The Soulstorm Chronicles

Day Seven

We reached safe harbor in the Third kingdom at about midday today, and much of the afternoon was spent unloading the vessels. Trotmana is a bustling port, and our arrival appeared to cause much excitement amongst the local townsponies, all of whom were most hospitable to our crew. I dined well at a nearby Inn and retired early, relieved to be on dry land once again.

Late at night there came a knock at my door, and I immediately recognized the Captain of one of our ships. The young stallion who accompanied him I had never seen before, but he was introduced to me as Rigel Mourner, a farmer who had recently witnessed a fatal attack by a fearsome, two-headed dragon. On numerous occasions he had seen this creature, all over a vast number of years. But it had always remained at a great distance high up in the mountains. I learned that he and his family had worked a smallholding in the lowlands for many years, making a modest living by selling their produce in the town's market once a week. With a tremendous voice, he described to me the terrible events that had overtaken them one afternoon in the Autumn of last year.

He'd been ploughing a field at the head of the valley when a great shadow swept over him. Looking up, he'd been horrified to see what he assumed to be the Beast of Gremarnaca circling low overhead. Tearfully, he explained to me how he'd desperately tried to warn his family of the danger as they toiled in the neighboring fields, but that his voice had been carried away on the breeze.

According to his account, the dragon had banked sharply, swooping so low over his head that the great gust from its wings threw him off his hooves. Terrified, he'd lain face down in the soul for a few moments, and when he raised his head, he beheld a sight so terrible that it will, I fear, stay with him until the end of his days. The creature had landed nearby, pinning a farmer to the ground with one of its enormous claws. Rigel had immediately recognized the victim as his father, and rushed to his aid, joining others who had quickly improvised weapons from their working tools.

There was nothing to be done, however, since the beast was all but oblivious to their efforts. It would not be distracted from its prey, whose writhing and screaming brought no release from the unrelenting grip of the dragon's talons.

Again and again, the creature's heads lunged downwards, ripping great chunks of flesh from the old stallion's ragged body, and only occasionally did they snake sideways, snarling and threatening to strike at those who baited the creature with hoes and scythes. In desperation, Rigel had galloped straight at the beast, driving a fence post forcefully into the side of one of its mouths. With a terrible cry, it leapt upwards, beating the air powerfully with its wings and creating dust clouds of such density that the farmers were left temporarily blinded and gasping for breath. As the air cleared, the dragon could be seen heading back towards it mountain lair, the lifeless body of Rigel's father still dangling in its grip.

Rigel sobbed openly as he neared the end of his sorry tale. He had not returned to the farm since the attack, and lived instead with friends in the port, still unable to accept the sad fact of his father's death, and his failure to prevent it. When at last I asked him whether there was anypony who could take us to the scene of the struggle, his reaction initially surprised me.

"I will escort you myself at first light," was all he said, and after a moment I understood just why it was so important to him.

Day Eight

Rigel was as good as his word, and our small army of warrior ponies left Trotmana early this morning, making only slow progress in the gray mist of dawn. I also have my suspicions that many of our company were suffering from an excess of revelry last night, since their faces were entirely bereft of good cheer.

By mid-morning we were well inland, but recent rain had caused a considerable softening of the ground. It proved extremely difficult to move the heavier equipment along the deteriorating tracks, and at one point the soldiers nearly exhausted themselves trying to dislodge the giant crossbow from a mud bank where it was stuck fast.

When a team of six of our strongest ponies failed to wrench it free, the decision was made to dismantle it, and so we incurred a further delay. It was almost dark when we eventually reached Rigel's smallholding, so we pitched camp and resolved to begin our inspection of the area in the morning.

Day Nine

The gray mist that has dogged our journey since we left Trotmana had lifted by the time we woke this morning, and the clear sky that greeted us appeared to raise everyponies spirits. Rigel led us to the area where the attack had taken place, but it would not have been difficult to locate even without his help, since signs of the struggle were all around. The broken implements that the family had used in their futile attempts to fight off the creature lay where they were dropped, and despite the rains, there were still traces of the old stallion's blood in the soil. Adjacent to this discolored patch of earth lay the fence post that Rigel had employed in his last desperate assault on the creature. We bowed our heads respectfully as he retrieved the post and retired to a mossy bank, before lowering to his haunches and sobbing quietly.

It was only then that we felt it right to begin a close examination of the site. Our hope is that by learning as much as we can about these beasts and their behavior, we will greatly improve our chances of destroying them in battle. Before long, one of our team uncovered a broken tooth in the damp soil. It was almost certainly dislodged by Rigel's final blow, and when we showed it to him he nodded in recognition. He allowed himself a half smile, since our discovery did at least prove that he was able to inflict some kind of retaliatory injury on the dragon before it took flight.

