Near Spider Rock, Canyon de Chelly, West of Santa Fe de Nuevo México, 1775

Inhuman hands — blocky, square-tipped, and made of stone — reached for Oliver Milton, grasping, aiming to squeeze him to death.

In his time as the ostensible sovereign of the Drakon, Milton had focused more on scholarly pursuits, his interest leaning more towards history than magic or martial endeavors. Still, nearly a gross of years as Primus Draconis had not left him unskilled in either.

Milton deftly stepped to the side. The golem redirected his swing towards Milton, only to glance off a pane of mystic energy. Runes flared with a ghastly light for the briefest instant at the contact.

Broad stone fists began to slam into the shield, but it provided Milton time to perform an incantation under his breath. He ignored the sudden pounding of his heart and the tightness in his ribcage, working his will through the alien fear until clouds of purple plasma sprang into being around his hands.

His hands passed through the arcane barrier, striking the stone man once, twice, thrice. With each blow, some of the plasma bled away, clinging to the golem’s torso. The fourth blow missed, leaving a faint swirl of purple energy on one of Milton’s hands. He pulled his hands back through the shield before the golem could grab them. And before the plasma detonated.

The blotches of purple energy flowed into each other, then rushed into the golem’s body in a torrent, compressing its stone body between them. The construct probably had no sensitive internals like an organic Creaturae, but stone and metal were still vulnerable to the immense pressure of gravity.

Assuming magic hadn’t been used to fortify those materials. Alas, his foe hadn’t been so shortsighted, as Milton learned a few seconds later when the golem recovered from the assault with no visible signs of damage.

There was no reason to think this should have been so easy, given this being is almost certainly going to kill me, yet I had some small hope to make a better showing of it, Milton thought. Perhaps this is an opportunity to probe for vulnerabilities that might be remembered later.

The attack had provided enough time to complete another incantation and white tendrils formed in the air between the two combatants. They looked like smoke from a fire with unseasoned wood, but emitted a cold so deep they could wither flesh in seconds. Each wispy stream thickened into a strand the width of a finger, then they darted towards and latched onto the golem, wrapping around its torso and appendages.

Rimes of frost formed immediately , spreading and thickening in fractal lines emanating from each connection. Milton curled his fingers into claws and thrust them at the ground. The cords of frost yanked downwards, pulling at the golem with tremendous force. Its legs spread, steadying itself, and it pulled back against the strands. The struggle was brief, the tendrils of frost quickly reached their limits and shattered. 

Many Creaturae possessed enough strength to overpower that particular spell, but few would be unscathed from the hoary frost touching their flesh. The golem’s flesh, such as it was, was unmarked when the icy remnants broke apart and flaked away.

Force and frost failed, so we’ll try fire, Milton thought. I’ll need time to call the magic and that requires space.

When the golem lunged for him again, Milton grabbed an outstretched arm. He stepped into the creature, pivoting hard, and hurled the figure over his shoulder. Milton had been trained in the ancient and versatile combat sport of pammachon — each Cordus had been adamant he should know how to fight — but even with decades of practice, he only risked the throw because his opponent was clumsy, perhaps still learning how to move in a real combat. That would likely not be the case for long.

Before his opponent had even crashed to the ground, Milton had launched himself into the air. The powerful leap carried him to a great height, where he latched onto the ruddy stone pillar and began his next incantation. The golem either couldn’t or wouldn’t jump as well and began to scale the pillar.

Holding himself in place with one hand, Milton began a series of complicated gestures with the other. A wave of regret flooded his thoughts — How much more could he have done to prepare for the future or atone for the past? Were his choices for the best or had he turned to fatalism? — and he brushed them aside. He was too experienced and disciplined to let magic waylay his intent.

Nine pinpoints of bright red light appeared in the air between Milton and the golem, equidistant from each other. The lights quickly expanded into motes of flame, their light shifting from orange to yellow and, finally, to blue. Hair-thin lines lanced out from each point, connecting it to others and forming a flaming enneagram in the air.

In the center of the nine-sided star, a new flame appeared - white hot. The rays collapsed inward until they made contact with the central flame, and the entire shape turned violet. It was almost impossible to see in the deepening shadows of the canyon. The air around the conjured flames began to hiss and pop as searing heat combusted the natural gasses. 

A roiling beam of light purple flame burst from the collapsing star’s core. It screamed through the air and struck the golem high on the shoulder, near its neck. The flame bored through the construct, stopping just short of the ground. The very rocks of the canyon floor were superheated to magma, turning molten then immediately starting to cool as the flame lance dissipated.

