On the secret phase of the moon at the twenty-fifth hour of the thirty-second day of the thirteenth month in the Hidden Year, the prospective doctoral graduates of the Academee of Arte Wizardrous assembled for review of their theses. As usual.
“You young people have it too easy,” whispered the eldritch and imperturbable voice of their supervisor, the Archwizard Wazzlok. “Back in my day only a single prospective a year made it past the adjudicating committee. And it was uphill both ways and covered in megasnakes. Now declare your miserable projects and get on with your failures.”
“I’m gonna bind demons into my service and make you eat those words, old man,” said graduate student Gloshpill the Truculent.
“Bold and brash and brainless,” scoffed the Archwizard. “I’ve seen a thousand of you, and it never gets old. NEXT.”
“I’m going to create a novel animus relocation and storage retrieval device using a locally sourced old-growth cemetery,” announced graduate student Morgannageddon Peters.
“Necromancy,” Wazzlok said like a four-letter word. “Because putting some buzzwords on makes THAT new terrain.”
“Just watch me, you fossilized creep.
“’Just wahtch meh yew fossulyzled creeeep,’” said Wazzlok in a needlessly high-pitched and blubbery voice. “NEXT.”
“I would like to monitor the long-term decomposition and ecological succession of a drakefall,” said graduate student Mina Pint.
The Archwizard Wazzlok sneered down at her with disdain, which was easily done since he was a bodiless and pitiless skull, as was the style of the time. “Really? BIOLOGY? Why not go to social parascience and save all our time – or drop out and go be an alchemist. Whatever – shoo! Git! BEGONE, AND HARRY ME NO MORE until the fourth of the fifth of the sixth, whereupon you shall provide your progression updates.” Then he laughed in the voice of the dead, hollow and grating, and they were dispersed.
Gloshpill to the pentagopticon.
Peters to the nearby cemetery.
And Mina to her room for her pack and camping gear. It was going to be a long hike.
***
Finding the drakefall was tiring but easy. The Glass Mountain got one or two a year, and Mina had foreseen this one back during her bachelor’s of applied mysticism. The Six of Konks, upended into the Medium Arcanistor by the Niche of Shovels, Paralleled. Opportunity. Doomed opportunity, in more than one sense of the word.
It was still warm when she arrived, the hour of its death determinable with nothing more than a thermometer. Cause of death: a cracked neck on impact with the transparent slopes of the peak – typical. The corpse itself: young adult, two decades old and ready to establish its own territory – also typical.
Conditions were ideal, which meant Mina had about ten minutes to get ready before she’d end up torn limb from limb. So she spent five minutes searching through her pack for her carefully-hand-scribed expansible undetectable circle; three minutes digging hurriedly through her pockets for her university-supplied ‘pocket protector’ danger ward; one minute turning her wallet inside out for the quick-birdmorph-bailout tab her sister insisted she keep on her at all times, and thirty seconds running up and down the side of Glass Mountain frantically searching for a safe crevice to hide in before she realized she’d tied the expansible undetectable circle to the side of her pack for easy and immediate access on-site.
The resulting nervous giggling took only ten seconds, which was great because laying out the circle took twenty and at ten minutes on the dot the first sky sharks arrived – six meters long and not built slender and as eager for a free lunch as they were hostile to others wanting THEIR free lunch. The escalation was remarkable in its smoothness and scope.
Mina took a deep breath (through her nose), got out her pencil of keenness, and started taking scratch notes.
***
“And so on the fourth hour of the fifth day of the sixth month you come to I, the Archwizard Wazzlok, to report your progress. And you’re all on time too – contemptible. A true Wizard is neither early nor on time and never admits being late; being prompt is for lesser things like ants and humans. Now speak your first inevitable stumbling blocks upon the road to your miserable excuses for theses!”
“Things are going completely great,” said Gloshpill the Truculent, smiling through the sixteen poultices of wyrmstongue salve and holy water applied to his many visible otherworldly burns. “I’m in my lane, I’ve got my grindset on, I’m making real and genuine connections and searching for opportunities with like-minded people that share my values. I’m coming for you, old man.”
“That’s what they all say,” jeered the skull, shadowed fathomless glee dancing in its empty sockets and spilling from its creaking jaw as malformed chuckles. “YOU!”
Peters looked to Mina, then back to the Archwizard Wazzlok. “Me, or her?”
“YOU!”
