Armon watched the shadow advance, moving across the plain like an inescapable tide. For five years he had managed to keep it at bay, using all of the strength and magic he possessed. None of it had been enough. How could he have known it would come to this?

He chuckled bitterly. How could he not? It had been prophesied from the day of their birth.

Mirror images of one another, he and his brother had both been blessed with the gift of their mother's Fire, but while Armon tempered his gift with wisdom and knowledge, Ryel had been drawn down a different, darker path. Exiled and condemned for his foray into the shadow realms, he had been denied his share of their father's kingdom. Now, the one known as The Darkstar had returned to reclaim his birthright.

Thunder rumbled overhead, though the sky was cloudless and blue. Ryel, making his presence known, Armon thought, as though the vast black shadow advancing toward Lesslyn were not enough.

"We will not defeat him."

The voice interrupted Armon's reverie. "He has not won yet," he countered, shaking his head.

"Yes, he has. With every advance, our numbers dwindle."

"Is that why you have come, Dagen? To inspire me with your boundless optimism?"

Armon's son lowered his eyes. "No, father. The Duke of Andrath and the Earl of Myrin seek audience."

"Do they?" muttered Armon.

He turned from the wall and descended the stone steps leading to the inner courtyard. "Where?"

"In the Great Hall."

Armon barely glanced at the soldiers who saluted him as he strode past. Dagen hurried ahead to open the bronze palace doors, and he swept through them and down the marble corridor. He stood for a moment in the doorway of the Great Hall, listening to the two nobles natter. They were afraid.

As well they should be.

"My Lords," he said, his boots echoing on the tiled floor as he crossed the room.

"King Armon," said a small man with silver hair and watery blue eyes. "How goes the battle?"

"The battle goes as it has gone for nigh on six years, Arvid," he snapped in irritation. "The Shadow advances; the Shadow recedes. And between times, we are subjected to a great deal of blood and death. If that is what you have called me here to ask, then you are wasting my time."

"We have called you here to remind you that it cannot continue, Sire," said Arvid of Andrath. "The city has been under siege for nigh on six years, as you say. We are running out of supplies, men and time."

Armon closed his eyes. "I am aware of that, but my brother’s terms are not open to negotiation, and I am not prepared to accept them."

"Then we must find a way to defeat him before we are overrun," said Rashin of Myrin.

"What would you suggest?" asked Armon, looking to the stocky, dark haired man at the end of the table. "He demands our absolute surrender. He sends our messengers back to us in pieces, and it takes all of my power to maintain the wards that protect us."

"I realise that, Sire," said Rashin, "but there must be something we can do besides sit and wait to be destroyed!"

"Forgive the intrusion, Father, but perhaps there is," said Dagen from the back of the room.

Armon turned, the others following his gaze.

"Speak, my son," said Armon. "If you think you know a way to save us, then I will gladly hear it."

Dagen approached the council table. "What about the Dragon Lords?"

Armon chuckled. "The Dragon Lords have been silent for a thousand years."

"Silent," Dagen agreed. "But not vanished. The temple still stands."

Armon stared at his son, thoughtfully. The boy was serious.

"Sire!" said Rashin. "You cannot seriously consider such a thing! The Dragon Lords are far too dangerous and unpredictable. They—"

"They can hardly be worse than the threat we face from the Darkstar, Lord Rashin," Dagen interrupted. "You have said yourself we must do something besides wait."

"We do not even know if they still exist," insisted Arvid. "The temple stands, but that is all. I doubt there is anyone left alive who knows the invocation."

"I know it," said Dagen.

Armon looked at his son with surprise. "You? How?"

"I have been studying the Texts," said Dagen.

"The Dragon Texts are forbidden," said Rashin.

"They contain knowledge that can save us, Lord Rashin," said Dagen. "The invocation is described in great detail."

"And you think you can use it to summon the Dragon Lords from a thousand years of slumber?" laughed Rashin.

"Why not?" asked Dagen. He looked to his father. "It cannot hurt to try. If it fails, we are no worse off than we are now; if it succeeds…"

"We will owe a debt we may not be able to repay," said Arvid. "What do your Texts say about the price that will be demanded of us?"

