1LORAN
When she came to, Loran found herself under the scrutiny of a dark red dragon with too many eyes.
The beast had two enormous eyes where you would expect them, flanked by two smaller ones on the left and three more on the right. And all seven of these eyes were trained on Loran, boring into her with an unreadable expression.
More than how the fire-dragon loomed over her like a tower, more than the teeth that looked like swords and spears in a crowded weapons rack, more than the black chains entangled over the scales of its back, and more than the claw pressing down on her chest and holding her in place—it was these two rows of eyes, left and right, that frightened her.
When she tried to get up, the pressure on her chest increased. The claw was thicker than Loran’s thigh, sharper than a dagger, and pierced her clothes and flesh.
Loran grimaced and a groan escaped her. The claw lightened a little.
“A princess of Arland.”
The dragon’s voice was not loud—it was as soft as a human’s, yet otherworldly and full of menace. Loran tamped down on her terror and took in her surroundings. The walls of gray basalt looked naturally formed but, at the same time, not. There were blackened spots in places, and large scratch marks. Despite the cavern being inside of a volcano, there was a chill in the air.
She took a deep breath and spoke in a clear voice.
“I am common-born. Not a princess.”
Loran tried not to cringe as the dragon’s enormous face closed in on hers. It squinted all seven of its eyes and shifted its attention a little downward. It was examining the t’laran inked around her neck. She bore clan tattoos like all Arlanders, though since the Empire came the concept of clans had lost its hold over Arland, especially in Kingsworth, where she lived. But the dragon was looking for the royal markings designed in its own image, and her t’laran certainly didn’t have them. She could smell the sulfur on the dragon’s breath as it spoke.
“Not a princess? Do you not know that only those carrying the blood of kings may survive crossing the threshold?”
Loran knew what the legends said, but still she had come.
“Arland is an old country, and the royal blood has spread to many of its people. I have come here in the belief that I, too, have a little of the blood of the old kings.”
The dragon made a horrible sound, which Loran realized was laughter.
“To leap into the fire of the volcano on such a whim! But with the demise of your last king, it no longer matters whether you are a princess or a commoner. Whatever blood you have only allows you to stand before me. I, who failed to keep my promise and was defeated by a mere toy, and now lie here tied in the outsiders’ chains.”
The menace in the dragon’s voice had faded. The claw was lifted from her chest. So as not to provoke the beast, Loran got up slowly as she gathered her courage once more.
Fire-dragon of the mountain, guardian of the kings of Arland. More than twenty years have passed since the Empire conquered us, and the people are starving. The prefect kills innocents as if scything grass, falsely accusing them of treason and rebellion. Our country has fallen, but no one rises to lead us. I have come here to beg for your help.
These were the words she had committed to memory before coming here, when standing before the dragon had felt like a daydream. Even once she’d resolved to seek this creature of lore, the more likely outcomes had been that she would fall off the volcano and die, get caught by the pursuing soldiers and die, or disintegrate in lava before she had time to scream. Despite her likely demise, she had rewritten this speech many times, practicing it over and over in a low voice in front of the mirror, just in case.
But what passed her lips now was completely different.
“My husband and daughter were murdered by the Imperial prefect. I am not powerful enough to avenge their deaths. If you help me, I will do anything for you in return.”
The dragon did not even bother to shake its head.
“Do the legends say I am a granter of wishes? I may have failed to keep my pact with the king, but there is no longer a king for me to make amends to. Go home. Twenty years have passed since my last good meal.” Making a show of it, the dragon licked its lips, its three-pronged tongue red as lava. Then it turned its long neck away from her, nestled its head on its flank, and closed its eyes.
Was that it? A day and night spent scaling the steep mountain face, all just for this? She had thrown herself into the opening of the volcano, ready for a sudden death, but here she was, alive yet empty-handed. Even being eaten by the enraged dragon was an ending she had steadied herself for, but instead, her petition had been refused as if by some clerk at the prefect’s office.
Loran thought of her family. All they had done was to compose a mourning song and sing it. To the prefect and the Empire, it was treason. She remembered her husband and daughter, hanging by their necks at the crossroads for the whole world to gawk at. Her eyes squeezed themselves shut.
“I shall become King of Arland.”
A voice cut through the silence, and her heart pounded. If the dragon hadn’t opened its eyes and turned toward her, she wouldn’t have thought the words had come out of her own mouth at all.
“Make a new pact—with me,” Loran said. “Then I will help you keep your promise with the old king.”
The dragon rose on its four legs. The chains around it stretched taut, and the stone floor beneath them rumbled. The scales along its back rose like hackles.
“King? You? Pitiful girl, do you not know the invincible Empire reigns over all lands under the sun? Did you not see their Powered weapons that struck down dragons from the sky? Do you not fear the Star that felled Mersia in a single night? How do you propose to be king? To swear in front of a dragon such a brash oath, one you do not even mean in your heart, is to deserve a burning death!”
Deep inside the dragon’s mouth, a smoldering blue fire appeared.
Loran had no reply. Aside from her skills as a humble swordmaster with a handful of pupils, she was merely a widow who had only seen thirty-some years, and entirely without means—“brash” was right. But the dragon was wrong that she didn’t mean it in her heart. She had meant every word. For it was the only path left to her.
Copyright © 2016 by Sung-il Kim
