Heart of the Mountain

"Schooling is for the sons of Lords and Barons, not for the likes of me," Iden said as he took another wet bite. "I can count high enough to conduct business, and that's about it."

"As you know, we dragons are exceptionally long-lived. Only the very young haven't studied mathematics, history, and literacy. The rest of us have a lot of empty hours to fill, and study is a good way to pass the time. Many of us spent decades or even centuries as teachers and scholars. In the old days, mortals would make pilgrimages to our caves to hear our sermons, and to study in our libraries. In later times, some disguised themselves as humans and founded schools, finding solace in passing on their knowledge."

"I can read a fair bit," Iden said proudly. "I can even sign my name on contracts and the like. Employers often like your word in writing if enough coin is changing hands."

"Only a fair bit?" she asked, cocking her head at him. She wasn't mocking him, her expression was soft, sympathetic.

"Well, yeah," he grumbled as he turned his eyes to his meal. "It's not like I have a lot of time to read novels and scripture."

"I could teach you, if you wanted," she said with a shrug of her shoulders that made her bosom bounce attractively in her loose-fitting blouse. "I have a collection of rare and expensive books. It's not quite a library, but it's packed with ancient tomes. I'd relish the opportunity to teach again."

"What's in them?" he asked.

"All kinds of things," she replied enthusiastically. "Tales of adventure and romance, historical records from the old world, poetry and verse, magic spells and incantations. It would be a joy to introduce someone new to them. I take it that you've never read a poem?"

"Can't say that I have. What's the appeal?"

"Of a poem?" she laughed. "Poems are like...emotions put to paper. The poet composes a verse, a little like a song, but not quite the same. The form is highly artistic, he uses his intimate knowledge of language and cadence to express his thoughts and ideas. It should be compelling, evocative, imaginative. To think that some people might live out their entire lives never having heard one..."

"Sounds a bit fancy for me," he replied, and she shook her head at him.

"Iden, don't sell yourself short. Just because you chose a certain line of work, that doesn't mean that you're incapable of learning or of understanding the arts and sciences. There have been great warrior poets, you know."

"Warrior poets?" he asked, pausing his chewing to look up at her.

"Oh, did that catch your attention?" Isabelle asked with a smirk. "There were plenty of scholars and writers who were also knights or soldiers. The two aren't mutually exclusive, you know. The idea that men who take up the sword can't be emotional and creative people is a rather modern one."

"So what kinds of things did these warrior poets write about?"

"The glory and horror of combat, the value of life, finding beauty in unexpected places."

"That kind of thing might go a little over my head," Iden muttered, taking another bite.

"You'll never know if you don't try," Isabelle replied. "Maybe I'll find you an old book of poems from one of antiquity's famous explorers, and read you some excerpts from their writings."

Once Iden had finished his meal, Isabelle took his hand, guiding him out of his seat.

"I'll show you where the books are," she said, "come."

They walked around the pile of treasure, Iden turning his head to admire the glittering heap. While he might have gotten used to the magic, he never seemed to grow accustomed to the sight of the hoard. It was always just sitting there, out in the open, seemingly unprotected. His urge was almost like hunger, his greed compelling him to fill his pockets just as a gurgling stomach compelled him to eat.

"Are you still drawn to it?" she asked, noticing his distraction. "Still trying to figure out a way to claim it, perhaps?" Her tone was friendly, but it masked her true concern. She had gone to such lengths to end their conflict, and she was no doubt worried that he might try to rekindle it. Isabelle was right, he hadn't yet given up, but he wasn't about to let her know that.

"It takes strength to claim a treasure such as this," she added, "but it takes far more strength to turn one's back on it. Once you accept that you cannot possess this wealth, then it will lose the power that it holds over you. How does a drunk regain control over his life, if not by first setting down his bottle?"

"You compare my desire for wealth to a drunk's lust for liquor?" Iden chuckled. "The drunk has no control over his actions, there's no goal that can be achieved through drink. My goal is to better my situation, my lust for gold is a calculated one."

"If you say so," she replied with a shrug. "But we dragons are well versed when it comes to the power of greed, you would do well to heed my advice. Ah, here we are."