"I…am not sure. The histories are incomplete."

"So, the cost is unknown?" asked Rashin. "I hardly think the Dragon Lords will come to our aid out of kindness."

"Whatever the price, it has to be better than waiting to be overwhelmed."

"Sire!" insisted Rashin.

"Enough!" snapped Armon, running a weary hand across his eyes. "Thank you, Dagen. I will consider your suggestion, though I would rather not find myself in debt to the Dragon Lords if an alternative exists."

He looked to the two nobles. "Is there anything else?"

They muttered negative replies, staring fixedly at the table.

"Very well, then," said Armon. "This audience is concluded."

Dagen sat in the vaults, the Dragon Lord Texts open before him. The pages were thin and crumbling, he had to be careful as he turned them, his eyes scanning the ancient words. The more he read, the more in awe he was. That beings of such power should pass from the world seemed somehow unfair.

He looked up when the door to the vaults creaked open, and smiled as his father approached.

Armon looked tired, the strain of constantly maintaining the wards showing in his eyes. He ate little and slept less, and sometimes Dagen wondered how he was able to function at all. Dagen worried about him.

"I have been thinking about your Dragon Lords," said Armon. "Were our situation not so desperate, I would never seriously consider it, but…" He sighed. "Arvid and Rashin are correct. I am running out of options, as well as time."

Dagen lowered his eyes. "I can do this, Father. The words of summoning are here."

"What of the magic required?" asked Armon. "It cannot be that just anyone may summon a Dragon Lord."

"At the time the histories were written, it was forbidden for anyone to enter the temple without the permission of the Mages. They controlled and performed all the rituals, including the rituals of summoning and return. But they are gone, Father. The temple stands, however, and the words are here. No where in the texts does it say that the ritual must be performed by a Dragon Mage—it just always was."

"And you think you can do this? Summon a Dragon Lord to save us?"

"I can speak the words. I understand the ritual," said Dagen. "Yes, Father. I believe I can."

"I do not know which is worse," muttered Armon. "To owe an unknown debt to a God a thousand years dead, or to watch my cursed brother destroy all that I have built." He sighed. "Very well. If you think you can do this, we will make the attempt. Before he sends his horde against the walls again."

The Temple of the Dragon sat on an island in the middle of a weed-choked lake, connected to the city by a narrow stone bridge. It was surrounded by high, vine-covered obsidian walls; dense thickets of holly and shrouding stands of cedar and pine only added to the sense of wildness and abandonment.

Armon shivered as he and Dagen crossed the bridge. The air felt different on the island, heavier and warmer. A damp mist curled through the trees.

A warm wind swirled the dust at their feet as they entered the temple's courtyard. Dead weeds and grass outlined the paving stones, and a cracked, broken fountain decorated the yard. Four stone dragons guarded the square, their black wings unfurled, their ruby and emerald eyes winking in the pale light shining through the trees.

Armon shuddered. There was power here, ancient power.

He looked over at his son. Dagen's blond hair was shining in the filtered sunlight, but his grey eyes were pensive as he stared at the shadowed portal of the temple's door. "Come on, boy," he muttered, "before I lose my nerve."

It was warm inside. Flaked and broken rock littered the floor, and the air smelled of dust and crumbling stone. An altar stood on a raised dais at one end of the room, but the ceremonial torches had long since died. Squinting in the dim light streaking the walls, Armon tried to imagine what this place had looked like before being abandoned for the worship of other, newer Gods. Before it had fallen prey to weeds and neglect, it must have been magnificent.

Dagen approached the altar and knelt, drawing several items from the bag he carried: fresh torches, a vial of scented oil, incense, and a small velvet sack of coloured gems. After annointing the torches with the incense, he placed them in tarnished silver sconces and lit them.

As the torches sputtered to life, Armon gasped.

Hidden in the shadows behind the altar was a mural, depicting a great silver and black dragon flying through a raging storm. It was so lifelike Armon could almost feel the power of its wings, carrying it on the wild winds.

Dagen removed the last item from his bag, a shallow silver bowl that he placed on the altar. When everything was ready, he stepped away from the dais.

