Battle Of The Throne

Chapter One: Birth From Ashes

The air was thick with ash and pain. A poisonous cloud gathered like fog and swirled over the ground, obscuring the village at the base of the mountain. People ushered their animals into their homes and locked their windows tight even as sweat ran in rivulets down their backs. It’s coming, mothers whispered to their children, husbands to their wives. Their brows knotted with fear and their voices trembled. She’s coming.

Through this village, silent and newly fearful, a woman staggered. She clutched her swollen belly and leaned against the side of a house, gasping air as though it were fresh and cold. Her dark skin had a gray cast and her hair, a rainbow of black and gray and white that fell to her waist, was damp with sweat.

The ground rumbled as she heaved against the wall. She must keep moving. She must walk until she could walk no more. She made her way up the dirt road toward the mountain. She wore a simple crown of stone and a dress of greenery that flowed over her body, with leaves that fluttered in the wind and cradled velvet-soft flowers as they bloomed at her hips and shoulders. A wave of shimmering heat blasted through the town; the leaves browned and curled. The woman gasped. The magma beneath the planet’s crust ebbed and flowed in time with her contractions.

She wasn’t ready to give this child up to the world. Right here, right now, he was hers alone. As soon as she birthed him, all that would change. For this child was destined for greatness, beyond all the monsters and gods she’d birthed before. She tried to hold on to each moment, to each swell of pain. The ground buckled, but she didn’t stumble.

She’d gotten a mile from the village when Mount Etna roared for her son. Fire spewed into the air and ash fell over the valley like snow. Lava spilled over the top of the mountain and flowed in a river toward the houses below. Gaia had always stopped the lava from reaching the village before; now she threw her head back and screamed as a contraction took hold.

Over the next four hours, smoke filled the sky, turning it black as the birthing bed. Gaia staggered up the mountain and did not stop even as the tough grasses shriveled to a crisp. She ascended to bare, smoking rock; she ascended as orange-red lava flowed over her feet. And every time a contraction came, both the mountain and the woman convulsed and screamed, until the people of the village were unsure where one’s pain stopped and the other’s began.

At last she staggered onto a rock that jutted from the mountainside. It was black as pitch, smooth as glass. She collapsed onto the stone. Her skin was streaked with soot and every breath rasped. The contractions were coming faster now, and stronger than ever. She could go no farther. It was time.

She lay on her back and breathed deep. The air was searing, here, and filled with poison, but she paid it no mind. She rested her hands flat against her stone bed, and she pushed.

The mountain rumbled. Gaia’s eyes, blue as a clear summer sky, stared into nothing. She pushed again, and a river of lava cascaded down the side of the mountain.

She pushed a third time and the mountain exploded.

The top of Etna was engulfed in a crown of fire. Lava splashed against her bed and flowed like blood toward the valley. Errant sparks kissed the red-tiled roofs of the village. The woman – or was it the mountain? – pushed one final time, and from the womb of the world he came.

He was gray as ash and slick with magma. His eyes were shut tight, but his mouth opened wide. He howled. The wind whipped hot and frenzied.

He floated down the river of lava, still screaming, until two dark hands lifted him gently from his fiery cradle and brought him to his mother’s breast. He latched immediately. As he sucked the wind died down and the lava slowed its descent. Gaia breathed deep, and at her relieved exhale, fire turned to stone mere feet from the edge of the village. At her second breath, the mountain began to speckle over with bright green moss. A light breeze dispersed the ash cloud and for the first time in a full day, the people of Mount Etna saw flashes of azure sky.

Now that the danger was over, Gaia looked her son over. His breath was hot against her chest and he snuffled as she checked his hands and feet and head. He was perfectly formed. As the breeze cooled, his gray skin cracked and flaked, as though he were made from the mountain that birthed him. And perhaps he was. Gaia ran her fingers over his skin, brushing away the ash to reveal olive skin that matched her own. As her hand found his cheek, he opened his eyes. They were red as the heart of Olympus.

Gaia held her son close. Her greatest creation yet.

All Gaia’s children were special in their own way, but this one was destined to be something more. His brothers—she knew there would be more brothers—would look to him as a natural leader. He would guide them and steer them. He would save the world, or he would destroy it.

