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Sangrelysia
by Vivian Darkbloom
Sylvia's Serenade
"Who the hell was she?" asked King Hieronymus.
"Sinister magician from the dimension of pure evil," I replied.
"Long story. Think I'll write a book about it."
I didn't expect King George to rise regally to his feet, puffing
himself up for his followers. "I suppose we will mercifully
permit the ex-king to stay. His fate will be decided once we have
tried the wizard in a court of law, on the charge of high
treason."
My eyebrows went up. "On what grounds, out of curiosity?"
Hieronymus was furious. "Right. You and what army?"
George raised his hands high and barked loudly. "Soldiers! To
arms!" On all sides, men in heavy armor drew swords. All around,
harsh rasping of countless steel blades against their scabbards,
the collective ringing of metal from every direction surrounding;
followed by a moment of silence. The heat from hundreds of angry,
sweating, tense and afraid human bodies was broken by a cool
breeze from above.
A bugle sounded from deep in the valley forest facing, downhill
from the stage. The thudding of collective horse steps, hooves
clomping their way up the hill.
From out the trees emerged a sleek, well-dressed and efficient
cadre of soldiers, armed with swords and bows. They were led by
Roderick, who called out: "Hail to your Highness, King
Hieronymus, the true King of Sangrelysia! The best, most highly
trained elite of soldiers, all loyal to you, are here at your
command!"
George motioned to a squadron of his men. "Seize her!" he yelled,
pointing at Sylvia.
About six or seven of the thugs closed in around my Princess,
rough hands closing around her shoulders and arms, pinning her
where she sat. One drew a sword, holding the nasty pointed tip to
the underside of her chin.
"Cease your attacking right there!" shouted George, "Or the
princess dies!"
Reluctantly, Hieronymus held up his hand, motioning to his men.
"Roderick! Halt!" he commanded authoritatively. "They've taken
Sylvia hostage!" The clattering of hooves gradually died out, as
the order passed along down the ranks, and they came to a halt a
stone's throw from where we sat on the stage.
Turning to George, Hieronymus growled. "Do you expect to get away
this, you dim-witted coward?"
George smirked. "If I'm so dim-witted, then how come I'm in
charge? Hold your tongue, imposter!" he shouted, "And yield to
the true king of Sangrelysia!"
"Stop!" screamed Sylvia. "You're all behaving like children!" In
the wink of an eye, all the armaments vanished. Not a single
sword, spear, bow, nor quiver remained on either side of the
battlefield.
There was a befuddled moment of confusion among the soldiers. I
waved my hand, and the creeps surrounding Sylvia flew aside,
landing painfully on the rough flagstones. She ran over and took
her place next to me, clutching my hand. Clarissa took her hand
on the other side.
"Sylvia, did you do that?" roared her father. "Make my sword
disappear?"
"As a matter of fact I did," she replied quietly.
"You would be so grounded, had you not rescued yourself, for
which I thank you. Now can we please have our weapons back,
dear?"
"Yes, please?" begged George. "Ours too? I promise I'll give you
your own special throne, right there in the big throne room. And
all the peach cobbler you can eat!"
"Stop it, both of you!" said the Queen. "Sylvie's right. If you
all keep playing like this, someone is bound to get hurt."
"Curse you all," spat George. "Women!"
"Though technically speaking," I explained, "All that Sylvia did
was to trigger a spell which was already engraved in the Supernal
Metasphere by the Ancient Mother."
"Women!" repeated George, shaking his head in exasperation.
A lively young woman of diminutive height wearing black-rimmed
glasses and secretarial garb stepped to the front, brandishing a
clipboard burdened with a thick volume of dogeared loose sheets.
Turning back a few leaves and pointing with her quill pen, she
said: "The Princess has the amphitheatre stage reserved for this
time slot, for her harp recital." Meanwhile, behind her, two
large muscular workmen in worn overalls were carrying Sylvia's
harp up the steps and placing it on the stage.
"Well anyway, we were just about to go!" George turned to his
zombie horde.
"No really," I said, "Stay," leading Sylvia up the steps to the
stage. She took her place on the 3-legged wooden stool behind the
harp.
I stepped up face to face with George. "The Princess has learned
a few new melodies she'd like to share. I think you'll find them
most engaging."
Grumbling, he and Karl made as if to resume their seats on the
stage. "Excuse me," I said with an ushering motion. "I believe
your seats are down there."
Grumbling some more, the would-be tyrants and their menagerie
descended the stairs down off the stage. Realizing there wasn't
much they could do, the phony king and his followers settled on
the wood benches, muttering to each other.
While Sylvia sat down and tuned her harp. King Hieronymus stared
down from his mount at the commotion around him, then took a long
hard look at me. I think the state of shock from their
experiential lacuna was beginning to take hold. "Wizard," he
said, "What on earth is going on?"
"Have a seat and enjoy the concert," I invited him. "I think
you'll appreciate it." I winked and placed my finger to my lips.
He looked at me with an expression which spoke of doubt regarding
my sanity. Finally he gave in. "You're very strange," he said.