"The invocation is very powerful," he said, his voice hushed. "The words have not been spoken in a thousand years, and I cannot know their effect. Whatever happens, you must not interfere."

Armon stared at the mural and nodded.

Dagen returned to the dais. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened his arms in supplication and began to chant.

Dragon Master, hear me. Fire Heart, Spirit of Storm, Wings of Fire, I summon thee!

Dagen poured the oil into the bowl and set it alight, then shook a handful of gems from the bag. One by one, he dropped them into the flaming oil. The jewels hissed and evaporated, dissolving into a multicoloured mist that hovered above the dais.

Night Rider, waken! I summon thee from slumber. Hear my voice. Feel my need. Fire Heart, Wings of Fire, I summon thee!

A breath of wind caused the torches to flicker, and Armon felt a chill run through him as the image on the mural began to waver and melt.

Lord of Thunder, Sword of Lightning, Wings of Fire, come to me! Heart of Darkness, Spirit Rising, Waken Dragon, I summon thee!

The mist thickened about the altar, mingling with the scent of the incense as the steady, thumping boom of a giant heart filled the temple. It grew ever louder, until Armon was sure it would shake the building apart. He watched in horrified fascination as a figure stepped from the mural. The heartbeat suddenly stopped and an eerie silence descended as Dagen stepped back a pace.

The figure moved out of the mist, dressed in black that shimmered like scales in the light from the torches. He was tall, with waist-length raven hair and silver eyes that burned with a deep blue fire. He wore no weapons that the king could see.

"Who awakens the Dragon?" the man asked. His voice was soft and musical, reminding Armon of moonlight on the high snows.

"I do," he replied, struggling to keep the tremor from his voice. "I am Armon, High King of Lesslyn."

"Yours is not the voice who called me from my sleep," said the man. "That…was a younger voice."

"I am the one who called."

The man fixed his silver-blue gaze on Dagen.

"You are not a Dragon Mage. How do you know the words of Summoning?"

"The Dragon Mages are dead," said Dagen, "but their words remain."

The man shuddered, torchlight rippling like lightning through his hair. "Much has changed since last I woke. I am called Londhar. Why have you called me from the fire dreams?"

"Our city is besieged and we will soon be overrun," said Armon. "We need your help…your power."

"You have your own power," said Londhar, looking to Armon. "I feel it in you. Why do you need mine?"

"My power goes to ward the city," said Armon. "I cannot fight and maintain the wards as well."

"And what do you require of me?"

"I require you to slay my enemy. To defeat his army, and free my kingdom of his threat."

"And you are prepared to pay the required price?"

Armon closed his eyes as he thought of his brother’s horde advancing toward Lesslyn. How much longer could he hold them back? A day? A week? Certainly no longer.

"I will pay whatever is required to keep my kingdom from being destroyed."

The Dragon Lord smiled faintly, his silver-blue eyes burning into Armon’s.

"So be it," he said. "I will slay your enemy. I will defeat his army, and free your city. When that is done, I will tell you what the covenant demands."

Londhar gazed across the plain to where the shadow had stopped its advance, within five miles of the city walls. It had merged into the gathering dusk and was visible now only as a deeper shade of black against the horizon.

The night wind was cool, carrying the scent of sun-scorched grass and the murmur of voices along the wall. The torches guttered in the breeze, casting wavering shadows upon the battlements. Londhar felt a profound sadness that he had been awakened once more to battle and death. The fire dreams had soothed his rage for a thousand years, and he had no desire to call upon it again.

He felt grim satisfaction within the shadow, as the Darkstar contemplated his impending victory. Londhar knew little of the war between the brothers, but the reasons for their battle were unimportant. The request had been issued—and answered. The requirements of the covenant would be satisfied.

Londhar trembled as the memory of all those sacrificed to the Dragon Rage rose within him, unbidden and unwelcome. He closed his eyes, pushing the images away as he sent his consciousness deeper into the heart of the shadow, seeking the essence of the Darkstar. Through a shifting maze of thought and feeling, he followed the crimson ribbon of hatred and rage to its source.

There.