It was a hard road to travel, and much of it would be travelled in secret. But a cataclysmic event would hardly go unnoticed by the boy’s enemies. If he was found while he was still vulnerable—

There was no if. The boy could not be found.

Gaia lifted her hand and began to weave it through the air. In the wake of her fingers, fine volcanic ash trailed and spun into a long thread. Then it knit itself into a silken gray cloak, just large enough for an infant.

The child slept. She gently wrapped him in his fine new cloak. Her dress rippled, growing a mossy sling to hold him tight against her body, then she got to her feet. Wiping soot from her still-damp forehead, she set off over the mountain. By the time the villagers at the base of Mount Etna were brave enough to venture outside, all signs of their goddess were gone, save for a carpet of narcissi at the bottom of the mountain and a high, thin wail on the wind, the latent memory of a child’s cries.

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Most people called it, ‘the mountain.’ It dominated the skyline, trickling smoke, snow dusting its rocky summit. Travelers who came to the city of Solara on the plains asked about the mountain, and always received the same answer: people did not go there, because people did not return.

This wasn’t entirely true. The mountain was surrounded by steep rock formations that jutted from the ground like spikes and made the slope difficult to reach, but resourceful and experienced climbers could manage. From there, climbing the mountain was simply a matter of perseverance: trekking up a slope that had no discernible path and was slick with moss, careful not to fall into one of the holes that riddled the mountain’s side. Some of these holes were large enough to swallow a man; others merely sufficient to break an ankle.

But there were some who went looking for the caves of Etna. The right caves led a traveler through a maze of caverns—some natural, others hewn from the rock by some ancient hand. Gaia now made her way through these caverns, holding her son to her chest. At first she traveled in darkness, trusting her feet and her heightened senses to guide her. Gradually she saw little slivers of light, shivering on the volcanic walls. She followed that light as it danced and grew. When she came to the first torch, she nodded and took it. Hopefully, refuge lay here for her boy.

She followed the twisting tunnels until she felt the first blast of warm air and turned a corner to find herself at a ledge. She took a careful step forward and looked down on the city that sprawled around her.

The black rock had been carved into houses that stacked, one on top of the next like a child’s block tower. Walls, walkways and roofs ran dense with moss and ferns that flourished in the hot and humid environment. Steep stairs twisted around the mountain and flowed with life as people made their way up and down. At the base of those stairs, the city became a maze of streets and shops teeming with people. Gaia gazed on it for a few wondering moments, taking in the fire-red feathers of the Phoenixes, brilliant scales of the Dragons, the bright clothes of the Giants. Dwarf mail glinted and flashed by the light of over a thousand lanterns that drifted, held aloft by magic. A russet Griffin swooped past her to land on a nearby ledge. Tunnels led around the sides of the mountain, branching like the veins of a leaf, leading to smaller towns and living spaces that catered to the more unusual creatures that called Etna home.

When she looked up again, the Dragon was there.

His scales were bluer than the midday sky, and his eyes dark as jet. His wings were the size of a small house. His talons were as long as Gaia’s hand, and cruelly hooked to grasp both the stalactites of Mount Etna and the goats that Dragons plucked from the mountain’s outer slope. Two wicked horns curled at the top of his head, and his snout and beard were tinged with gray, showing his age.

He dipped his head – no mean feat as he beat his wings to stay aloft. My lady, he said in a rumble like thunder. The stink of fresh blood was on his breath.

Gaia gave him a half bow in return not pleased to be recognized so immediately. The Dragons must have realized what the cataclysm of Etna meant and been on the lookout for her. My greetings, Ankor. May prosperity smile upon your tribe. I hope I find you well.

You find me troubled, said the great Dragon. We would speak with you.

He let himself drop, baring his spine. It was lined with dark spikes. Gaia took a spike with one hand and slid onto his back, putting the other hand around her son. It was unusual to be offered a ride on a Dragon, and Gaia murmured her thanks as she mounted.

They soared up. Ankor let out a blast of fire that singed the air around them, then tucked his wings and dove through an opening barely large enough to fit him near the top of the mountain. Gaia kept her head low and her child close. Ankor twisted through a tunnel and came out into another cavern, half the size of the great city.

