What did my mother come up with?
Oh, nothing unusual.
She suggested staging a very realistic aerial battle between two Dragons over a lair, during which (oh, that decision must have been hard for her) I was supposed to win.
But not kill, and we would fly off to lick our wounds…
But to the witchers, it would look like the golden Dragon from the ruins had decided not to tempt fate anymore and was going to flee.
And right behind him, the black reptile — which I would be playing — would give chase.
“…Consider it a final exam into adulthood.
You’ll have to show proper strength and cunning — the first in defeating me, and the second in deceiving these witchers of yours…”
That’s exactly what my mother said to me when I flew out through a secret passage — very narrow for me — on the other side of the mountain and headed toward the Dragon Mountains.
After all, it wouldn’t be strange if a rival to the golden Dragoness arrived from the very place where most Dragons live, including black ones, right?
True, it would be a little strange that I was breathing fire instead of acid…
But the Witchers would find it easier to believe in such a unique specimen than in a Dragon changing color — and that was my own addition, claiming I’d miraculously found surviving records left by that witcher with his bag outside the burned forest.
I already had an excuse ready if my mother asked for those records, but her trust in me turned out to be high, so I managed to avoid outright lying.
After all, she had raised me in this life, and it’s unlikely a young Dragon would have survived on his own, given the abundance of various creatures in the Witcher’s world that Vivien had driven away by the mere fact of her existence…
Well, and by staying near my growing body at the time.
Stopping at a suitable spot where there was definitely no living creature of any kind…
I closed my eyes and gradually changed not only the color of my scales, but also the position of the horns on my head and back.
I’m not an idiot, after all, and I believe in the observational skills of witchers — I don’t need them suspecting a resemblance between a noble, peaceful golden dragon and a vicious black one that hates everything and everyone except its own black-scaled mate.
…I opened my eyes as a dragon completely unlike myself, looking like the pure embodiment of death and gothic gloom, with whom I shared only my golden eyes — which I was wary of changing.
I didn’t need to lose my eyesight before the plan even started.
Looking myself over a few more times, I made some of the spikes even more menacing with some difficulty, then, sharply flapping my now-black wings — which had also changed shape slightly — I soared into the sky.
…For a metamorph like Vivien, it was no trouble to turn into a completely unsuspicious gray wyvern and conduct a kind of aerial reconnaissance over the places where an impressive group of witchers and very young boys had settled.
At least, that’s how I interpreted Mama’s words about there being small ones alongside the big bipeds.
It’s unlikely the witchers are there with gnomes or dwarves, so they’re probably children.
Either way, I decided to fly right over their camp — well-hidden and hardly noticeable from anywhere but the air — just to make sure I drew all their attention, ultimately letting them witness a dramatic dragon battle.
Of course, Mama talked about an exam, but in reality, we’d have a more spectacular and technical fight rather than a real one.
There would be wounds, of course — accelerated regeneration is a thing, after all — but nothing truly serious.
Witchers may have good eyesight, but they definitely don’t know how two dragons fight.
Because outside the eponymous mountains, that spectacle is rarer than anything else.
Though I have to note, my actions are starting to cause many rare events for humans…
The appearance of two black fire-breathing dragons, a battle between those same dragons and three giants, and now a battle between two fire-breathing, winged reptiles.
“Gro-o-o-o-o-oa-a-a-a!” I let out an extremely loud roar right as I flew over the witchers’ camp.
So that everyone and everything would definitely notice me.
And supposedly, in this way, I was attracting or challenging the golden dragoness from her lair in the ruins — which the experienced witchers should have long since spotted.
And thirdly, with this, I was signaling the start of our scheme.
Three hares with one shot, that is, one roar.
“Gro-o-o-o-o-oa-a-a-a-a-a-a!” Mama let out a slightly longer roar, emerging from the ruins into the daylight.
Sharply flapping her wings, she rushed toward me at full speed, making it clear that to carry out her own plan, I would have to try my hardest and actually defeat her…
Though still through technical skill rather than real attempts to kill.
Hmm…
And what do you call this spectacle?
A duel, a fight, a battle…
No, no.
None of that fits…
Exactly!
That’s it!
A dance! Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
That’s the perfect word…
A Dance of Dragons.
* * *
Nearby, down below, in the forest.
Vesemir.