In a dimly lit pavilion, a man sat upon an iron throne, surrounded by armored guards. He wore deep crimson robes, belted about the waist with a heavy, gold torque. Ryel Darkstar looked much like his brother, with the same fair hair and noble bearing. But there was a darkness in him that the Lesslyn king did not possess, and Londhar felt the shadows surrounding his spirit.

The Dragon Lord lowered his mental shields, allowing himself to be seen. The man upon the throne hissed in surprise; his guards reached for their weapons.

"Your guards cannot touch me, Ryel Darkstar. Tell them to stand down."

Ryel's eyes narrowed and he nodded to his guard. They sheathed their blades reluctantly, and watched Londhar with wary eyes. The Dragon Lord felt Ryel's consciousness probe his own and he allowed it for a moment, before shielding himself from the mental intrusion.

"So," said Ryel. "My brother has awakened a Dragon Lord to defend his city. Lesslyn has abandoned you and your kind. Why do you fight to save it?"

"My reasons need not concern you, Ryel Darkstar. I have come to offer you one final opportunity to withdraw."

"Are you my brother’s messenger?" chuckled Ryel. "He has the power to come to me himself with his offer. Why does he not?"

"Because he does not offer," said Londhar. "Come the dawn, if your host is still before the walls of Lesslyn, I will destroy it."

"A threat, Dragon Lord?"

"A certainty. You will not win."

Londhar saw a momentary flicker of doubt in Ryel’s eyes.

"This is not your war."

"Your brother has made it my war."

"But it need not be. We are both beings of great power, and Lesslyn is a wealthy kingdom. Join with me, and together we can destroy him. You will find me to be a very generous and appreciative ally."

"An interesting offer," said Londhar softly. "Unfortunately, the covenant has already been agreed upon. It cannot be changed."

"A pity," said Ryel. "Together, we could have conquered the world."

Londhar smiled faintly. "I await your reply."

"Thank you," said Ryel, "but I am afraid I must decline. Tell my brother that by the setting of tomorrow’s sun, his kingdom shall be mine—as it was meant to be from the beginning."

Londhar felt a pang of resigned regret as he withdrew from the Darkstar's presence.

"I will convey your message."

Londhar walked onto the plain, the Darkstar’s shadow looming before him, a poisonous mist glowing sickly green in the morning light. Shapes moved within it, flickering forms that were there and gone.

He tested the strength of the King’s wards. Strong, but no longer strong enough to protect the city should he fail.

But he would not fail.

He closed his eyes and sent his consciousness diving inward towards the waiting pool of silver rage, felt it race like liquid lightning through his blood. Opening his arms, he held the fury tight as it throbbed through him, screaming for release.

Not yet.

The battlefield was silent. The only sounds were the whisper of wind through dry grass and the muted clank of weapons as soldiers stirred upon the walls.

And then the drums began, a deep, booming cadence that rose up through the earth to be felt in the blood. Londhar’s heartbeat answered, matching their rhythm as the Dragon Rage flowed through him. He was one with the fury…one with the fire.

Not yet.

The shadow advanced. The angry black clouds gathered overhead flickered and churned as brilliant blue lightning rippled through them. Londhar felt the taint of thousands of poisonous whispers brush the edges of his awareness, but the fury dissolved them to ash before they could fully reach him. His body trembled as the fire surged higher.

Now.

He surrendered himself to the Rage, allowing the fury to melt away his human form in a brilliant, searing eruption of silver fire. Thunder rumbled through earth and sky as the black and silver dragon rose up through the shadow, wings extended. With a roar of defiance, he released his fire into the Darkstar’s host as the city gates were flung open and the army of Lesslyn poured onto the field.

Ryel Darkstar fumed. The field was littered with the dead and dying, blood soaking deeply into the grass. Three times, he sent his army against Lesslyn with orders to destroy the city. Three times, the Dragon Lord’s fire had scorched the earth, denying him his victory.

His brother’s refusal to surrender infuriated him—how dare he be denied what was rightfully his? He was the stronger. His power, the greater. Lesslyn should be—would be his.

