Chapter 14
- Vyrathion -
The impact shakes me. Then an ugly roar, deep enough to vibrate through the ground beneath the shelter.
The persistent river beast seems incapable of accepting defeat. Leaves rain from the ceiling overhead while rain hammers my exquisitely woven branches hard enough to make them creak.
On top of me, Morgan jerks and sits upright. My eyes go to her before I consciously decide to look. She appears unharmed.
The observation produces a surprising sense of relief, which irritates me at once.
There was no reason to assume she had been injured.
The creature struck the island, not the shelter itself.
Even if the shelter had collapsed, Morgan has demonstrated a remarkable ability to survive situations that should by all rights have killed her long ago.
Another roar echoes through the darkness outside.
Morgan turns toward the entrance. "That sounded close."
"Silly monster," I reply, already getting to my feet. The shelter feels even smaller than before as I duck beneath the low roof. Clyde stirs somewhere behind us, and by the time I push through the entrance flap, the little spy is already awake as well.
I pull my boots and pants on, and hand Morgan her garments.
Then I step out.
Cold rain strikes my face immediately.
For a few moments I simply stand there, letting my eyes adjust. The island is almost completely dark.
Lightning flashes somewhere beyond the floodwaters, briefly illuminating the river before plunging everything back into shadow.
The current looks even larger than it did before we slept.
Entire trees are rushing downstream now, their roots exposed like claws as they spin through the water.
Behind me I hear Morgan emerge from the shelter.
"You should stay inside," I tell her without turning around. “It’s the only dry place.”
"But what if we have to escape?"
"Then I will get you."
A brief silence follows. Then I hear her footsteps squelching through the mud beside me. "This way I’ll be ready."
Earth females possess a fascinating inability to obey reasonable instructions. Morgan has repeatedly demonstrated courage in situations where courage serves no practical purpose whatsoever. Under other circumstances I might even admire the trait. At present it merely complicates matters.
Together we move farther across the island. The ground feels different beneath my feet. Even before I identify the cause, I know something has changed. The island seems narrower somehow, as though the river has crept closer while we were otherwise engaged.
Then lightning flashes again and the damage becomes immediately obvious.
One of the larger trees near the center of the island now leans at a dangerous angle. Fresh earth has vanished from beneath its roots. A wide section of shoreline has collapsed entirely, leaving only a jagged scar where solid ground existed earlier.
Morgan stops beside me. For a moment neither of us speaks while rain pours from the leaves overhead and mud slides steadily into the river below.
"What happened?" she finally asks.
I already know the answer. The creature is learning.
Earlier it attempted to climb onto the island.
When that failed, it began attacking the shoreline itself.
Now it has discovered something even more effective.
It isn't trying to reach us anymore. It is dismantling the island piece by piece and allowing the river to do the rest.
The realization is deeply unpleasant. Most predators rely on strength.
Some rely on patience. A predator capable of adapting its tactics becomes considerably more troublesome.
The beast is no longer behaving like an animal defending territory.
It is studying us, identifying weaknesses, and adjusting accordingly.
Morgan follows my gaze toward the leaning tree. "If that comes down, it'll take half the shoreline with it."
"More than half," I say. "The roots are still holding the soil together."
Neither of us says what follows naturally from that observation. We don't need to. Every section of shoreline we lose leaves less island behind. Every day the storm continues makes the problem worse.
For several moments I watch the floodwaters rushing past. The solution should be obvious.
I am not trapped here. The river presents no obstacle to me.
Neither does the current. The beast is dangerous, but not dangerous enough.
If I wished to leave, I could walk directly across the riverbed and quickly reach the mainland.
The problem belongs entirely to Morgan. A dragon without a hoard grows weaker. Every hour matters. Every hour spent on this miserable island delays my return to proper strength. Every hour delays my search for gold. Remaining here serves no useful purpose. So why haven't I left already?
The answer should be simple. Morgan is a human. An unusually stubborn human. A useful travelling companion. An occasional source of unimportant information. A remarkably enthusiastic bedmate. At best a severely lackluster servant. Nothing more.
Yet as I stand there watching the storm, I find myself calculating how long she would survive alone. Not long. The beast would attack again, the shelter might collapse on top of her, the island itself could disappear beneath the floodwaters.
