Echoes of Legend

As Melisandre Carpathian climbed the rocky cliff, with babe clutched in hand, knowing she could never return to the Forgotten Keep where her King, and her queenship resided, she tried to stifle the tears. Wracked with dread, bloodied and scraped from her twilight escape, she pushed the emotions into the void, knowing all the while that her only chance was Zanthor's hopeful mercy.

If it had not been for her husband's relentless insistence of an heir, something he had failed to produce with three wives past, and three wives now dead, Melisandre may never have taken the midnight journey to the witches hut in the forest. There, a blood-pact she made. If the babe were born hair of white and eyes of grey - coloring not seen in millennia - into the witches' clutches it would reluctantly go. With only a coin toss's chance of success she'd agreed, and when nine months had past her luck had turned sour as the babe emerged silvery haired. She did what she never thought she would. Betrayed the blood oath, and fled the capital. Enemy now, of King and Witch. A twice claimed child.

She cursed the gods for her misfortune, and tried to maintain composure as she sought the dragon in the Cliffed Forest. After mounting the ledge, and following the path into the heart of the forest, she'd called to Zanthor, who emerged as if in wait.

"Who dare come here?" He snarled.

"I seek to strike a bargain." she rang as if trying to summon regal authority. "Take my son. Raise and protect him until he comes of age. And seek vengeance on my husband. Raise my son to his rightful station, and make him king when the time comes. For this service, I offer my soul."

Zanthor cursed, whipping his tail between the trees. "You think your soul merits such value that I would bide my time, and take my chances with the witches' magic." Zanthor snaked his long neck closer to Melisandre. "You reek of human. Return now to your squabble, and perhaps I won't kill you."

Adjusting the swaddled babe in her arms, and mustering what little courage she had left in this world, she fixed her gaze on Zanthor's and unwrapped the sheath to show the child's face. "You know as well as I, the Prophecy Proclaimed in the Time Of Legends. A child born under Blooded Moon, with silver hair, shall make the world anew. He will fight back the Shadow, and kill the Usurper King who wreaks havoc on the land. And will set in motion The Age of Dragons once more."

Zanthor snarled as he thrashed his great tail, but when he saw the child's eyes his demeanor shifted strangely, a rictus grin grew around his sharpened teeth.

"I see." He seethed. "This I shall do. But another price must be paid for its service. The child's soul is mine. If he is indeed the Prophetic child and he does as you say. He will have it returned, if you are wrong however!" Zanthor scratched the earth with knife talons. "He will spend eternity in The Dread, forever mine."

Unsure of what to do, but knowing there were no other options, Melisandre signed the second blood-pact, making now a thrice claimed child. When she relinquished the baby to Zanthor, she fell to the ground dead. Soul relinquished to inhabitable Dread to stay for all eternity

***

Year after year past and the King hunted vehemently for his missing wife and her cursed son. Whispers drawn from the midwives revealed the child's true nature, and when The King of Shadows found out he ordered a thousand men to find the child and kill it. So too did the Witch of the Forest search for the silver baby, stiffed on her blood-pact bargain made with the Queen. But the dragon's magic protected young Tarren, so long as he stayed on the Cliffed Forest, high above the Kingdom and The Forgotten Keep.

Curious and ever head-strong, as his mother, Tarren questioned his father in matters of the world, but the dragon bit them away, giving little in the way of mercy. Sullen, and dejected Tarren lived on; biding his time until his eighteenth birthday arrived, when his father had promised to explain it all.

During the amber light of one summer afternoon, as Tarren was nearing his eighteenth year, while eating a charred deer with his father, Tarren hymned The Breath of Dragons, a song his father taught him long ago.

"Quiet." Zanthor grumbled.

The now seventeen, Tarren, in the mood to strike a row with his father, looked up from his supper, feigning mock confusion.

"Father. You said in the time of Dragon's magician's roamed the land... and allied themselves with those that lived in NorthMount. Do magicians still roam the earth now?"

Zanthor bared his teeth, a threat Tarren long ago learned to ignore.

"I've told you, boy. A mage has not been seen in centuries. I would know. I've lived ten thousand years!"