Unable to find any further specimens worth including in the journal after a thorough search of the area, our artists were forced to make speculative sketches illustrating the creature's method of attack based on Rigel's detailed account of the incident, and the teeth marks they found on some of the wooden implements.

I have to say that I've been most impressed by the abilities of the artists whom the King assigned to our mission. Although their respective specialties vary considerably, they all work quickly and accurately whether drawing from life or imagination, and I have no doubt that their contributions to the journal will provide a more informative record of our encounters than any of my written accounts could do.

By nightfall, we had learned all we could from the site, so it just remained for us to perform a simple ceremony marking the passing of Rigel's father. At my request, one of the artists carved the old stallion's name on the fence post his son had used in his attempts to save him, and was duly erected on a low ridge overlooking the smallholding.

Antares. He is lost, but not forgotten.

Day ten

With the coming of dawn, we bade farewell to Rigel, but not before he had indicated to us the area of mountains where he presumed the creature's lair to be. He had motioned to a jagged outcrop of rock in the high peaks, and provided a crude map on which a series of loosely interconnected tracks were drawn. These tracks, if they still existed and were yet passable, would lead us to the Beast of Gremarnaca,

We pressed onwards as quickly as we could, intent on gaining as much height as possible before fading light marked the end of another day. This evening we made camp at the entrance to Gordacas Canyon, a natural geological formation of outstanding scale and grandeur.

Day Eleven

Our intention had been to resume the climb at first light, but we awoke to fierce winds that delayed the dismantling of the tents, and hampered our every movement. It was apparent from the way the canyon's walls had been eroded that such winds were a common occurrence in these parts, but this knowledge did nothing to lessen our discomfort as we struggled to maintain our balance in the difficult terrain. When at last the gusts subsided, we were able to gain a little more height, but the path grew more and more tortuous as the hours passed, snaking back and forth as it slowly ascended the canyon wall. Greatly fatigued, we eventually sighted a small plateau just ahead of us, and planned to rest there awhile, but tragedy overtook us before we reached it.

I heard a sharp cry from on of the ponies near the back of the group, and turned around in an effort to identify the cause of his pain. He was quite some way distant from me, and my view back down the path was partially obscured by the rest of our entourage.

Intermittent glimpses revealed a figure flailing about in a frantic attempt to beat off a small winged creature resembling a bat. At first, his predicament was the cause of some mirth amongst the other warriors. Here was a stallion of great strength and courage, a survivor of many a battle, on a mission to slay the immortal creatures that plague the land, struggling to defend himself against the most insignificant of creatures. Only when he screamed, blood pouring from one of his eyes, and fell heavily to the ground did the laughter begin to fade.

I suddenly realized that the animal we had all assumed was a bat was, in reality, something far more sinister and dangerous. Dragonets are the piranhas of the dragon world, highly aggressive and extremely powerful for their size. I had seen them only once before, but knew from that encounter just how deadly they can be, savaging their victims in a mad frenzy of tooth and talon. Some were no larger than a small foal, but when they attack in a great swarm, as is their habit, there is no creature large or powerful enough to withstand the vicious onslaught.

A few ponies rushed to the fallen warrior's aid, but by now I could hear other cries coming from within the group. Raised swords sliced the air, but were too unwieldy to strike effectively at the creatures that reeled overhead, squawking and cackling with what sounded like malevolent glee. The main body of the swarm would not be far behind, and I hurriedly scanned the gloomy recesses of the vast gorge in an effort to ascertain the probable direction of attack.

My gaze quickly fell upon a swirling black cloud further along the canyon, and although I had known it was coming, the sight of the swarm made me sick to my stomach. It appeared to move slowly at first, swelling a little and then receding, like a plague of locusts in flight. Parts of the cloud seemed to push outwards from time to time, giving rise to the impression that the swarm might have been one huge amorphous creature, which in a way it was. The cacophony of shrieks reached us a few seconds later, amplified and echoed by the great stone walls which barred our escape.

I knew that it was within my power to protect our army from this foe, but only if they were to cooperate fully and swiftly with my instructions and trust me implicitly. In normal circumstances, it would have been impossible to make myself heard above the rising crescendo, so I filled my lungs with air, drew deeply on my powers and, in a voice which rang out like thunder, bellowed my instructions to the group behind me.

“Stand absolutely still! Restrain your movements as best you can!”

By the time my command had reached everypony’s ears, the swarm was almost upon us, and the noise had risen to a pitch of such extreme intensity that many of the warrior ponies simply dropped to the ground with their hooves held tightly over their ears. I clambered onto the wagon in which Sandorius and Celestia had been riding and, seeing the fear in their eyes, bade them lie down in the back before covering them with rough blankets. The swarm was at my back when I began focusing all of my power towards my horn, aiming towards the roof of the cave. The words I spoke as I did so have been known to me for many a long year, an incantation that empowers my horn and creates an invisible protective shell of limited strength and stability, but considerable size. If there is too much movement amongst those sheltered within, then the integrity of the bubble is undermined. It may grow weak in places, or even dissolve altogether, hence my order to the soldiers.