One of the young witchers, recently made one.
Over a fairly short period of time, the once-unified Order of Witchers had begun to split into various factions.
Vesemir didn’t know all the reasons, only the basic details.
The first to leave were definitely the Bears — unsociable loners who preferred an organization where they wouldn’t have to cooperate with others.
Like all subsequent splits, this one was also quite bloody, but Vesemir himself hadn’t witnessed it.
Thus, the Bear School was created.
Next, around the time he arrived, the Snake School split off, where, according to the mentors, only conspirators, intriguers, and various saboteurs now gathered.
There were also rumors that after this, witchers who disagreed with the Snakes split off from them, founding a School of the Manticore far, far to the east in Zerrikania — supposedly founded by a golden dragon — a place for alchemists and bodyguards for the rich.
Later, during Vesemir’s active time in the Order, the Cat School left, guided by their own vision of the craft and the role of witchers in life — these brothers of theirs, mostly young, had never adhered to the principle of neutrality and had earned a reputation as mercenaries and assassins.
Vesemir didn’t go with them only because of a personal conflict with one of the main instigators of those Cats.
Otherwise, Vesemir, who loved to have fun and sleep with beautiful ladies, would have gladly become a mercenary…
But no, he had to stay among the dwindling Order.
And the last to split off was the School of the Griffin, inspired by the semi-legendary Erland of Larvik, who seemed to have decided to overcome any prejudices about the previous secessionists by creating the School of the Griffin — supposedly noble, honest, and upright warriors.
But in reality, in Vesemir’s opinion, he only weakened the unified Order, finally splitting it apart…
A hypocritical idiot, even if he was one of the first witchers.
And so, unexpectedly, a young and rowdy guy found himself among the most conservative members, who…
Who could only acknowledge the split and the disappearance of the unified Order.
So in the end, they founded the last of the schools, the Wolf School, which, according to the mentors, was the only one that preserved the principles of their old workshop.
The very ones that were laid down at its founding.
In fact, all the witchers were now on a joint journey, looking for a place for a new base.
Alas, the previous castle had been requisitioned by the king, seeing that only a handful of witchers remained there.
Previously, no one would have dared to challenge their existence or invade, because they were also associated with, probably, the most powerful sorcerer in all history, one of the creators of elixirs and mutagens — Alzur of Maribor — and his no less legendary teacher, Cosimo Malaspina.
So, they had made their way to the far north of the Blue Mountains, to a secluded spot where, according to ancient elven records, there was an abandoned fortress of theirs, for some reason called the Fortress of the Old Sea, even though there was no sea anywhere nearby.
Only a small lake, during the mapping of which they had stumbled upon a golden dragon, supposedly a mythical creature that had settled in these ruins.
…But before they could develop a strategy, a new threat appeared.
An even larger black dragon, which made even Vesemir’s mentor, Barmin, look grim.
“Teacher, who do you think will win?” the young witcher couldn’t help but ask, watching with wide eyes as the two dragons flew straight at each other with phenomenal speed.
“Damned if I know, boy.
Damned if I know.
The black one is bigger, but the golden one is much rarer, and besides, remember, we saw another golden one…
About the same size as the black one,” Barmin said grimly, gripping the hilt of the silvered sword hanging at his belt.
“Oh.
Right…
He might interfere…
I wonder, maybe one of them is a female…
And this is a fight over her?” Vesemir grinned lewdly, immediately earning a cuff on the back of the head from Barmin.
“Watch the battle, idiot,” Barmin snapped.
“And stop spewing lewd jokes from that mouth of yours, which can only guzzle wine and seduce noblewomen…”
“Jealous?” the young witcher grinned insolently, but met such a vicious glare that he thought it best to shut up and turn his gaze back to the sky.
There, where two dragons of roughly equal size had finally clashed.
And the distance to them was enough to observe the battle quite well, but not enough to make out all the fine details…
As if someone had deliberately arranged it so that the fight would be most spectacular for the witchers, but they couldn’t see all the details of the battle and record them in the chronicles. Read the latest chapters at novelping(.)com.
However, even the slightest hint of a conspiracy flew out of the witchers’ heads at the first attacks of the real dragons.
They both exchanged streams of flame, dousing each other at full speed, and began circling each other.