They had reached the far wall of the main cavern, and yet more torches burst into flames, illuminating a row of wooden bookshelves. They had clearly been sourced from elsewhere, they hadn't been made for this cave. They sat awkwardly on the uneven floor, leaning against the curved wall behind him. Their shelves were packed with books and loose manuscripts, scrolls overflowing from between the dusty tomes. There were three bookshelves in all, taller than a man, each one with six shelves.

"Don't think I've ever seen this many books in one place before," Iden said, walking up and down the row as he appraised them. Isabelle watched him with a smile on her face. She was so eager to share her passion with him, it was endearing in a way.

"This isn't exactly the best place to store them," she added, "this cave is rather damp. How I wish that I could hire laborers to build me a museum or a library as we did in the old days. I'd be happy to part with some gold if it would ensure the safekeeping of greater treasures."

"So these are worth money?" Iden asked, turning to look back at her.

"Oh yes, some of them a great deal of money. One would have to find the right buyer, of course. It would have to be someone educated, an expert in ancient history and literature, most likely someone who already had his own collection. But to the right man, some of these books could be worth a fortune. They are all unique, many written by hand, there are none like them in the world."

She walked up to one of the shelves, brushing her fingers against the spines of the books, searching for something specific. She made her way down the line, stopping when she found what she was looking for, pulling it out along with a puff of dust. It was a truly massive tome, about the size of a buckler, its leather binding a faded crimson in color. After brushing the cover off with her hand, she turned to show Iden the title, the letters embossed in gold.

"Read it out to me," she demanded.

"The...life and works of...Gerard de Mercier," he said, Isabelle nodding her head approvingly. "Who's that?"

"Gerard de Mercier was a poet and songwriter, but he also fought in several wars that took place a couple of hundred years before you were born. Those kingdoms no longer exist, but his works endure in the yellowed pages of this book. As a career warrior, I thought that you might like to hear some of his prose. Shall I read some aloud to you?"

"Alright," Iden said with a shrug. She led him back over to their bed beside the pile and had him sit on the sheets, while she perched a little higher up the golden slope. When he asked her why, she told him that it was a tradition for teachers and scholars to deliver their sermons from atop a podium or an elevated platform. She opened the book at its first page and began to read.

CHAPTER 7: THE JOURNEY

Iden listened to her read for what might have been hours, quickly losing track of time. The tales of this de Mercier person were amazing, even if his poetry was a little flowery for Iden's tastes. He had lived a long and fruitful life, exploring foreign lands, and fighting for noble causes rather than for coin. He was well-to-do, the heir to a noble house, and so putting food on his table was of little concern.

Iden had to admit that he envied the man. Not for his devotion to justice, or for his skill with a quill, but for his ability to do whatever he pleased with his time without having to worry about food or lodging. De Mercier's age was a prosperous one, far moreso than modern times. He spoke of extravagant gardens hanging from the battlements of castles, vines blooming with flowers winding their way along the stonework, forests of trees that blossomed with colorful petals. The climes were warmer back then, more suited to growing grapes, and so there were rows of carefully tended vineyards carpeting the fields for miles around the estates and manors. Wine and revelry were the order of the day, rather than beers made from the hardy wheat and barley that now occupied the farmland.

When he had inquired about the change in climate, Isabelle had explained how it mirrored the decline in magic. The world became sicker with each drop of the divine that left it, its soils yielding fewer nutrients, its winters growing longer and colder. Such changes happened over generations, imperceptible to mortals, but it was far more apparent to a dragon.

Somehow, it made Iden wistful, nostalgic for a time period that he had never known. Did those same keeps still stand, or like their builders, had they been lost to the ages? He had come across ruins in his travels, the crumbling remnants of watchtowers and walls out in the wilderness, seemingly far from anything worth defending. He had always written those off as casualties of war, rather than of age.

"Was that really how he died?" Iden asked as Isabelle closed the book on the final chapter.

"It was," she replied. "A solitary arrow struck him in the thigh, and the wound became gangrenous. Not a week later, he died in his bed. Had he been able to see a healer or a dragon, then they might have been able to cleanse the rot from his blood, but alas, such magic was a lost art by that point in time. It's not a very fitting end for a man who lived such a heroic and illustrious life, is it?"