At best, it will hold its form for a few precious minutes and provide a shield strong enough to repel small objects or animals. A galloping stallion would have sufficient mass to penetrate it, but a dragonet, even diving from a great height, would not. The invisible ceiling above our heads also served to mute the creature’s cries, so I was able to repeat my order to the soldiers, imploring them to stand firm even as the dragonets began the first wave of their attack. A few of the stallions could not help recoiling as, one after another, the creatures either glanced off the unseen barrier or crashed straight into it with a sickening crunch. Those whose shallow angle of approach had allowed them a second chance merely circled the canyon and repeated the manoeuvre with even greater force until they too had either broken their wings on the shield, or worn themselves out in their attempts to pierce it.

Of greater threat were the few dragonets trapped within, most of which had arrived before I was able to raise the protective dome. They had now been joined by a couple which had managed to break through, where the thickness of the shield had been compromised by some of the pony’s panic-stricken attempts to flee the scene. I estimated about six dragonets in total inside the dome, and on finding themselves imprisoned, they seemed intent on inflicting as much injury as possible on their captors. In addition to their needle-like teeth and claws, which are sharp enough to tear leather, the dragonet has another weapon that is even more formidable. Like the scorpion, to which it is related, it has a raised tail with a deadly sting. A successful strike will render a full-grown pony paralyzed in minutes, and result in an excruciating death over the following few hours. I know of no cure and my magic is powerless to extract the venom from the victim’s bloodstream once it has taken hold.

As the shield gradually dissipated, and most of these last few demented creatures took flight, one of them, its wing too badly damaged to allow it to escape, attached itself to the scalp of a tall stallion, just a short distance from where I was standing. With a defiant shriek, it thrust its stinger into his neck, before dropping back to the ground. Another soldier immediately pinned it to the earth with a spear, and crushed its skull underhoof, but his actions served no purpose beyond revenge. The stricken stallion had already fallen to his haunches, emitting a low, mournful groan.

Jubilant in victory, and obviously much relieved to be safe once again, some of those who had not witnessed this last attack began a spontaneous round of applause, shaking the ground beneath us. I was forced to silence them as we lifted the injured stallion off the ground and, with the utmost care, lowered him slowly into one of the wagons. We reached the plateau not long afterwards, but his condition was deteriorating rapidly. A temporary camp was set up, and we made the soldier as comfortable as we could, but I knew the end would not be long in coming. Less than two hours after the initial attack, we had committed his body to the grave, marking his resting place with a large pile of granite slabs.

We proceeded on our way, eyes still focused on the sky ahead lest there be a repeat of this dreadful incident. By dusk, we were nearing the upper reaches of the canyon, and although most of the stallions were keen to be free of its confines, there could be no doubt that the walls afforded a degree of shelter from the elements. It was therefore decided that we would pitch camp for the night under a broad overhang near the point where the rising path finally breached the top of the near-vertical cliffs.

Day Twelve

This morning, I was awakened by a cry from one of our scouts. He had risen early with the intention of planning a route that would ensure our safe passage, and was eager to show me what he had found. I took with me a telescope, and the two of us clambered up a steep slope to a vantage point that yielded a spectacular view of the Arrean peaks. The scout motioned towards a natural gully that had formed between two rocky outcrops and, although it was difficult to establish the scale at this distance, clearly some kind of giant nest had been constructed within this relatively sheltered area. The true size of it became more apparent as I panned across the rock face with the telescope. It was not unlike the sort of eyrie an eagle would create for itself but, instead of small branches, this nest was made up of what appeared to be fully mature pine trees. It had to be the Beat of Gremarnaca's lair although, judging by the width of the nest, which would scarcely have been spanned by seven of our wagons laid end to end, the creatures itself was likely to be rather larger than any of us had anticipated. There was no sign of life, but we felt very exposed on the open ridge, so we wasted no time in returning to camp.

Once again, I had cause to refer to Rigel's map, which despite certain inaccuracies had served us well thus far, bringing us to the head of the canyon in only three days. As I traced the various paths with my hoof, it quickly became apparent that we had, in truth, reached journey's end. The track we were using would climb higher, but it would take us no nearer to the beast's lair than our current position, veering to the right instead and snaking up through another pass to a different part of the mountains. We were as near to the nest as it was possible to get, and yet it was still well beyond the reach of our weaponry. Even the huge wooden Madagan crossbow we had brought with us had barely half the range we would need, and would serve only to provoke and attack. I summoned the Captain and we considered our options.