Flicking his eyebrows and looking side-glance, Tarren took a rather large bite of his supper, speaking through a full mouth - something his father detested. "Well.... it's just that... I thingkk I might of dun... sum the other day." Tarren spoke as he chomped the venison. "And, well, father, I thinkgg you might be wrong."

Lifting his massive red maw from his meal, the dragon blinked, rather shocked. If this was true, the signs were aligning. Much to the dismay and disgruntling of the dragon, the boy had never shown signs which aligned with the prophecy other than his birth circumstance. If it hadn't been for the sale of his and his mother's soul, Zanthor might have burned Tarren long ago and used his bones to pick his teeth. But if he was truthful with himself, the swaddled infant, ever curious, ever defiant had grown on him over the years.

Tarren was grumbling on nonsensically through his ignorant chewing.

"It's just" He chewed. "You always said I was special... and when I sing the The Breath of Dragons strange things happen. For example..."

Tarren cleared his throat, and sang the melody of The Breath of Dragons. Zanthor was bewildered as Tarren landed every pitch, intonation, and rhythm perfectly. Indeed the song's delivery was perfect, never had it been sung so well in ten thousand years, but what was more awe-inspiring was the blue glow of his son's eyes, and the rustling of leaves around him as he did so. After listening to the end, Zanthor's heart had melted, and he spoke softly quietly.

"It's time we talk of your past. My son. I said we would wait to eighteen but now is as good as any."

Zanthor began.

***

In the Withering Woods of the Twisting Lowlands, Gaedra, the witch, placed a rabbit above the fire at the alter, a pentagram hung from the ledges. It squirmed and squeaked as she cut the throat.

"Blood from the Dwelling." She murmured through lose lips, standing back so her straggly hair didn't catch in the blaze. She grabbed The Queen's necklace, retrieved long ago and threw it in the fire, it sparking with crackles as she did. "Necklace of the Mother." She chanted, growing in volume, before scattering bones on the table.

Through the bones, she read the location of Tarren Carpathian, saw his fortune, where he was going and where he would be, and hacked an ensnaring plan.

"He comes tonight." She whispered, licking spilt blood from her wrinkled forearm.

***

"I hate you!" screamed Tarren, as his father finished the long and twisting tale of his birth. "You're no father of mine!"

Bristling with agitation, Zanthor shot a torrent of flame into the trees, setting ablaze twenty aspens.

"I did as I was asked. I raised you didn't I!? Stopped you tumbling from the high cliffs when you were eleven. I've kept you safe since you were a baby and this is what I get." Zanthor whipped his tail knocking twenty more trees down with one whack of his massive tail; he carved his talons into the dirt, and puffed his chest.

Ever-the-stubborn hard headed boy he was, Tarren doubled down, and did not back off at his father which only seemed to enrage the massive beast more. The scarlet slits of two giant eyes narrowing as he glared at his son, but when Tarren's skin and eyes began to rage the sapphire blue, the dragon, for the first time since The Time of Legends, felt a pang of fear.

Tarren took at a step forward, and then another. Feeling his rage grow to fury Zanthor snapped back, whipping his neck to knock Tarren off his feet, but just as he was about to make contact, the orb around the boy grew, emerging into a shield and the dragon was blasted back, snapping scores of trees as he tumbled.

Dizzy, bleary eyed and slightly confused from the blow, Zanthor's heart turned to ice as he looked up to find his son gone. He roared daggers in the night air, and the ground shook under his grasping talons. Search as he may, Tarren was nowhere to be found. He had fled down the Cliffed Forest's precipice before his father could find him.

***

The moon was high in the sky over The Forgotten Keep as King Alor stood sipping his mead, arm draped over the mantle of the fireplace. Behind darkened eyes, nearly as black as the waters around the dead keep, he seethed watching the embers burn.

"Seventeen years its been! And not a sighting of him! Seventeen years!"

The King spun rapidly, and clutched the footman's shirt, staring daggers into the gawky man's small eyes.

"Y-yes, your grace. I assure you we've searched high and low. The Seers foretell he is likely dead, m-my lord." the footman fumbled back as King Alor released him from his grips.

"Then find the body!" The King went to the window, looking down at the shanties of a starving city. "I don't care if I have to burn the whole kingdom to the ground to get that bloody bastard! I want him found! And don't return until he is Ser Yanis." Turning the King looked at Yanis who averted his gaze. "If you want to keep that curly head of yours on your shoulders."