In his fury and frustration, he sent all of his remaining strength into his host as they threw themselves against the city walls. He would pull down Lesslyn stone by stone. They would never—Never!—deny or defy him again.

The sun rose, glinting on the armor and broken weapons of the newly slain. Shattered banners lay trodden into the bloody grass. Overhead, the angry, black clouds, evidence of the Dragon Lord's wrath, dissipated beneath the strength of a rising wind. Londhar soared above the plain, seeking survivors of the Darkstar's host.

There were none.

He no longer felt the wards, could not see the shimmering white film that had blanketed the city. The war was over. The threat was gone.

He winged his way back toward the walls and settled on the battlements, his Dragon form wavering as he resumed his human shape. Leaving the wall, he made his way through the streets toward the palace. The jubilant crowds fell silent at his approach, parting to allow him through.

Gathered nobility filled the Great Hall, where Ryel knelt in chains at his brother’s feet. Londhar felt the shields keeping the fallen prince from his power.

The Darkstar watched him approach, his eyes filled with contempt and dread.

"You should have withdrawn," said Londhar softly.

"And deny my brother the pleasure of killing me himself?"

Londhar’s gaze moved to Armon, to the sword in his hand. "I have defeated your enemy," he said. "I have freed your city. There is only one thing that remains."

A flicker of confusion passed across Armon’s face.

"I am required to slay him. Was that not part of the request you made to me? That I should slay your enemy?"

Londhar felt a surge of irritation and disappointment pass through the Lesslyn king.

"Kill him quickly, then," muttered Armon, offering Londhar his sword.

The Dragon Lord glanced from the blade, to Ryel before returning his gaze to Armon. "Your blade will not be required," he said. He looked to the guards. "Release him. I will not take him in chains."

The guards hesitated, looking to Armon. The king nodded, sheathing his blade, and they hurried over. Londhar waited as they hauled Ryel to his feet and unlocked the shackles binding his ankles and wrists.

The Hall was silent.

"You are not my enemy, Ryel Darkstar. Know that I do not desire your death. I do this so that the requirements of the covenant may be satisfied."

Ryel chuckled bitterly. "Forgive me, Dragon Lord, but that brings me little comfort. After all you have killed, one more death will hardly weigh heavily on your conscience."

Londhar heard the screams of those who had died by his fire echo through him.

"But it will," he whispered. "More than you know." He felt a deep sadness as he kept his eyes locked with Ryel's.

One more sacrificed to the Dragon Rage. One more death to haunt him.

He sent a thin thread of power behind the golden eyes, passing it easily through the frantic shields Ryel sought to erect. Anger and arrogance turned to fear, raw and ragged, as the Darkstar’s essence shimmered before him.

He raised his arm, palm extended, gathering the threads binding the man’s essence to his mortal form in his hand. He closed his fingers, feeling Ryel’s body shudder, and snapped them, one by one. They withered and faded, and Londhar felt the spark of life wink out.

With his power, he gently lowered the body to the floor. Ryel, known as The Darkstar, was no more.

Dagen stared at the histories, his stomach twisting with dread.

It was not here. The ritual of return was not here.

At first, he thought he must have missed it. It must be near the ritual of summoning, somewhere; surely, the Mages would have placed the two most important invocations close to one another.

But it was not.

It was not in the section describing temple practices and other minor rituals, either, nor was it in the section dealing with the hierarchy of the Dragon Mage Order itself.

It was missing. Absent. Gone.

Dagen closed his eyes. It had to be there. He would read the texts again, comb the histories…

Yet he knew it was futile. He had searched for hours, to no avail.

Very slowly, Dagen closed the texts, placing his trembling hands upon the intricately worked leather cover. He would have to tell his father.

And then, he would have to tell the Dragon Lord.

Dagen lowered his head onto his folded arms as his frantic mind tried to work out what he would say.

How he would explain?

The Temple of the Dragon was silent as Londhar gazed at the stone sentinels guarding the entrance. So much had changed since the last time he'd woken. He had forgotten how violent and unpredictable these human mortals could be. His spirit was weary, and he longed for the peace the fire dreams brought.

He heard the soft scrape of boots on stone, felt the presence of the Lesslyn king's son.