I immediately reject the entire line of thought. Morgan is not my responsibility. Unfortunately, the more often I repeat that fact, the less convincing it becomes. And the longer I watch the floodwaters, the more irritating the situation becomes.
A dragon should never be trapped by geography, even in this cursedly weak form.
Mountains can be crossed. Rivers can be crossed.
Entire oceans can be crossed if the reward on the far side is sufficiently valuable.
The swollen river surrounding the island is unpleasant, but unpleasant things have never possessed the authority to dictate my actions.
If I wished to leave, I could walk into the water immediately and reach the mainland long before sunrise.
The realization ought to be reassuring. Instead, I find myself increasingly annoyed.
Beside me, Morgan studies the damaged shoreline while rain runs from her hair and clothing.
She has wrapped her arms around herself against the cold, but her attention remains fixed on the sections of ground that have disappeared into the river.
Earlier, she would have looked frightened.
Now she looks thoughtful. Somewhere during our travels she has apparently become accustomed to disasters. An unfortunate development.
"You are thinking," she says.
I glance at her. "I am aware of my predicament. No dragon should ever have to think. I’ve had to do it too much as it is on this goldforsaken planet."
"I actually like it when you think." She’s watching me with the confidence of somebody who’s being sincere.
"Thinking is a poor substitute for doing, for acting, for simply taking what my whim tells me I want," I state bitterly. “Having to think about what to do next is utterly degrading.”
Morgan shrugs. "I don’t think so. I can think about this, too."
I scoff. "You have more experience with that, I’m sure."
“Probably. But I think you’re secretly really good at it.” A smile briefly appears at the corner of her mouth before she turns back toward the river.
“All you do is think.” The exchange should have ended there.
Instead I find myself considering her observation.
She is not entirely wrong. I have been evaluating possibilities ever since we stepped outside.
And that’s not for me. If I were alone here, I would simply leave this island and get to the shore, as easily as walking through the river.
The island is not trapping me. The island is trapping Morgan.
"Well?" Morgan asks after a while.
The question pulls me from my thoughts. "Well what?"
She gestures toward the river. "You spent the last ten minutes staring dramatically into the distance. Does it mean you've reached a conclusion?"
I have. The problem is that I dislike it. For several moments I listen to the rain while deciding how much honesty to provide. "I could leave."
Morgan turns her head toward me.
The statement sounds harsher once spoken aloud, but it remains true. "I can walk across the riverbed. The current is irrelevant. The creature would be unable to stop me for long."
To my surprise, Morgan simply nods. "I know." There is no accusation in her voice. No anger. No disappointment.
"You know?"
"Of course I know." She looks back toward the river. "I know that dragons can walk underwater. You said so."
The simplicity of the response leaves me unexpectedly dissatisfied. I am not entirely certain what reaction I expected. Objections, perhaps. Concern. Some acknowledgement that my departure would create difficulties.
Instead she merely accepts the fact.
After a few moments she says, "If you decide to go, just tell me first."
I study her profile through the rain. "That is all?"
Morgan shrugs. "What exactly am I supposed to do? Tackle you?"
"That would be ill advised. Yes, I can obviously do whatever I want. That is dragon-like."
The conversation has made the situation worse. Leaving still makes sense. Unfortunately, it no longer feels simple.
Leaving is the rational choice. Yet even while I stand there reminding myself of that fact, I find my attention drifting toward the strangest concerns.
How much food remains on the island? How much does she need? Would the creature attack while I was gone? Could the shelter survive another night of storms? How long would she last alone?
I frown. I’m still thinking as if Morgan is my responsibility.
But dragons don’t do responsibilities. We take, we enjoy, we destroy, we conquer.
If a servant dies, or somehow suffers in one of the endless ways that can happen, then we don’t give it a second thought.
And we certainly don’t care what might happen.
Unfortunately, I am beginning to suspect that some part of me disagrees. It’s the weak part, the not-dragon part in this cursedly weak form! I cannot let it steer me. I must act like a dragon!
I picture my hoard, my old hoard in the carefully hidden lair on that secret planet. I imagine lying on it, feeling the warmth of the gold seep into me, hearing the soft, metallic clinks as I run my hand through the heaps of treasure.
Yes. That’s what I need. Gold. A hoard. And on this island there is none.
Morgan was a pleasant conquest. But now I must fight her spells.
“Stay in the hut,” I say. “Perhaps the creature will stop if it can’t see you.”
Then I walk straight into the river.