Chapter 49: Chapter 49: The Dragon’s Breath

As Saoirse opened the sea door and danced upon the stone, the dragon reclined in the cone of the volcano off the coast near the port of Tirikan. It paddled about in the lava, ducking its head into the viscous, bubbling molten muck, relishing the warmth that slid over its snout and tickled it behind its ears. The delicious scent of Saoirse's magic, like strawberries floating in new wine, filled the interior of the ancient cone. The dragon sniffed and summersaulted. Sticking out its tongue, it tasted her sweetness, then rolled, dreaming of the feast to come.

When she fell face down between the stones, the dragon imagined her walking into its mouth and sliding down its throat. But when Aonair jumped into the pool and breathed air into her mouth—the scent of Saoirse's magic disappeared.

Startled, confused, the beast thrashed. With one great swish of its tail, it leapt from the pit, perching on the rim in daylight, uncaring who or what should see it. It sniffed. Again, it sniffed, raising its snout to the breeze. “No. No.” Sniff. Sniff. “No!”

Confused, distraught, it fell from the rim, hitting the side of the cone on the way down. Splash!

“Gone! She has died!” The voices, hundreds of voices, shouted in its brain.

“Cruel fate!” cried the builder.

“We are dead,” wailed the poet.

On and on the voices clamored.

“Who has killed her?” asked the musician.

“No doubt, it was her father, that arrogant king!”

“Or another seeking to avenge himself upon Togair by killing his daughter,” said the politician.

“No,” cried another voice, “she is not murdered; she has chosen death! She knew when Murtagh died that we were coming.”

“No, it was an accident that has left us to starve to death.”

“We should never have bargained with that fool, Nana.”

“We could have had her as a child!”

“Why did we wait!”

The beast rammed its own head into the side of the volcano. It flew within the mountain, in circles, smashing into the sides of the cone, horribly bruising itself. With its own teeth, it ripped scales from its hide.

“We are betrayed by this damn world. Does not every living thing deserve its food? What did we ask, but one worthless girl?”

Reason spoke, drowning out the others, its voice like thunder. “She was the last. If we die, let the humans die with us.”

Together the voices spoke, suddenly in unison. “Burn them! Burn them all!”

A low growl rumbled from the throat of the beast. The sound gained volume and intensity until the cone shook and burst. Lava poured from huge fissures in its side. Still the beast growled louder, vibrating the earth. In the port of Tirikan, staircases and chimneys fell. Twenty-foot waves rolled ashore, hitting the docks where the boats, closely moored, broke apart as they slammed into each other.

“Kill, kill, kill,” the voices chanted, for once in unison.

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The beast leapt to the rim of the cone, then into the air. Spreading its ebony wings, it flew high into the clouds. Then it dove, opening its black mouth with its black tongue and black teeth. It breathed in so great a breath, it was like a tornado sucking up leaves and dirt; blankets tore loose from laundry lines, and thatching ripped from roof tops. As the beast hurled itself downward, gathering speed, the alarm rang out, “Draga Vymn! Draga Vymn!”

Approaching from the sea, it leveled off, breathing out a flame twenty feet wide and a hundred feet long. The stream of fire cut a blazing path through the entire city and into the forest beyond. The beast soared upward, banked, turning in a wide arc, then dove a second time. As it leveled off, it again breathed in, pulling in air, creating a vacuum that brought in fresh air from the ocean and fanned the flames. The beast flew over the port, this time more slowly, moving its head back and forth, torching every building, every home, every boat.

When the city was engulfed in flames, it returned to the cone, exhausted, spent. “Consume ourself,” spoke Reason. “Let us die breathing fire.” Diving into the pit, it instantly dissolved into dragon goo. The slow reconstitution process began. When it was finished, the dragon was a mere four hundred fifteen feet long, ten feet having been sacrificed to renew the magic spent on destruction.

As its snout emerged, Saoirse climbed up the ladder, leaving the hidden passageways and entering the eastern turret. She smiled as she replaced the floorboards, dreaming of tomorrow, when she would wake with the dawn and see Aonair again.

The beast sniffed. “What is this?” It sniffed again and again. “She lives.” The heady fragrance of Saoirse's magic filled the cone. So much sweeter than before—and abundant. The scent of her magic drowned out the scent of burning homes, burning horses, burning sheep—burning people.

“Are we mad?” Fear asked.

“No,” spoke Reason. “There is another explanation.”

The beast groaned. “The boy. The lover lives. Are we so weak that we cannot kill a ten-year-old boy!”

“Silence!” shouted Reason. “The plan is yet in motion.”

“No! Go now! Feast on her flesh!” shouted the warrior.

“We have lost ten feet! We cannot afford delay!” cried the scholar.

The beast trembled with its need. Spit filled its mouth. The hunger . . . the aching hunger. “We are starving!” shouted Fear.

“Reach out,” spoke Reason.

The beast quieted, seeking with its mind avarice and spite. Slowly, it sank into the lava, nodding. “Yes, yes. Nathair approaches Castle Togair.”

A voice—it was the builder—spoke. “If true love has taken hold, mayhap the elixir will not work.”

Another—it was the storyteller—shouted, “Go now! Let us feast!”

Reason said, “Even if the elixir fails to magic the girl, it will yet magic all others. And the claw ever works. Nathair is greedy and unscrupulous, but no fool. He will act. And all of this is to our advantage because the boy has made her stronger. Her magic is multiplied! What is a mere ten feet? With the boy filling her with happiness, we shall grow two hundred feet. Nay! A thousand! Perhaps her magic will sustain us until another is born.”

“Will another be born?” asked the poet.

Fear spoke, “We failed to kill the boy. If we lose her . . . we are doomed, doomed to a bitter end.”

Fear's words bounced about in the mind of the dragon, and none of the other voices answered it. “Doomed,” the word rang out, “Doomed, Doomed, Doomed. Doomed to a bitter end.”

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