“Fine. I’m doing great. Full strata’s catalogued, all the areas of interest and danger have been marked for exploration, contact, and clearance. I’m all ready to start making friends.”
“Wizards do not have those… things,” scoffed Wazzlok. “Always someone trying this – be pals! Get acquainted! Harness the power of the heart! You know what the power of the heart is? About enough to power one cursed amulet if you aim the blade right and don’t stumble on the chant. NEXT ONE!”
“I think I’ve reached the end of the mobile scavenger phase,” said Mina. “The skysharks left once the easily detachable flesh and organs were all gone, and the glassfinches have taken most of the smaller pieces they missed. A murderbear stopped by about midway through but she looked well-fed and most of the best bits were already gone so she didn’t bother sticking around to contest it, and-”
The Archwizard Wazzlok vocally combined all the worst elements of fake snoring sounds and a loud raspberry. “BORING! You’re all BORING in addition to incompetent! BEGONE, THOU AND THINE, ‘TIL NEXT WE MEET AND I AM DISAPPOINTED!” And he screamed in the tongue of the damned, which was a much less distressing sound, but nonetheless marked their dismissal.
***
Mina’s camp had grown safer since its inception, but no less sensitive to disturbance. The expansible undetectable circle had been tethered with a leyline guiderope, permitting her as soundless an exit and re-entry as possible as she clung to it with both hands and all of her sanity.
Not that she used it much. Her need for supplies was scant and her work was neverending. The larger scavengers may have moved on, yes, but the large would always be outnumbered by the small. Osseous bonepeckers – blank-eyed, small-bodied, big-billed – began their long labour of perforating the most invincible and least marrow-rich portions of the dragon’s skeleton. Two great clans of empire ants feuded in the corpse-stinking glass soil underneath the body, killing hundreds for precious scraps of leaking decomposing fluids. Mockingspiders darted from crevasse to crevasse, scuttling subversively with legfuls of precious scales to adorn and armour their webs.
Now and then, one of the little scavengers would venture too far from its meal (or be chased away from it), slap into the rim of Mina’s camp, then frantically scrabble along its edge – from its perspective, soundlessly; from her own, making a noise like a cat rubbing its nose on a windowpane. She didn’t note this, but she did draw a doodle of it.
***
“Lo, another wearying mortal landmark of time hath pass’ed, and so on and so forth. COME NOW, DISAPPOINT ME!” cried the Archwizard Wazzlok.
“We’ve reached an accord,” said Gloshpill the Truculent, adjusting the impossibly expensive ultramoth-silk tie around neck. His lapels and cuffs looked sharp enough to cut glass even before you noticed the diamond encrustations. “Honestly, I might not even finish this thesis if you can’t make it worth my while. Big stuff is in the works, I’ve got so many irons in the fire I’m too hot to handle. The gears are turning, old man. Step back or get crushed.”
“Next meeting is going to be SWEET,” said Wazzlok with horrific relish. “And you, wretch’d goth?”
“I’ve secured goodwill at the internment site by fusing most of the communal dead into a calcium titan and helping them plan and execute a series of cryptic works projects for the benefit of the community – tomb maintenance, coffin reconstructions, root trimming, open-access-ossuaries, all that kind of stuff,” said Peters. “No organized resistance as of yet, but I think the local greyskulls’ll try something before our next meeting. I’m getting too popular for them to feel safe.”
“How very ethical of you, little miss bleeding heart. Did I tell you what the power of the heart is? About enough to-”
“’-power one cursed amulet if you aim the blade right and don’t mumble the chant?’” droned Peters in an unfortunately excellent imitation.
There was a pause that started off amusing and turned tense around nine seconds in.
“Go away,” said the Archwizard Wazzlok without apparent inflection. “Biologist?”
Mina cleared her throat. “The enrichment opportunist phase is coming to a close. The corpse has been stripped of almost all valuable surface nutrition, so the boom-and-bust visitors are clearing out and dying off, and I think I can expect-”
“You go away too.”
They did. And they all had unpleasant dreams that night, though none would ever admit it to themselves, let alone each other.
***
The dragon’s body had become a carcass. The carcass had become a (somewhat weatherbeaten skeleton). And now the skeleton had become a construction site. The dilettantes and daytrippers had harvested the easy meals, and now the work of reclaiming the hard stuff had fallen to the persistent, the patient, and the sunk-costers. Slow-moving and easy prey for Mina’s pencil and pad, but all the more exactingly captured for it: these were scarcer and less-studied creatures, and she wanted to make sure they were as perfectly depicted as possible.
