled brats who don’t know the sharp end of a sword from the blunt. Well, at least to begin with anyway, before I got around to training them. Of course, there were always one or two exceptions, but those are other stories for other times.

I answered all I could about Larieth and Wyldfyre, but had to admit a lack of knowledge about Alara. Exactly what had happened between her and Wyldfyre, I didn’t know, but the revelation Caraneth had provided that she was an elf and not a human as I had revious assumed, well, I really didn’t know what to make of that. Certainly, when the two of them awoke, I had a lot of questions myself. The cat-like features that Alara had inherited somehow masked her elven identity well, as I myself had proven.

As night began to fall over the land, Varn was kind enough to set up a small fire for our mutual warmth, and while Caraneth checked over Wyldfyre and Alara, I did get a few small pieces of information from the two dragons about the situation we had literally crash landed ourselves into.

Varn was a Shadow Guardian, as was Noradin. They were appointed to guard the border between the dragon lands and Athyria, now called the Forbidden Land, as no dragon wished to associate their peasant memories of Athyria with the darkness that had enshrouded the once peaceful country. The reason for this was that the dragons feared that the dark magic that had flooded through Athyria, and the creatures created by that magic, might try to spread across into the dragons’ territory and begin its corruption anew. If that ever happened, Noradin and Varn, and many others like them, would detect the incursion, and would effectively become the first line of defence against the invasion. So far, though, in all the years since the Shadow had first attacked, no aggression had ever been witnessed. Neither dragon had any idea why, but Varn vowed that they would remain vigilant until the Shadow was defeated or time itself ended.

Caraneth, on the other hand, or paw, if I’m being fair, was no warrior or guardian. She was a healer, as she had already proven. But, as plain as she claimed that sounded, it was clear that she was a master of powerful healing energies and magic, of the sort that might be legend in many parts of the world, and to me, if not for my many and varied travels. Apparently, she also had a talent for singing, although she proved to be too shy on that night to grace me with a demonstration of her song.

As for where the dragons around here lived, obviously they didn’t give very much away. I was told merely that it was somewhere ‘not too far away’. I hoped that was true, for as much as I enjoyed the company of Varn and Caraneth, the desire to see this situation resolved was all too present in my thoughts; preferably in a way that saw Wyldfyre, Alara, and myself remain alive and well. That, as I had already been told, depended on what the dragon elders in this area had to say on the matter. I hoped they would be as wise as Varn, Caraneth, and Noradin had been in giving us this chance in the first place.

Of course, that was something that only the morning would tell. For now, I had to look forward to another night sleeping out in the open. But, at least this time, with two dragons guarding us, I wouldn’t have to worry about our safety during my slumber.