This cavern had no hanging lights, nor shops at its base. It was lit only by Dragon fire, and decorated with shed scales in various vibrant colors. They decorated Dragon-carved nests, hewn from the rock and stabilized with short walls built from the blackened bones of their meals. One craggy cliff, higher and grander than the rest, glittered with flashing scales and the eyes of five more Dragons. Ankor ascended and they made space for him in the middle.

He dropped his neck and Gaia slid to the ground, silently blessing the solid stone beneath her. Then she turned and bowed to each Dragon in turn. She was the mistress of Olympus, but these mighty creatures commanded respect. They lowered their heads in turn, touching their wings to the ground in deference. They were all gray at the nose, and some at the wingtip – these were the Elder Dragons of Etna.

We would ask what brings you to our mountain home, said a female with scales the color of moss and horns that spiraled to wicked points at the top of her head.

Gaia hesitated a moment. Then the tendrils of her child’s sling unwove, and she turned him gently to the Elders. This is my son, she said.

The Dragons recoiled. One let out an angry lick of flame. Gaia pulled him close. He has a great destiny, she said, her low voice ringing with portent. And he is in great peril.

The Dragons exchanged glances. They seemed to understand her meaning. The green female spoke again. And what would you ask of us, the guardians of Etna?

Gaia hesitated, looking from face to face. The Dragons stared back at her, unblinking. It was difficult at the best of times to read a Dragon’s expression. Their eyes were guarded, and an acrid smoke trickled from their noses. They liked their petitioners to be direct, but they felt no need to be open and direct themselves.

She drew herself up and pushed back her shoulders. I am a Queen and a Goddess, and I would ask for your protection. I would ask that my son grow among you and learn the wisdom of the Dragons, the cleverness of the Griffins, the steadfastness of the Dwarves and the tenacity of the Giants. I would ask that you keep him safe and help him make Etna his home.

For a long moment, all was still. No one’s expression changed. Then Ankor said, We cannot.

He sounded regretful, but his words still stung. Cannot? she asked, more sharply than was wise. Or will not?

Is there a difference? An elder with scales the color of blood swung his thin head down to face her. We will not, because we cannot. We are the guardians of Etna. We protect the mountain and all within it. You would bring great peril to our home. The mountain is no place for a boy to grow up. There are too many crevices and cracks, too many lava vents. We have no notion of how to take care of a wingless boy—especially one with such a destiny as him.

Gaia turned from one Dragon to the next. You knew, she realized, running a finger down her son’s back as he snuggled against her. You knew I would ask.

We suspected, replied Ankor. And we regret our reply. Perhaps other tribes in the mountain would give you a different answer—

There are no others I can trust, she said sharply.

There was another pregnant pause. Gaia’s feet dug into the ground, as if trying to root in the hard stone. With some effort, she shifted her stance. He is entwined with this place, somehow, she said softly. If it is not to be his home, then I’m afraid of what that truly means for Etna.

That, said the green Dragon, is a matter of fate and the future.

They dipped their heads again, stirring up a breeze that left Gaia’s shoulders cold. A cape of white morning-glory flowers bloomed to cover her. Are you certain you do not wish to take him? He may well be your savior.

He may just as well be our destruction, said the red Dragon.

Gaia bowed in return, then climbed aboard Ankor again. There was no arguing with the Elder Dragons once they’d made up their minds. They were strong-willed and unbending, and to them to safety of Etna was paramount. More important, even, than the freedom of the whole world.

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Ankor took Gaia and the baby boy down to the edge of the mountain, where a black river churned through the great city and out into the world. She boarded a river boat and thanked the Dragon under the gaze of a dumbstruck riverman.

A war is coming, she warned him, plucking a rose from her dress as a token of thanks. You cannot avoid it.

Nor will we provoke it, Ankor replied, and took the rose delicately in his talons. Then he took to the sky, churning up a cloud of black dust.