She agonized for hours over the proper degree of angle on the shell of a cubeworm colony, where the long, slow stirring of their soft muscles intruded six-dimensional feeding tendrils past the hard surface of the bones and into their metamorphological internals, venting the useless material nutrients into their environment and keeping the savoury conceptual innards for their own nourishment.
She stayed up all night trying to find the precise colour grid reference to describe the mourning-mussel reefs that sang beautiful, sorrowful symphonies all day and night as they consumed the shaded memories of the dragon’s powerful limbs and heart, pulsing their aural grief into chromatic representation beyond the capacity of the mind.
And she literally held her breath for sixty-two hours (assisted by a bottle of Infinitely Wondrous Lungs held to her face by sixteen straps) while she very very carefully drew the arcanophilic bacterium she’d isolated from the rubble of the skeleton’s cranium, pausing only to remove all traces of sweat from her skin and make sure that the containment orb hadn’t cracked.
When she was finished with that last one she took it back to the carcass, placed it inside with tongs, burned all her clothing and scrubbed herself with a scour pad carved from a mantitcore’s tongue, and screamed herself to sleep. Then it was up and off in the morning for her next report.
***
“I’m doing great,” said Gloshpill the Truculent, not that anyone had asked. “I’m doing FINE. Everything will be cool. I just need a little more time, yeah? A little more time, that’s all I’m asking. Everything’s under control. I’m cool, we’re right. Nobody’s upset with everybody and everything is going GREAT.”
“I see no reason to question you and you’re absolutely correct,” said the Archwizard Wazzlok companionably. “Next.”
“The greyskulls are on the ropes,” said Peters, muffled slightly from behind a ferocious ghoulskin eyepatch and several large bandages. “They struck before they were ready – figured we were even less prepared than they were, dumb old farts – and all it did was turn cryptic opinion against them. I started with a calcium titan and two squads of sleeper-sheriffs and now I’ve got-”
“Don’t care,” said Wazzlok very loudly and clearly. “Biologist? Anything new?”
“The arcanonophilic stage has nearly concluded, and I think I’ve potentially made some very promising new discoveries,” said Mina. “I could be among the first researchers to deliver an accurate on-site report on this stage of a drakefall.”
“Wow,” said Wazzlok. “Knowledge is power, so obviously you’re more powerful than am I now. Are you going to fireball me, almighty graduate student? Are you? Are you?”
“No?” said Mina, her questioning tone a matter of anxiety rather than calculation.
“Then I guess if you’ve got no power you’ve got no knowledge worth having. You’re all disappointing in exactly the same predictable ways I knew you’d be. Don’t bother showing up next time unless that changes.”
So they left, and Mina indulged herself in one extra overnight stay at the Academee in a single-occupancy sleeping berth made from a shed dream-moth cocoon, and once that blissful time was over she dried the tears off her cheeks and hiked back up Glass Mountain.
She couldn’t afford to miss what came next.
***
She didn’t.
Alpine farmer’s crinoids sprouted from the ruin of the remaining ribs, spine and pelvis; fronds sifting pollen from the air and using it to cultivate a ‘garden’ of mismatched lichens around themselves for emergency meals.
The Crowcuses had begun to bloom, seeds carried high on the lowland thermals and fallen to find sturdy osteo-soil, gnarled stems bearing cawing, clever blooms that watched the hidden colours swirling in the air currents around their home with lively minds.
And a single Grandelay’s Daylit-Star swayed gently in the wind atop the broken horns of the dragon, unfurling slowly to the size of a ship’s sail at full noon, folding gently down to fit in your palm by midnight, its long arms snaring stray insects and sunbeams and bringing them down to its messily heptagonal mouth, its spillage feeding an abundance of bright flowers and impossible insects around its nest.
Many of them had scales. Some had leathery wings. Mina saw one breathe a tiny plume of fire, barely big enough to serve as a lighter.
She put it and a single lost splinter of the drakefall’s toe-bone in a hemisphealed jar, then went back downslope for the last time.
She didn’t look back. She’d seen everything already.
***
“Listen man I’m begging you PLEASE just give me ONE SOUL you’ve GOTTA have a soul around here man I’m ON MY KNEES I’LL DO ANYTHING THEY’LL BREAK MY SPIRITUAL KNEECAPS I’LL-”
“I told you before about being early,” said the Archwizard Wazzlok in poorly-affected boredom barely masking great cheer. “If you were that desperate, you’d have listened to me. And here we have my other two disappointments? Are you both ALSO not so eager to get a degree today?”