"It does put a bit of a damper on the story," Iden admitted.

"De Mercier is a fine example of a man who was at once fierce, and sensitive," Isabelle continued. "He took up the sword and fought his fellow man, but he also appreciated the arts, and he sought to expand his knowledge. After hearing the story of his life, would you say that he was not brave, that his artistic pursuits diminished him in any way?"

Iden thought for a moment, scratching his stubbly chin pensively.

"I would not," he finally replied.

"And so now you see that brains and brawn are not at odds, that even a brutish man can stop to smell a rose, or write a sonnet to express his love for a woman?"

"I suppose," Iden admitted, a little more reluctantly this time. Isabelle laughed at his reaction, hopping deftly from her perch on the mountain of treasure and landing beside him on the sheets.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to make you write me a song. But if you wanted to learn about history or the arts, then I would be pleased to teach you. If you'd like to learn to read, or even to write better, then just let me know. I could even instruct you in calligraphy if you wanted," she added.

She shuffled a little closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder. It was late, Iden realized. Even without a sun by which to tell the time, he was starting to feel the onset of fatigue. Were he and Isabelle to share a bed once again? Would she subject him to another night of passion? He didn't know whether the prospect frightened or excited him.

"You're so tense tonight," she said, moving around behind him. "Let me help you relax before bed..."

Before he had time to comment, there was a flash of cold fire, the tunic that he had been wearing vanishing into a cloud of ash to leave him nude from the waist up. Isabelle wasted no time, and he felt her hands on his shoulders, beginning to rub and knead. He leaned back into her, her touch soothing him. She had noted his reaction to her massage in the pool, and she was exploiting his weakness.

"Try to relax," she whispered, her warm breath tickling his ear. She brushed his curtain of long hair out of the way, running her fingers down his spine. "I want you to feel at ease here, I want you to be comfortable around me. There's nothing to fear..."

She seemed to sense his apprehension, but it wasn't Isabelle that he was afraid of, not exactly. It was more the promise of her violent lovemaking that made his heart race.

"That feels good," he muttered, all of the tension draining from his body as she kneaded with her deft little hands. They felt so soft, her fingers thick and padded, her pointed nails pricking him. Wait...

Iden opened his eyes and looked down to see a long, tapered tail snaking its way along the sheets by his feet. It seemed even larger and thicker this time, and it was still growing. The bumpy, blue scales grew larger and rougher, sharp points sprouting from their midst to become the patterned quills that she boasted in her draconic form. She pressed closer to him, and Iden felt her bust squash up against his back through the silky fabric of her blouse, her thighs cushioning him to either side like the armrests of a chair. They too were expanding in size, thickening as they emerged from beneath her gown. They grew until they must have been as long as his torso, and almost as thick, tall enough to raise his arms from their resting position as they lay atop them.

The larger they became, the deeper Iden began to sink into their sheath of fat, making him feel as though he was shrinking in her lap. Beneath it, her firm muscles bulged, but there was an inch or more of what felt like down pillows sheathed in satin. On their outer surface, the skin cracked and took on a blue hue, becoming the hard scales that he was now so accustomed to seeing. On their inner surface, however, they took on the appearance of her beige underbelly. He couldn't be sure, but to him, it felt even smoother and softer than skin.

He was pressed deeper and deeper, even the weight of his arms was enough that they sank into her yielding flesh, the meat of her thighs seeming to spill around his waist like molten metal filling a mold. Her tail was similarly round and padded, packed with enough fat that it wobbled when it moved. The sharp quills had not taken on the impressive length that they had when Isabelle was in her true form, they were shorter and finer, more like bristles.

There was the sound of tearing fabric. Apparently, Isabelle had not seen fit to let the magical flames consume her own clothes, preferring to let her expanding body tear them apart instead. Iden felt her breasts spill out of her shredded blouse, resting against his back, already larger than his own head. As her stature increased, her bosom slid up his back, until its considerable weight came to rest across his broad shoulders.