Gaia gave another rose to the riverman as payment for their travel, and he poled them through the city. The scent and sound of civilization assaulted her: roasting meat, hot metal, stale beer. Sellers shouting their wares from the market, couples arguing loudly as they strode along the streets, Griffins snorting and Phoenixes cawing. More riverboats joined them until a throng of barges crowded the river from edge to edge. In the midst of this, Gaia sat still and upright, letting her fingers rub against the knotted wooden seat, watching as pale fish flashed in the water below.

They reached the edge of the city and the turmoil fell away like a discarded cloak. The cacophony of life was reduced to a burble as faint as the churn of the river as the buildings on the bank turned to warehouses, then lean-tos, then nothing. They passed under the final hanging lantern of town and headed into darkness, with only a single light suspended from the edge of the barge to guide them along the black river. The scent of sulfur filled Gaia’s nose.

They poled into a tunnel and the water picked up speed, tilting slightly downward. The riverman moved his pole deftly, angling them off sharp edges and away from the sides of the tunnel as the boat wobbled around a series of pin turns.

Daylight pierced the tunnel like a sword, and the riverman dug his pole into the bottom of the river. They slowed their progress, drifting closer to the mouth of the cave, until they came to the edge of daylight. He tossed a rope around a little pole that stood on a ledge, a natural disembarking point, and pulled it fast. The boat rocked. Gaia stood and allowed him to hand her up to the ledge. Then she thanked him again, and watched him pole back up the River before heading into the light.

She had hoped to give her son an extraordinary and protected life in Etna. With the Dragons’ rejection, she had but one person to turn to. It was both bitter and sweet that she knew he would not refuse her.

She traveled along the River until she reached the edge of the Brown Swamp, then set off north and west. She moved on foot, calm and confident, and the path she walked blossomed with grass and wildflowers. It gave her enemies an easy trail to follow, but Gaia doubted they’d discovered the boy quite yet. These flowers would wither in the dull Swamp in a matter of days, their sweet scent turning rotten, their petals browning and drooping. She was safe until she got to the forest. And the forest, being her heartland, would conceal her.

Mother and son traveled for three days. He nursed as they walked; she stopped only to rest and to drink the nectar of the surrounding flowers. She did not worry about the creatures of the Brown Swamp; she was a goddess, and the animals here knew better than to trifle with her. Instead she accepted a tribute of honey from the bees and an honor guard of serpents who slithered ahead.

When she came to the forest, she wove herself a cloak of grass that covered her dress and pulled the hood over her head. She was coming into the realm of men now, and she wanted to travel in secret. She set off on a small game path.

The path soon widened. Gaia strode past trees that could not be encircled by three men holding hands, with broad leafy canopies and branches as thick as her body. Bright poppies, cheery marigolds and dangling bluebells dotted the forest floor, and sunlight fell like rain through the leaves above. Birds warbled the news of the day from branch to branch, and nearby a stream chattered and teemed with little green and brown frogs. As if sensing the change in his world, her bundle shifted against her skin, cracking open one eye to look out at the forest before tucking his nose against her chest once more.

The dirt path turned to stone and the first houses began to appear. Some of them had been built right into the trunk of a tree, while others perched in the branches like birds, with little rope bridges running from room to room, from house to house. The road bent to follow a sparkling river that wound lazily through the heart of the city, and shops began to appear along the river’s edge. The mill and brewery were equipped with water wheels, and wide barges docked all along the river’s edge, spitting out men to load and unload wares. The city at the heart of Sherwood Forest was as metropolitan as the one within Etna, and as she followed the road Gaia saw a number of familiar shops: the potion maker’s, the book binder’s, the milliner’s, the blacksmith’s. All were suffused with a greenish-gold light, the peculiar and enchanted light of Sherwood. A few people stopped to look at her as she passed, but the people of Sherwood were used to strangers passing through—and this woman was hardly the strangest of them.

Gaia walked until she found a smaller path, leading away from the center of town. She followed the road until she found a red door set into the trunk of an enormous oak, carved with the motif of a bearded man shrouded in leaves. She knocked three times upon this door, then let herself in.

The yeasty smell of rising bread dough greeted her, mixed with the scent of woodsmoke and meat. Gaia found herself in a small front hall with a mat and two pairs of boots lined neatly against the wall. A wood-hewn staircase