Then, to his Queen: "Dear, shall we?"
"Of course, love. Let's hear what Sylvia has to play."
Giving another uneasy glance around, the King dismounted, then
held out his hand to assist the Queen, and they took their places
in the seats on the stage. Hieronymus beckoned to Roderick and
his soldiers, who rode up from behind to listen from horseback,
ready in case any disturbance should break out.
Finally, leaning the harp to her, Sylvia began to caress the
strings into life with delicately cascading arpeggios.
The organist, an old lady with curly white hair and thick convex
glasses, recognized the song, and began to sneak in subtly with
sustained Brahmsian harmonies in the background.
Sylvia began to sing in the ancient tongue of Sangrelysia:
L`ia thiann uz laue schea mela
Sia uth senn myria nasco dia
Uth mea l`aloth seya aithia
Er au hautho/n recla nazo eron
Cluthuea Draco ia er sepharo/n
Az ortheron a du eschau eon
Masch uea dyn aino/th orpha cleth
O ith a hoitha serva maeneth
Agaroet erau sapheth i erga debeth
From above us came a swoosh and a shadow, followed by a "thud!"
as a reptilian body, maybe twice the size of the average human,
landed heavily on the elevated wood plank flooring which
comprised the upstage platform.
The small red dragon landed on its butt, then bounced and rolled
over with with the enthusiastic playfulness of a puppy, landing
once again in seated position, from which it blinked and peered
at the crowd with a stupidly dazed smile, tongue flicking out
every few seconds or so.
King Hieronymus granted me a stare which was burning with
curiosity, but observing my smile, said nothing.
Except for the Wenubians, who huddled worriedly near the remains
of their golden spacecraft, the crowd broke into smiles and
sounds of "aww," and other syllables of admiration.
George stood up from his bench in the front row, and burst out
into laughter. "Why Wizard," he taunted. "You've shrunk the red
dragon. Oooh, now I'm scared!"
He turned to his people. "Enough of this ridiculous circus. Let's
get out of here."
As George and Karl stood up to leave, the baby dragon flew
overhead and spun around to block their exit, facing them with a
snarl. It stood on all fours, back arched ready to pounce,
wickedly pointed teeth and claws now bared, tail switching in the
air. Its sustained low-pitched growling quietly carried across
the glen.
The crowd fell into a hush. The faces of the conspirators drained
of blood.
"What do we do?"
"Intimidate it! Hold your hands up and look really big!" They
did.
The dragon's growling continued, perhaps growing in intensity.
"I don't think it's working," whispered Karl.
"Nice little draggie-poo!" offered King George.
"Just back up, and walk slowly away, real easy-like," Karl was
saying. "So it won't notice that we're leaving."
The young dragon's growling ceased, and there was a moment of
silence, in which we all could hear a quiet, deep rumbling noise
in the distance, like the sound of the ocean from behind a
hillside, or a vast desert breeze. It faded, fell back to
stillness, then rose up even louder again.
The wind was picking up, stirring leaves and branches of the
trees all around into agitated rustling.
The crowd whispered, casting about puzzled looks seeking the
explanation. The dry air electrified with static charge. I felt
my hair standing on end.
Overhead, sunlight dims subtly, followed by a giant swoosh as the
Red Dragon sweeps into view.
Her serpentine form unwinds in spiral loops, whipping by
overhead, the last being the tail with striated fins like a fish.
The scaly surface scrolls swiftly across the heavens, a neatly
tiled, articulated mosaic of armor plates softly clicking
together as they slither through the sky.
Slowly and majestically, the length of her body paraded by, only
a metre or so above the crowd. Great scarlet scales, smooth and
sleek, bristling with sharp cleanliness, wings beating in slow-
motion counterpoint, legs splayed in graceful, angular tai-chi
gestures, its huge claws bared, sharp as thorns, as it spiraled
around into an enormous coil, its immense body suspended
magically in the air above us, bobbing and floating loftily as it
swirled.
A gigantic head swooped down, as large as a carriage, and great
big reptilian eyes glittering with ruby sparkles gazed at us from
above.
The baby dragon leapt up playfully to greet its mother. The large
eyes blinked slowly with affection, and a giant snake's tongue
flicked out briefly.
I had been too distracted by aerial events to notice George
stealthily edging his way towards the small grey box Elwrong had
let fall to the ground. From the corner of my visual field I
detected a lunging motion, and whirled around in time to see
George, face full with a cruel mocking grin, a bundle of darts in
his cocked-back fist. My heart hopped over a couple of beats as,
with vicious rage, he hurled them toward Sylvia.
In the blink of an eye, they bounced off an invisible wall, as
the protective spell inverted their velocity vectors, and the
entire cluster of pointed projectiles flew back and embedded
themselves solidly in George's face and body.
He stood for a moment, slowly comprehending, pain and anger
welling forth, as discoloration and swelling from the venom
consumed his countenance. Falling to his knees from the weakness,
he tore out one of the darts from his arm, and glared at me as he
hurled it in my direction. It also, of course, flew back, hitting
him smack in the middle of the forehead.