Peters slammed a scroll down on the tabletop, which creaked in offense. “There. The deed to the whole cemetery and its inhabitants and their deeds and actions. Freely given, no strings attached. A perfect necropolis crafted from one old boneyard everyone wrote off as meaningless.”
The Archwizard Wazzlok could not frown as he read over the proffered document, but he did click his teeth in a very annoying way. “Mm. Well. Well. Well well well well well.”
Peters said nothing. Gloshpill coughed awkwardly, then cringed with new yet violent reflex.
“Indeed. Hmm. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm-”
“Either give me my goddamned paper and get out of my life, or give me a reason to walk to the fuck out of here and never listen to anything you ever say again,” said Peters.
“Well,” said the Archwizard Wazzlok, drawling the word uncomfortably, “if you insist, then – listen when I’m talking to you! Pay attention! Stop putting your coat on!”
“Make me.”
“Fine,” snarled the skull. It hurled the scroll to the floor and spat a glob of burning wax onto it. “There’s your degree. Beg for it.”
“No.”
“Crawl for it!”
Peters snapped her fingers and a small but lively bony hand leapt from the breast pocket of her shirt, danced across the floor in a gentle waltz, then picked up the scroll and flipped it end-over-end all the way back to her coat pocket.
“Nah,” she smirked. “I’ve got people to do that for me now.”
“Fuck you!” yelled the Archwizard Wazzlok, but she was out the door and his unearthly roar was drowned in the sound of creaking wood and friendly bone-chimes.
“Can I go now?” asked Gloshpill the Truculent, meekly.
“Who?”
“Me…?”
“Oh, that. Nobody cares. Biologist, are you still here?”
“Yes,” said Mina.
“Why?”
“Because I’ve found something important. I’ve got an end-to-end reconstruction of the reef phase of a drakefall, from settler organisms to climax community, and-”
“Where’s the sex factor,” demanded the Archwizard.
Mina did not hesitate. “Well, the crowcuses matured several weeks ago, and the crinoids have been dispersing gametes since-”
“The oomph. The wow. The pizzazz. Give me a mushroom cloud, you worm! Give me a lightning bolt! Give me the dead rising and the seas parting! Give me hidden secrets and unnatural power! Give me wizardry or GET THE HELL OUT OF MY OFFICE!”
Mina did hesitate. “Well… you could harvest the skyshark teeth from the mobile scavenger phase. They often become embedded in the dragonscale and with exposure to excessive ultraviolet light at high altitudes they fuse together into natural protective talismans that resist blades forged of any known metal. I checked. And of course the glassfinches sometimes overeat and die from thaumaturgical rupture if they get into the liver, forming autoamulets strong enough to fuel a spontaneous one-mage thunderstorm.”
Wazzlok did not blink, then he did not blink again. Thrice. Four times. Then: “how big?”
“About the size of your palm.”
“The thunderstorm.”
“Oh, I thought you meant the glassfinch. Well, enough to fuse a delve-hold from root to stem. I tested on one of the abandoned pieces of the complex by Crooky Peak.”
Five times. No, six.
“The enrichment opportunist phase is promising in terms of raw materials. Mockingspider webs make lovely scrolls to begin with, but I experimented with the scaled webs these specimens created and I think you can just make a scrollcase entire with them that will scribe its own contents on any parchment you leave in it. Saves on fingerwear. And the bonepeckers can turn small wing-and-digit osseous matter into very serviceable flutes, which seems to induce extreme pain in the undead when you blow on them – I checked with my sister in grave studies. Lastly, I’m pretty confident empire ant clans are attracted VERY strongly to this sort of scavenging opportunity, so you’re pretty much guaranteed a rich harvest of bottled animus from their battlefields if you bring enough ghostflasks – I only had one on hand to test with, but I think I could have filled a whole metric cask.”
“Old metric or ancien metric?” asked Wazzlok, voice as flat as a pronated corpse.
“Old; there was a LOT. I can’t prove that reliably, though – I brought one up for the arcanophilic phase study and I was too late to check the exact volume. I did get to use it for the mourning-mussel vapours though – do you know they outgas 98% proof imagination?”
“Sensory, short-term, or long-term?” asked the Archwizard Wazzlok in what seemed startlingly like an instant of genuine intellectual curiosity.