With a tremendous crash, the golem fell to the ground. A plume of dust erupted from the impact, obscuring the golem for a few moments and giving Milton a chance to catch his breath and prepare another spell. Milton took his time going through the incantation, punctuating certain moments using his free hand to form connections to parts of his body with a simple touch. 

Force, fire, and frost; now let us see how lightning fares, Milton thought.

He hadn’t expected the flame attack to be as effective as it was and hope welled up in his consciousness — he forced it aside, dismissing it for the lie he knew it was. How this battle would end was already known and, more importantly, he knew how magic worked. The emotion was nothing more than dissonance in the aether meant to stop him from working his will. 

Faint blue arcs of electricity danced along Milton’s hands and forearms — lightning waiting to be released — as the spell finished forming. He’d need to get closer to effectively use the lightning or it would be drawn into the stone pillar long before it reached its target. Magic lightning was, after all, still lightning. Before he leapt down, he needed to get an idea of his opponent’s condition.

A hot breeze scoured the canyon floor, sweeping away the last traces of the dust cloud obscuring the golem. The beam of superheated magic flame had punched a hole straight through the upper torso of the golem, but the thing itself was back on its feet. From his vantage point high on the stone pillar, Milton could see the ground behind the construct, which still glowed with heat. The creature’s torso, however, was solid, the wound was mostly closed.

You can’t win this battle, Milton reminded himself. You’re just gathering information in hopes it will be remembered.

As his stone assailant started back towards the base of the monolith, Milton leapt. He was delicate in his movement, not wanting to harm the natural marvel, but it still carried him dozens of feet away from the pillar. The golem was in motion as soon as he was and would be on top of him almost as soon as he landed.

When Milton’s feet touched the rocky ground, he dropped to a crouch and extended one hand in front of him, the other clutching it at the wrist to combine the charge of both arms into a single blast.

Lightning flashed, an arc of electricity forming between Milton and the construct. The elemental fury ploughed into the stone body, staggering but not stopping it. It slammed into Milton at full speed, sending him hurtling away so quickly the golem couldn’t grab onto him. He landed gracelessly and tumbled several feet in the dirt.

Lightning equally ineffective, Milton thought. Maybe its senses are a vulnerability?

Milton rolled to a stop and sprang into a crouch. He winced as pain screamed in his sides — the last impact may have cracked some ribs. With one hand he flowed through a complex set of gestures, starting his next spell, and with the other he palmed a small vial filled with a thick black substance.

It was crucial the magic was enacted before he used the potion. Otherwise, he’d lose the element of surprise and might gain no useful information. It would also force him to use an unspoken incantation and he wasn’t confident he could perform this spell without a verbal focus.

Before the golem had covered half the distance between them, the air for a dozen paces around Milton solidified into a cloud of opaque darkness. His own senses would be dulled by the inky cloud, but the construct should be worse off. Safely concealed — in theory — by the conjured shadows, Milton drank the vial of black ichor. His body turned intangible as it, too, was transformed into shadow.

Sliding along the ground, Milton positioned himself near the edge of the inky cloud. As a shadow, he could condense his shape significantly. Not so small he could fit in any opening, but enough for him to slither into a narrow crevice under a wide shelf of rock. If the golem had no praeternatural senses, it should be unable to locate him. It was only a delaying tactic given the outcome of this conflict was literally a foregone conclusion, but the information could be helpful later.

The golem charged the massed shadows, the ground rumbling with each step. It came to a stop just as it crossed the edge of the cloud. Milton clearly sensed its movements change in the lightless miasma — each step was no longer rushed, but uniform; not hesitant but calculated. When it was deep inside the haze, near the center, the golem’s body emitted a single, powerful pulse of light.

Milton’s senses were limited by both his form and the unnatural darkness. Still, he was able to perceive a great deal in that momentary flash of mystic power. It emanated from a complicated network of runes etched into the golem’s very body.

Although Milton wasn’t as powerful physically or magically as some drakus — especially his predecessors — his perception was unmatched. He was confident the golem was not protected by an illusory disguise, yet he had seen no runes on it when they’d sat for tea.

Perhaps the runes may not be worked into its body, but its very aura, he thought.

Arcane energies pulsed outwards from the golem, purging the aether in the area of Milton’s workings. The cloud of darkness evaporated and Milton was forced into his normal body — a slightly uncomfortable experience, considering he had slithered under a rock. The body of a drakus was made of much stronger stuff than stone, so there were no new injuries, but the sudden pressure against his already-injured ribs left him dizzy and winded for a second.

A second was all the golem needed. 

It was on top of Milton before he recovered his bearings, pinning him down and pummeling him with its ungainly hands. Between the stone floor of the valley, Milton’s body, and the golem’s fists, the ground was the weakest; it broke apart with each impact.

