The Brothers

The brothers looked out in horror. From their vantage point on the low hill, its grassy flanks flecked with spikes of rock, they could easily see the entrance to their former home. The mouth of the cave, once craggy and half covered with dangling shrubbery, had been widened, its edges worn smooth by a huge amount of traffic.

And the traffic of something huge.

Members of their kin, enthusiasm and purpose etched into their every movement, carried crates and barrels from the dark interior and loaded them onto packhorses and packlizards. Bursts of motion marked training skirmishes by the dusty entranceway. Javelins were tossed at targets, spears clacked against one another, sling bullets bounced from the cliff face. Even a few priests were practising their art; they hurled orbs of green energy and watched them throw up sprays of dirt some distance away.

“What are they preparing for, brother?” said one of the pair, the hole in his left ear allowing the red of the dawn sky through.

“I know not, brother,” said the other, running a scaly hand over the small ceramic pots at his belt, hoping he wouldn’t need to use them. “But we should go, before we are seen. Or smelt.” They shuddered as one, and crawled back down the hill, out of sight.

“What can we do?”

“Tell Flameheart! We swore to keep him informed.”

“He is gone! He made us renounce our oaths and left us here to die!”

“No! Have faith, brother. He rescued us, you know he did.” The two shared a look of grim determination, the nostrils at the ends of their short snouts flaring in unison. Any observer would have named them twins, though age separated them by a number of years.

A roar cut through the sounds of labour on the other side of the hill, a roar not of dominance or anger, but of triumph. Before the brothers could take stock of the situation, the whoomph, whoomph of colossal beating wings swept over them, and a huge, slender creature glided over their heads to land nimbly in between them and their escape route. The morning gleamed softly in its emerald scales.

Condescension curled the corners of the beast’s mouth, but the glee in her eyes was worse. “There is only one course of action you can take,” she said, flashing sharp, foot-long teeth as she spoke, “that will not end in your death.” Her voice was a smooth rumble, each syllable carrying a familiar, terrifying cunning along with it.

Fear tore at the minds of the brothers, but their devotion to Flameheart ran true. He was the only one who had ever believed in them, and he had cared for their fallen comrade in a way that was unprecedented amongst the ‘civilised races’, as they called themselves. He had certainly cared for them more than their former mistress ever had.

“We will not rejoin you!” shouted one of the brothers, even as the other cried out, “You will never be our god again!” They glanced at each other, surprised and warmed by the unity they were displaying in the face of certain death.

“My, my,” gloated the dragon, cocking her head to one side in amusement. “Did Flameheart teach you bravery? That is quite the feat. It is almost a pity you will be mine regardless.” With a victorious snarl, her eyes lit up a bright viridian. The brothers felt their willpower draining away, pouring from their minds and into those deep, beautiful pools of green. Independent thought was swept away as their loyalty to Flameheart was dissolved, washed out, forgotten.

The brothers looked up in delight. “How can we serve you, Throden?” Neither cared that they spoke the same words in the same tone at the same time. All were the same when they carried out the will of Throden.

All would be pawns.