“Pure. I checked, it seems almost entirely undiluted. Wizard Wibbis didn’t believe me, he kept saying I’d refined it in the forge and made it all up. I don’t think he’d be able to deny the cubeworm shells, though. Those are pretty solid evidence, except for the parts of them that are filled with conceptualized 6-D dragon bauplans. Which is most of them. And I’d show him the arcanophilac bacterium I found but frankly I’m nervous just thinking of it. The thing could’ve wiped out the whole school in hours if exposed to the open air.”
“Do you have a picture?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
Mina showed him. He screamed a little, but quietly and under his breath, as if something else was on his mind.
“I don’t quite have my notes finished on the reef phase yet,” she added into the silence, once it returned. “But it looks promising. Crowcus petaldown fresh from high altitudes turns you invisible; crinoid garden greens keep you awake for days on a single full belly with no negative side effects…. so far? And, well, there’s the daylit-star – that’s a protected species, but it’s doing this thing that I’ve never seen before, with the bugs, and –”
“I have heard enough,” said the Archwizard Wazzlok. His words were quiet, but final.
Still, Mina felt compelled to add to them, with the determination of a midstream academic. “-but it’s just that-”
“I have heard more than enough,” amended the Archwizard Wazzlok. His voice had grown deeper and less nasal, echoing from some emotion he had not felt in decades. “I have heard of treasures beyond reckoning, hidden from all behind their own blinkered ignorance and incurious assumptions. I have heard of a cornucopia of secrets unimagined, guardians at gates unseen, sentinels standing to provide directions to new heights of power never hungered for in the deepest, darkest dreams of the dead. I have heard of a mind so fiercely dedicated to this passion that it unravelled all of this and more in the process of a single doctoral thesis of Arte Wizardrous, when faced with the most staunch opposition imaginable. You are more deserving than any I have found to receive your degree, which is why I’m going to devour you now before you can challenge me.”
“Sir?” asked Mina, some four sentences behind and trying to catch up.
“Call it academic self-defence.”
Mina began to open her mouth – she was pretty sure to say ‘sir?’ again – but the Archwizard Wazzlok beat her to it at greater speed. And at greater diameter. And at greater depth. Wide and far yawned the jaws of the Archwizard Wazzlok, and between them a gulf gaped that was home not to darkness or torment or death but something more viscerally unpleasant; a crawling sensation on the nape of the neck; the prickle of irate hair on the goose pimples of the arm; the shiver that moves from spine to toes.
And as she began to pass from this place to that other one, Mina’s fingers relaxed – unbidden by her preoccupied mind – and dropped the little hemisphealed jar she’d retrieved from her pack to show the Archwizard.
It held:
~1 cubic mm sliver of the drakefall’s toe-bone
10 cubic cm fresh alpine air from near the peak of Glass Mountain, redolent with ultraviolet and ultraviolent radiations, arcane decay, and background reality bleedthrough
1 surprised and agitated drakebug, containing approximately six megatons of ecoillogical arcane force, balanced in precarious and unstable equilibrium until disturbed
Archwizard Wazzlok’s teeth began to slide down. His jaws began to shut. The wind began to whistle between his incisors.
The drakebug began to become disturbed.
***
Wizard Mina Pint was the first doctoral student in nine generations to be awarded her degree for ‘demonstration of Force Magicke.’ This was an widely considered an outmoded and generally unpleasant thing to be reminded of in more civilized times – particularly by the older faculty, who could remember that sort of thing being a little too common – but the Boarde Academee ruled that this was the only fair outcome to the situation, especially given (1) the absence of the Archwizard Wazzlok to provide a firsthand account of the initial academic evaluation of the doctoral candidate’s thesis; (2) the fact that the Archwizard Wazzlok attained his own rank by committing ‘demonstration of Force Magicke’ against the then-provost of the university and his entire extended family while they were on holiday (by surprise); and finally (3) the fact that the Archwizard Wazzlok had definitely started it.
She was also the first doctoral student in the history of the Academee of Arte Wizardrous to not receive ceremonial appointment to a personal tower or spire upon completion of her thesis. This was partially because the Academee was suddenly very short on towers (specifically any standing more than two stories off the ground within ten miles of the blast radius), but also for another, quieter reason: Wizard Mina Pint declared herself keen to get back to her research site – “in case I miss something” – and nobody on the Boarde would dream of arguing otherwise.
In fact, some of them were having trouble sleeping at all.