Prince Graeme settled into a comfortable position, the Kasmir scepter laid across his lap. The magic of calling the river dragon was taxing, but not beyond his ability, especially not with the scepter. He let the essence pour through the powerstone set in to rod, let it flow and mingle into the ambient essence of the chamber, find its flow into the loops and whorls of precious metals that lined the floor in precise geomantic patterns.
Lines of gold and silver, mithril and orichalum, soulsteel and adamant made circles within circles, the seal of the elder sign, a powerful, and potent ward as well as focus. Graeme struggled against the flow of the magic, equally directing it into the patterns, as well as keeping his head above the flows. There was a tugging as the flows sank deeper into the pattern, looping into themselves, drawing on the confluence of ley lines and seeking the strongest line there, the Calan river. The streams of silver and gold shivvered as if being frozen. The floating streamers changed to a pale silver color and then to a deeper hue, a vivid blue-silver as the pattern reached the lay line of the great river, the mighty delta...
The river shallowed, the waters began to drop quickly much to the surprise of the ogres. Their great rafts settled on the sandbars and gravel beds, making soft crunching noises as their weight was no longer supported by the water. Soon, there was nothing to the river by the mud, now being churned up by the heavy tread of ogrish feet. Some of the artillery smashed into the riverbed, creating geysers of slurry that covered some of the ogres in blinding, if harmless river sludge.
A sound began to rise upstream, a rumble that sounded more akin to a roar than the rumble of water. The waters were indeed mighty, and under the threads of magic, now towered above even the heads of the ogres, shaped into the semi-divine form of a great serpent.
Its roar was surf on the rocks, the growl of a landslide. The green-blue head opened its mouth and shouted down the ogres, a monster of Kasmir legend, and ogre nightmare. The watery dragon lashed forward, its body rolling like the tide of the ocean, smashing the ogres lines, ripping their shields from their hands, breaking arms and snapping necks as their strength and stamina were as twigs before the storm of the river.
Graeme grimaced as the concentration to hold and control the water dragon was immense. The beast was powerful, but had to be controlled, it would destroy the walls and the defences of the city just as readily as it would crush the ogres. He directed the rage of the river and felt it as it moved, saw what it saw, and knew the exhileration of battle as those closest to it perished, either crushed by the sheer weight of it, or drowning in its embrace. Little did they knew he too knew the feeling of drowning as he felt the entire mass of the magical serpent.