He ogled it, stupidly cross-eyed, but the weakness had already
clamped around him, paralysis causing him to collapse over
backward in an awkward sprawl, gazing up with fading eyes at the
enormous reptilian bulk that swirled above him. His breathing
became labored, and a trickle of blood dribbled from the side of
his mouth.
The crowd stirred restlessly, as George's followers pressed
towards him.
"That's it, keep back," said one of the soldiers. "Give him room
to breathe." The soldiers circled around him, holding off the
push of the crowd.
I looked over to see that Hieronymus had stood up angrily,
brazenly (and foolishly) placing himself between George and his
daughter Sylvia. Rolling my eyes, I hurriedly conjured up a
protective spell around him, in case any darts should stray in
his direction.
Feeling the tingle as it took hold, he looked over at me. "What
was that?"
"Nothing," I said, a little embarrassed that I hadn't thought of
it sooner. "Just a little barrier from toxic pointy things."
His slightly baffled expression in response reminded me with
sadness of the Sangrelysia he had emerged from, in his perception
only a few minutes earlier. A careless creative land, free of
strife and sadness.
"Do something!" shouted evil nephew Karl, waving his arms wildly
at me. "Save him! Dragon's blood!"
Looking down at them from the stage, I stroked my beard and
wondered exactly how it had come about that Karl was so familiar
with the purported antidote to arcynine.
"Saving him," I commented, "were it possible, would indeed be the
heroic thing to do."
"Yes!" beamed Karl, connivingly. "And that's how you want to go
down in history, right? The bards will sing of the wizard who
bravely saved the king!"
"Too bad," I continued. "True heros exist only in books."
The beam turned to a glare. "Then I guess the author of this
story hasn't got a clue."
"I've often felt the same way myself," I replied.
The crowd whispered and craned as George struggled and gasped.
The baby dragon sniffed curiously, snorting tiny puffs of smoke
as it looked on.
"You're going to regret this!" one of George's soldiers
threatened me. "You better do something to save him."
Even Hieronymus looked at me inquisitively. "It would be better,
were he alive to stand trial," said the King.
"Sorry," I replied. "She's the one you'll need to ask." I gazed
upward at the seething crimson coils. Her head had disappeared,
lost high above in clouds of steam.
Apparently, the immanent death of a tyrant did not bring a tear
to the dragon's eye.
George's gurgled breathing became yet more painfully strained.
Karl by his side in hysterics, repeated over and over: "George,
speak to me. Say something. Don't leave me!"
Finally, out came the bogus tyrant's final phrase: "Turd --
blossom -- -- " And then, the breathing ceased, eyes rolled back.
Lost control over bodily functions became disgustingly evident.
The crowd began to stir angrily.
"Great way to ruin my recital," said Sylvia to me, ironically.
"Thanks for inviting them to stay." Where did that girl get such
a taste for sarcasm?
"You're right dear," I replied. "I should know better than to
welcome their kind. Always spoil everything."
"Your song was beautiful," crooned Clarissa adoringly. "I so love
the sound of your voice!"
"It was very lovely," called out Queen Megan. "You were sitting
up very straight!"
"Er, thanks mom!" replied Sylvia.
"I think we may need to schedule another performance," I said.
George's followers began to climb up on the stage. Two of them
succeeded in getting over the edge, and came at us angrily.
The baby dragon sprang back onto the stage. She slashed
razor-edged claws of a forepaw, raking across the torso of the
first attacker, and knocked back the second with a flip of its
tail. Blood spurted, gushing forth as both fell back into the
mob.
"Tough crowd," mused Clarissa.
Then came an enormous sound, with the sonorous dissonant richness
of a string orchestra or a wind tunnel, rising and crescendoing
as the coils of the big dragon accelerated in their motion above
us. Her gigantic head reappeared, this time hurling forth a
monstrous effervescent wall of flame, which swept over the entire
crowd. The fire came crashing down over us, a sheet of pure
blinding white light.
For a few seconds, vision ceased completely, replaced by a
blizzard of brilliant sparkles. Then gradually through the
glittering shadows that began to emerge through the whiteness, I
could discern the effects of the Dragon's burst.
The real Sangrelysians seemed largely unchanged, other than
appearing healthier and more alive with wholesome vibrance than
before.
Flames were spreading among George's followers, all of whom
appeared to be on fire, engulfed in the scorching tongues of a
surreal psychedelic blaze. On closer inspection, one could see
that it was no ordinary flame. It lashed out in a bright
prismatic splay of colors, wreathing the many figures of foreign
intruders in a palette of whirling vapors. Stunned, they
exchanged glances and looked skyward.
Gradually, they began to dissolve into ghostlike resemblances of
the human form, becoming more and more transparent. George's
body, too, was enveloped in the mysterious blaze, and began to
disappear along with the mess it had made.
Finally, when all were completely invisible, the flames vanished
as well, leaving the place in an atmosphere of clean, wholesome
tranquility. The silence was broken only by the faint cheerful
twittering of birdsong.
Chapter 30
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