They continued to engorge, like a pair of gigantic waterskins slowly being filled with fluid, sagging down his chest and cushioning his face. The skin that covered her breasts was like that of her inner thighs, inhumanly silky as it brushed against his cheeks, covered in fine scales like the tiles in a mosaic. Their weight increased along with their abundance, giving even Iden pause for thought. His sturdy back was in no danger of buckling, not yet, but their heft made him feel as though he was carrying a milkmaid's yoke. By the time her growth ceased, each of her boobs was as voluminous as the pack that he had lugged up the mountain.

Iden tried to look back at her, but found that the mounds of flesh to either side of his head obscured his view. When he craned his neck to look up, however, he saw Isabelle peering back at him.

Her transformation had proceeded much further this time. Looking back at him was a face somewhere between that of a human and a dragon, with a dull snout, completely covered in scales now. There was none of her human skin left in sight, it was all the delicate beige and the rough blue. Her four gnarled horns were larger, and they were nestled amidst the patterned quills that had taken the place of her hair. Her sharp teeth were covered by scaly lips, her nostrils flaring as they exhaled a puff of dark smoke.

She must be nine feet tall at least now, her neck long and slender, her fat tail adding another six or seven feet to her overall length. Iden felt an impulse to flee, but she wrapped her long arms around him, her hands now large enough to encompass his head entirely. She pulled him tight against her body, Iden finding himself almost completely enveloped by flesh and scales. Her tail coiled around the both of them possessively, her snout coming down to nuzzle his hair.

"I have other ways to relax you," she said, her voice so much more powerful than usual. It was lower, gruffer, but it still had the feminine inflections that so reminded him of the young woman that he had first met in the foothills.

Isabelle pressed her claws against his bare chest, Iden arching his spine as she dragged them slowly down towards his belly, leaving red trails in her wake. The talons were even longer now, but she was just as careful with them, only ever applying enough pressure to tickle him. He felt her warm breath blowing his hair as one of her fingers roamed close to his belt.

She hooked the black claw into the fabric of his leggings, tearing it open, splitting the fine material with the ease of a knife through paper to free his erection. His member bobbed in the air, at full mast, the sight of it surprising even himself. Why was he so excited by this? Hard scales, sharp teeth, hooked claws. He should be terrified right now, but her body was so soft and inviting, feminine in all of the most alluring ways.

She reached down and pressed the tip of her finger against his glans, her digits almost as thick as his shaft, a pulse of pleasure making him swell. He couldn't believe how soft it was, squishy and padded, reminding him of a gambeson.

"Now lie back, and let me soothe you," she whispered. She closed her fist around his length, burying it entirely, letting it throb against her palm. She waited for Iden to grow impatient, watching him with a smile as he began to fidget, his resolve crumbling as her warmth permeated him. He finally thrust, bucking into her fist in search of stimulation, Isabelle taking that as evidence of his willingness.

She began to stroke, her pace torturously slow, running her scaly fingers up and down his shaft. Her scales were as smooth as glass, the gentle pressure that she applied sinking him deep into her fleshy padding. Iden gripped her forearm with one hand, as if holding on for dear life, her limb so thick that he couldn't get his fingers around it.

Isabelle wasn't trying to bring him to completion, her stroking motion was too leisurely. She was merely teasing him, seeming to delight in the way that he squirmed in her grasp, unable to stop himself from trying to fuck her hand.

He shivered as something slimy and warm brushed his neck, realizing that it was her tongue. It was even longer than it had been before, leaving a smear of her saliva as she licked. She caught his ear between her puffy lips, nibbling it with her sharp teeth, the contrast between the two extremes making his head spin. It reminded him of the dripping maw of a beast, with jagged fangs designed to tear flesh, strands of saliva escaping to dribble down his neck. Yet at the same time, he felt the soft, gentle lips of a woman. They were impossibly full, so much larger than those of a human, covered in the same delicate scales as her palm. He felt a primal fear as those wicked teeth neared his neck, her hot breath washing over him, a deep rumbling in her throat resonating within him like the growl of a monster. Instead of a killing bite, she planted a sucking kiss that made his member bounce in her grasp. He didn't know what to think, what to feel.