At this point, the eyes of some experienced monster-slayers twitched, because according to all their intelligence, black dragons spat acid.
The sorcerers’ records they had inherited also said the same.
“Gro-o-o-o-oa-a-a-a-a!” a double, synchronized roar rang out from both dragons, whose flames had caused each other no harm.
The previous such roar had made every single witcher blanch and wake up.
Which was why almost all four dozen or so witchers, and even the future young recruits, were now watching the aerial battle.
After circling each other, the dragons abruptly flew apart in opposite directions, clearly gaining speed and…
Sharply turning around, and letting out another deafening double roar that thoroughly rattled the witchers’ ears.
Flapping their wings with all their might, the two dragons rushed toward each other at full speed, seemingly wanting to crash into each other with the greatest possible force.
But instead, the golden dragon suddenly spun around, at the very last moment flying upside down, and sank his claws with all his strength into the four legs of his opponent.
The latter clearly hadn’t expected this, though he continued to actively resist the golden one’s attempts to rip open his black belly, using his superior size.
“Holy shit…” escaped Vesemir amidst the general impressed silence, as the dragons locked onto each other and began to spin sharply and uncontrollably in the air, flapping their wings awkwardly.
Like…
Like…
Like a dance.
A Dance of Dragons.
The huge lizards, spinning in the air, constantly snapped their jaws near each other’s necks, turning the battle into an even more spectacular sight.
Nevertheless, the dragons hadn’t achieved any significant effect yet.
All their limbs were intact, and the witchers hadn’t seen any serious wounds either.
But the giant reptiles still continued to furiously work all four limbs on each side, scratching each other’s scales and trying, with increasing ferocity, to inflict new wounds on their opponent.
…The dragons’ jaws opened simultaneously, revealing huge fangs, from which the first tongues of orange-scarlet flame soon appeared, a moment later replaced by furious fire that made the gathered young and old men involuntarily shudder.
They must have imagined what it would be like to get caught in that.
“Gro-o-o-o-oa-a-a-a!” the black dragon roared more deafeningly than before, beginning to move much more actively and seizing the initiative in their joint fall, which was being fiercely slowed by constant wingbeats…
Making it look even more like some exotic dance.
Then a pained roar rang out as the claws of one of the dragon’s front paws raked with full force across the golden scales of the smaller opponent, creating a large bloody furrow.
From that moment on, the winner was obvious to the witchers.
No matter how the golden one fought, the black opponent was more massive and stronger.
Perhaps maneuverability was on the golden one’s side, but after locking in close quarters, that ceased to be a decisive factor.
The members of the newly founded Wolf School saw all this clearly, because the pair of dragons were approaching the ground…
Which made the witchers start to prepare.
They, of course, don’t kill sentient beings that don’t harm humans — they follow, so to speak, the ancient traditions of their craft — but…
You never know?
You have to be ready for anything — including a battle with one or even two dragons.
The dragons, with a wide swing of their long necks, headbutted each other, then again covered their locked bodies in flame.
No effect, but they emerged from the fire surrounding them almost at the ground.
…With each fraction of a second, they were getting closer to crashing into the ground, but at the very last moment, they sharply changed direction again.
Awkwardly flapping their wings one last time, they spun around each other and crashed straight into the river, causing a huge column of water, spray from which reached even the witchers in the forest.
“Are they there…” Vesemir began, once again managing to get ahead of his comrades, but was immediately interrupted.
The river water, unable to completely hide the two sizable dragons, surged into the air again, and from it, at full speed, the two finally-uncoupled fire-breathing reptiles shot up.
Spinning in the air, they again scattered droplets of water in all directions, once again dousing the clustered witchers, who had their weapons at the ready.
“Gr-r-ro-o-o-o-oa-a-a-a!” the black one’s next roar seemed to sound triumphant and proud.
Then the golden dragon, who had flown off to a distance, didn’t even turn around and didn’t roar back in response, simply heading toward his lair in the ancient elven ruins.
The black one flew in a circle for a few dozen seconds, then jerked his whole neck and rushed away — to the west.
The witchers, sighing with relief, began to exchange glances and share their impressions, planning to record the spectacle they had witnessed for future generations of witchers.
It was unlikely that anyone else among humans in this century would see a battle of true dragons.
Vesemir didn’t know then just how wrong he and his comrades were…