"Where is your father?" he asked. "I have fulfilled my portion of the covenant. It is time to pay the required price and return me to my dreams."

"He… I needed to speak to you. Alone."

"Speak, then."

"I— We— There may be some, difficulty," stammered Dagen. "In reversing the summons."

Londhar felt a cold dread creep over him. He turned slowly to face the boy. "What difficulty?"

"The histories are incomplete," said Dagen. "The ritual of return is…absent."

"Absent," repeated Londhar.

"Yes."

Londhar closed his eyes. "You summoned me knowing this?"

"We… I thought—hoped—I could find it before the time came. And our need was such that…"

The boy's voice trailed away.

"So," whispered Londhar, "I am lost here?"

"I… Yes. I am sorry."

Londhar clenched his fists, his body trembling with the effort as he struggled to control his rising fury. The boy had to leave. If he did not, Londhar was almost certain that Dagen would die in a flash of dragon fire.

"Go," he said softly.

"What?" asked Dagen in confusion.

"I said, go. Now."

"But—"

Londhar looked at Dagen, his voice trembling with barely suppressed fury as blue lightning flashed in his eyes. "Go," he repeated, "or die."

The boy turned and ran. Londhar felt his terror as he raced across the bridge towards the city.

The Dragon Lord lowered his head as fear rose like an icy tide within him, fear that he would be forever lost in this transient, mortal world. Fear that he would never know the soothing peace of the fire dreams again. Fear—and rage. Not the brilliant fire of the Dragon Rage, but the desolate ache of betrayal.

It rose dark and cold within him, driving him to his knees in the courtyard. The wind howled, tearing at the trees. Lightning split the sky and thunder pealed as the heavens opened, battering the island with freezing rain. Londhar felt the pain expand within him until he thought he would choke.

He lifted his face to the sky as it exploded from him in a single, anguished, despairing cry that echoed from the stone buttresses of the shattered temple before being carried away by the wind.

Londhar knelt in the courtyard all night. The storm passed as his rage and pain ebbed, until only a deep, aching weariness remained. He barely noticed the sunrise, looking up only when he felt the King of Lesslyn and his son approach the bridge.

They stepped into the courtyard, standing in silence for a long moment. Armon looked stiff and uncomfortable; Dagen refused to meet his gaze.

"I did not know," said Armon at last. "If I had, I would never have agreed."

Londhar felt the truth in the king's words, but the truth meant nothing now.

"The covenant must still be satisfied," he said dully. "I have fulfilled my part of our bargain. The time has come for you to fulfill yours."

"Very well," said Armon. "What price does the covenant demand? Tell me, and I will pay it."

"One life," said Londhar.

Armon paled. "Whose?"

Londhar turned his silver-blue eyes on Dagen.

The boy blanched and Armon looked like he might be ill.

"I…is there no one else? Please…" begged the king.

"No," said Londhar. "It must be the boy."

Armon nodded faintly. "Take him then," he whispered. "Quickly, as you did the Darkstar."

Londhar chuckled bitterly. "I require the boy's life, Armon of Lesslyn, not his death. From this day forward, he is bound to me."

He looked to where Dagen stood, trembling with fear and relief.

"Yours was the voice which called me from slumber; yours must be the voice to return me to it. Since your histories are incomplete, we will seek our answers elsewhere."

"But where?" stammered Dagen. "The Dragon Mages are dead! They—"

"They are scattered," corrected Londhar. "I feel them still, though their thoughts come to me from lands that are distant and unfamiliar. We will seek them, and they will teach you the words. You will reverse the summons, returning me to the fire dreams." He looked to Armon.

The king of Lesslyn nodded.

Londhar closed his eyes, sending a thread of power into each of the dragon sentinels, feeling the awakening of their protective power and magic. They would guard the island, protecting the temple until his return.

He turned his silver-blue gaze back to Dagen. The boy had known, from the beginning, that the ritual of return was missing., had cast him adrift in a world where his kind were resigned to myth, memory and the whispered tales of ancient gods. But Dagen of Lesslyn would learn.

The covenant would be satisfied. One life.