Pitted against drakus fortitude, the golem’s strength was sufficient to hurt, but not to harm. Pain was not an isolated thing; it accumulated. The damage might never have broken Milton’s body, but it would wear down his spirit.

Acid, Milton thought. Need to try acid.

Pinned as he was, Milton didn’t have the freedom of movement for any useful focusing gestures. Moreover, the flurry of strikes battering his head meant an incantation might go awry. Without proper foci, only simple spells were open to him and those were unlikely to have the potency to provide any useful information. 

He didn’t have to do either to change the aether with magic, of course, there was another way, but it was dangerous.

Milton scrabbled to get a hold on one of the golem’s arms. A scuffle ensued, each trying to gain the advantage. The golem was fast and Milton couldn’t find purchase. When he planted a foot to lift himself up, the golem swept it out with one of its own. He was well and truly trapped.

A trickle of fear spread from Milton’s scalp down his neck. Rather than fight it, the old drakus let the emotion fester and swell, threatening to drive him into a panic. He had come to terms with the inevitably of his death in an abstract sense; actually facing the end of his life had taken all his will to keep his composure. Now, the torrent he’d been holding back was unleashed and quickly became a deluge.

Fear was a powerful emotion, but to make use of it, Milton needed more. If he let the fear go unchecked, more emotions would follow in its wake. A desperate shout tore its way out of Milton’s throat and his struggle against the golem became frantic, uncoordinated, and reckless.

After the fear came regret, as familiar as it was useless. Underneath it all was exactly what Milton needed — an ember of rage. There were few things more corrosive or dangerous than rage. Milton latched onto the kernel of anger with all his determination and drove it in the aether around him. He used his unfettered turmoil to sculpt reality. The best he could hope for was to guide it; control wasn’t possible. He hurled that furious intent at the construct sent to kill him.

A sickly yellow mist formed around Milton. It did nothing to protect him from the golem’s ceaseless blows, but it was disturbingly mordant, rapidly eating away at the creature’s simple clothing. Smoke rose from the stone body, but the rock-like flesh was mostly unaffected.

Maybe it needs a more concentrated application, Milton thought.

As soon as the idea occurred to him, the corrosive mist surrounding Milton thickened and condensed, particularly around his hands. It came with a volatile surge of anger. He tried to steady his thoughts; he needed to get the timing right to land a telling blow and to keep the spontaneous corrosive magic from turning on him. Neither were easy. The golem struck him several times before he found an opening to lash out at the creature’s face.

He struck true, his blow landing on the golem’s jaw. The construct rocked back at the impact, wisps of smoke rising from its face. It may have been Milton’s imagination, but the impossibly straight lines of the golem’s lower face looked slightly smoother. 

With the golem distracted, Milton was able to plant his feet, lift his hips, and roll. He wrapped his arm around one of the golem’s legs as he went, forcing it over with him and reversing their positions. He hurled his fists with abandon, recklessly driving their corrosive fug into the construct’s face. He was breathing hard; not because of the exertion, but because his emotions were still roiling — except the anger. The anger had been given form. Now, it encompassed him, external to his existence.

After several long seconds of pummeling, the golem threw Milton off. When they stood to face each other, Milton was almost certain the golem’s inhumanly angular features had been smoothed over mildly. Not so much that it would be noticeable to most, but Milton was terribly perceptive.

“So you can change,” he said.

The golem felt at its face with blocky fingers — had those lost some of their sharpness, too? — giving Milton a moment to plan his next move.

Acid had some effect, classical elements much less so, he thought. That nullifying pulse rules out several tactics and I have neither the time nor the skill to try temporal magic.

Raising his hands over his head, Milton formed a rough diamond with his fingers. He slowly changed the angle of the space between his hands as he muttered an incantation. Deep red rays of the fading sun passed through the opening and, impossibly, split into multicolored beams.

Such a bending of light was possible, with the right material. Descartes and Newton had proven that more than a century earlier. With nothing more than an empty space formed by the shape of two hands, however? Impossible.

Yet the laws of physical reality yielded to Milton’s magic. Not as easily as they once had, perhaps, but easily enough. The conjured rainbow burst forth and converged on the canyon floor, painting the red stone in a wash of color, and coalescing into a tight circle.

Milton carefully adjusted the angle of his hands, causing the beams to rush across the ground and climb the golem’s body towards its face. The creature recoiled, but light was swift.

As soon as the light touched the golem’s eyes, seven standing mirrors sprang into being around it. Their edges seamlessly melded into one another and each was a different hue of the visible spectrum. The mirrors reflected each other, creating an infinite expanse of mirrors that stretched off towards an artificial horizon yet never diminishing in perspective. 

