The Spirit Wilds: Magic of the Green Sage (Fall of the Sages Book 1), стр. 25

Her feet were bare, but she spoke a spell that made them like iron. Setl’no iroh. Her feet turned black and shiny, and felt like they weighed a ton, which she supposed they did. With that out of the way, she straightened her cloak, tightened the straps of her packs, and hiked down the mountain.

The Valley of Fire was as terrifyingly beautiful as she’d heard. The skies were alight with reds and golds and oranges, when they weren’t choked by smoke. Small fire sprites bounced around a nearby lava pool, their squeals and toothless smiles sounding of pure whimsy as they hopped around like rabbits. Far in the distance, titanic magma giants lumbered between the fiery peaks, each footstep sending tremors out for miles. The dragon nearby kept a watchful eye over them. Dragons and giants did not get along.

As beautiful as it was, the air was thick with smoke, and the heat was stifling and threatened to choke her. Before long, Bishta was drenched in sweat. It would have been more comfortable to walk completely naked, but of course she didn’t do that.

She had to find civilization, or at least one of the sapient dragons. The next stage of her plans was far away, and she would need a ride.

For hours, Bishta walked through the ash and soot and dried magma. Her limbs wobbled from exhaustion, and leaning on her staff did little to alleviate her fatigue. Sweat dripped off her like she was a leaky faucet, and it was so hard to breathe with the smoke and the heat. Despite wrapping her cloak around her mouth, it still felt like every labored breath was clogged with debris.

Finally, though, she came through a skeleton forest of pale white trees—like bony fingers reaching for the heavens—and found a flat field covered in shimmering gold-red grass. In the fields frolicked small drakons the size of horses, perhaps a bit bigger. None of them had wings, all with golden whiskers and mighty tusks that curled out beyond their lips. One might think they were wild and dangerous, but the caves along the valley walls—lined with polished stones and mosaics—told her that these were intelligent.

As she came to the edge of the field, she stumbled and fell to her knees in a huff. She couldn’t go any further.

Curse these feeble human legs, she thought with a grimace, then laughed. If only I could fly like these dragons.

The young drakons noticed Bishta immediately and stopped their play. As four of them stayed in the grass, their long necks peeking out over the top, two others strode toward the sage, eyes in suspicious slits.

The first was bigger than the others, copper scales glinting almost red in the sunlight. Two scars ran its face, with one eye a milky white, blinded. The other was smaller, with almost iridescent gold-and-peach scales. Small spinal feathers ran the length of them. A female, perhaps? Bishta had a hard time recalling basic dragon anatomy in her state.

The large one spoke, its voice deep and grating and painful to the ears. Bishta spoke many dialects of dragon tongue, but this one alluded her. It cocked its head, obviously awaiting an answer. She shook her head.

“I do not speak that dialect,” she said in the High Tongue, “but I speak the High Tongue, if you do.”

A rumble escaped from the smaller drakon. Its lips curled into a smile. “A human that speaks it? How interesting.” They sounded female, but genders could be tricky with dragon kind, that much Bishta could remember.

The other huffed, a bit of steam escaping its nose. These were fire-breathers, it seemed. “Not as interesting as a human being in Urhgenfye.”

Bishta wiped the sweat from her forehead, then used her staff to rise to her feet. Despite her best efforts, she was shaky. As intelligent as the higher dragons were, the lower ones often looked upon displays of weakness with disgust. She needed their help and needed to be in their good graces.

“I am Bishta the Black, Sage of the Dark,” she said, inclining her head. “I have come here seeking assistance.”

Her words reverberated over the field like a shockwave. The drakons all looked at one another, whispering. The implication of what she said had weight. The large drakon before her snorted, flames licking the edge of its mouth.

“How do we know you speak the truth? What’s stopping me from burning you to a crisp right now?”

The smaller one snorted. “Your brain must be addled, Jel-Gur. She’s radiating with magic. Only the high ones feel like this.”

He growled at her. “Her magic smells wrong.”

“I am the Sage of the Dark. I deal in death and spirits. I don’t know what you want me to smell like.”

“Do not mind my grumpy friend, Madam Sage,” said the other one. “I am Runa-Val. How may I serve you?”

Bishta sighed, relief flooding over her. She let herself fall to the ground, the need to impress no longer so strong. “Thank you, Runa-Val, it is a pleasure. In the short term, food and water would be appreciated. But what I really need is a ride. I seek passage to the Forgotten Continent.”

Jel-Gur growled. “Why do you mean to go there?”

She frowned at him, no longer as timid as she was a moment ago. “My business is my own, drakon.”

He didn’t like that response one bit. He looked like he wanted to bite her head off and roast her for dinner, but before he got the chance, Runa-Val head butted him and growled, tufts of steam wafting from their nostrils.

“Control yourself,” she growled. He listened. Runa returned her gaze to the sage while the angry drakon sauntered away, grumbling to himself as he trudged back into the grass. “Apologies, Sage. Let me take you to our high one.”

She lowered her neck so Bishta could climb atop. Bishta really didn’t want to move anymore, but she couldn’t rightly stay there, so she gritted her teeth, used her staff again as a crutch, and pushed