Whimpering, and backing away quickly as he could, Yanis took his leave.

"Yes, my lord."

If it hadn't been for the mead King Alor was drinking so quickly, he might have killed Yanis where he stood, but he had to admit he needed him. Alor knew well the blood-pact Melisandre had made years ago, the seers had told of it. As he walked to the wall with the Kingdom's map on it he picked his quill up and drew an X in the one territory no one tread. The Cliffed Forest of Zanthor the Great.

Feeling as his head might burst with rage, King Alor jolted straight, as he heard a knock on the door. When he turned to see who it was, he was shocked.

"Yanis!"

The rat-faced man hobbled in place, lowering himself.

"Yes, I'm so sorry my lord. It's j-just."

"Speak, now Yanis or I'll cut out your tongue!"

Yanis shrunk, and spoke in rapid fashion. "A v-visitor King Alor. The Witch from the Withering Woods. Behind Yanis emerged a woman who looked as old as time, garbed in ragged clothes with straggles of thin white hair. Fear grubbed up in Alor's throat as she stepped boastfully into the room.

"It appears, we share the same interests." said the witch, picking up a wooden horse sculpture on the mantle and placing it back down with a scoff. "The boy... I've found him. You want him dead, as much as I do. If we could strike an alliance, temporarily we might find that we obtain mutual satisfaction in this pursuit. That is, if you're willing to work with a crone."

King Alor motioned for another cup of mead, and Yanis came swooping in as soon as he could.

"Go on..."

"The boy is as the prophecies foretell." said Gaedra as she waved away Yanis' offer of a goblet. "The boy is the one we feared may come, to make the world anew. I want his power you want him dead. He will be in The Withering Woods this evening. I know exactly the spot. I have the blood magic to unmake him, and kill him forever. You have the men to help me do it. Of course, our alliance will only last for the length of this mission, and then we shall return." Gaedra struck a finger across the desk wiping off dusty through her gnarled fingers.

The King sat down, at the wooden table in front of her, a sickly grin adorning his bearded face.

"I'll ready the men."

Unable to contain his joy, the King and the crone ventured out into the Withering Woods followed by a hundred armed cavalry men in pursuit of Tarren.

***

Huffing with breaths of anger, Tarren stomped through the woods, the moonlight being the only thing to guide his path. In the distance he saw the a clearing of sorts a path spearing it in either direction. Spears and men, at least a hundred marched as he ducked behind the trees. Just as he was finding his hiding spot, the men arrived, halting by the order of the leading officer.

A withered woman waded around the standing soldiers, coming to a stop right by the part of the forest Tarren hid at, instinctively he ducked deeper behind the bushes.

"You can come out my boy." Laughed the Crone. "We know you're hiding in there."

Still filled with anger from the fight he had just had with his father, he emerged from the forest looking at his enemies in the eyes.

"I'll kill you where you stand!" screamed the boy.

Tarren started to glow a sapphire blue, but before he could let his powers fully surface a large towering red figure blurred into view, trampling half the men and scattering the rest. It's snarled dagger teeth, and writhed in all directions. The men fired arrow after arrow towards it, and it screamed. It was Zanthor coming to save his son.

"Get back Tarren!" The dragon yelled as it was speared with a lance at its side. Roaring, it shot flames from its mouth burning a dozen soldiers in one fell swoop.

The Crone, on the edge had been chanting something under her breath, ruin shapes emerged in her hands and she shot a black glowing magic at the dragon.

"Father, look out!"

Zanthor barreled, just missing the deathly flames, then snapped his jaws back and grabbed the crone, pinning her through daggered teeth. She cried agony as he threw her into the air and slammed his spiked tail into her chest, finishing her off.

Then he narrowed on King Alor.

"Long enough you have ruined this land. Your reign of terror is done."

The mighty dragon of the Cliffed Forest snapped the man in two with one forecful bite.

As the frenzy was coming to an end and most of the surviving men had fled, Zanthor turned to his son, breathing large ragged breaths.

"I love you Tarren. I always have. You are the child of prophecy. Go forward now in life, and make the world anew. I return to you your soul, and your mother's."

Zanthor took one breath, and lowered his massive head to the ground, and died for his son.