The golem was trapped in an endless mirror maze, colors bleeding into each other and creating a visual cacophony. In the core of the maze, the golem turned in place, spinning in a slow circle. It examined every surface and angle. 

Unlike the cloud of shadow — which had transmuted the aether into shadow or conjured shadow to fill the space, depending on your school of thought — the mirrors were purely illusion. It was a complex and powerful illusion, affecting multiple senses, but it was still an illusion. Milton watched the golem struggling to solve the puzzle from outside of it, glad for a moment’s respite before the end.

The golem was no fool; it scanned the floor and the ceiling within a few seconds of being captured. Milton was no fool, either and it found no help there — the mirrors extended to cover those spots as well — so it continued rotating within the prison. This continued for several minutes. 

Is it trying to devise a path? Milton wondered. Or is the magic which animates it unable to conceive of the prism prison in a tangible way to formulate a plan of action?

Hoping for additional insight into the golem’s action, Milton slowly approached the prism prison. While the golem turned clockwise, the drakus circled in the opposite direction.

As Milton watched, the stone creature began to explore the prison with its hands, reaching out to touch the walls one at a time with its blocky fingers. It didn’t strike the mirror barriers, but pressed its hands flat against the reflective surfaces, sliding from one to the next in a full circuit around itself.

Clever, but the illusion affects each of the senses, oft times in contradictory manners, Milton observed. 

From the front, it looked like the stone man was just running its hands flat over the mirrored surfaces. Any small, detailed movements of the golem’s hands as it explored the mirrored walls were hard to make out from the back. Milton reversed direction and matched the golem’s rotation, getting closer to the prison and slowing to get behind the golem for a better view. 

Without warning, the golem whirled to face Milton. Its arm burst through the wall of the prism prison, runes flashing around its rocky flesh for the briefest instant. Its clumsy fingers latched onto Milton’s neck with a grip promising inexorable death.

A dagger appeared in its other hand, the blade split down the middle so it resembled two long, gruesome fangs. The blades were made of a dark, smoky metal covered with thin, curving bands not unlike the patterns on a fingertip. A faint shine hugged the weapon like a halo.

Seric iron alloyed with aetherite for strength, durability, and to better hold enchantment, Milton thought, even as panic fluttered at the edges of his consciousness. If that’s a genuine vampirdolch, it will certainly prove to be an effective gambett.

The vampirdolch was among the most vicious of magic artifacts. Originally designed to combat vampiric undead in the 13th century, it stole vitae essentia — or life force — from its target. Prolonged or repeated exposure would quickly weaken and kill the victim, transferring that life to the beneficiary of the fiendish enchantment.

Which means the malefactor behind this construct will likely survive until these matters can be fully resolved, stealing the life from those with the potential to carry on my legacy, Milton thought. I can only pray they won’t be in a position to disrupt the future I have seen.

Milton’s musing was interrupted as the twin blades pierced his breast. It missed his heart but that didn’t really matter. The dagger, as it turned out, was a true vampirdolch; he felt his life being rapidly pulled out of his body. 

No one knew what the natural lifespan of drakus was — not anymore, at least — but it was monumental compared to all but the most long-lived races, like the elves. 

Milton had been born in 1606 and lived more than eightscore years, all without any significant aging. He’d just started his third decade when he became the Primus Draconis and wouldn’t mark his physical age higher than forty. 

The vicious magic of the dagger was stripping away whatever was left at a tremendous pace. It had only been a few seconds since the blade had struck and he was already feeling weak and faint.

That answers yet another question from my visions, Milton thought, realizing the vampiric assassin he sometimes foresaw was symbolic, not literal. Thank whatever powers might be that such enchantments cannot target the soul of a person, only the life force.

Even with his life being drawn into the dagger, Milton didn’t lose focus on the entire purpose of setting out to meet his fate on the terms he had chosen. The tea and conversation he had shared was meant to serve a purpose. He had sewn the seeds, now he needed to encourage them to germinate.

He grabbed the golem’s head in both his hands, using what little strength remained to him to force the construct to meet his eyes.

“Remember,” he breathed. “All things change.” He took a shuddering breath as his vision darkened. “Even you… can change.”

Milton’s body relaxed against the ruddy stone floor of the canyon, his last thoughts of a time to come, a time he had seen that was both terrible and wondrous. There would be more tragedy than joy in the years between his last moments and the future foretold, but, like he said to the golem — all things can change.

Book.of.Dragons

Retrospective: Thus ends Oliver Milton… and the prologue. The story begins in earnest in the next chapter, but this gives you a view of the world and sets up some information that will be quite important to the central plot of the first Book of Dragons.