Breaking the Flame

by Christopher Patterson

  “I am no enemy,” Bryon said. “I won’t hurt you.”

  The creature sniffed at Bryon’s hand. Its breath wasn’t warm, but hot, almost uncomfortably so.

  “Where do you come from?” Bryon asked. “How did you get in here?”

  It licked Bryon’s hand with a long, red tongue, leaving sticky saliva all over Bryon’s skin. His hand itched, almost burned, where the tongue had touched.

  Bryon stood. The creature nuzzled his leg.

  “See, we’re fine,” Bryon said. “Now, you go about your business, and I’ll go about mine.”

  Bryon turned, but the creature kept nosing his leg.

  “Go on,” Bryon said, pushing the thing away with his leg. It yelped again and pushed its nose hard against Bryon’s leg.

  Bryon almost fell forward. A large dog could be strong, but it would have taken more than a simple nudge with its nose to push Bryon over. This creature was strong. It clawed at his boots. Bryon’s hand tingled and felt numb where the creature had licked, and being around this mongrel made him feel uncomfortable. The thing’s yelps turned to growling, and the second time Bryon swatted at it, it tried to bite him.

  Bryon pulled his hand back in time. His hand went back to his sword. The animal nudged his leg again, licking at his pants. He tried to kick it away, but the creature was too heavy. The licks turned to nips. Bryon stepped back, avoided the small bites, until the creature fully opened its mouth—wider than Bryon thought possible—and tried to take a bite out of his leg.

  Bryon drew his sword, its purple magic hissing as it hit the air. He raised his sword up, gripping the handle with both hands, and waited. The creature hissed like some giant, demonic cat. As it hissed, steam spilled from its nostrils.

  “What are you?”

  The creature bit at the air and growled, hissing more and more. It reared up on its hind legs, and jumping forward, it bit at Bryon. He swiped his sword at it, but it kept moving towards him, crouching like a predator with its prey in sight.

  Bryon stepped forward, ready to swing, when the creature leapt at him with blinding speed, almost flying through the air. Its claws easily passed through Bryon’s dwarvish shirt of steel scales, easily passed through the leather jerkin underneath it, and dug into his flesh.

  Bryon cried out as he fell back. He wasn’t able to use his sword as the creature pressed down on his chest, so he unsheathed a dagger from his belt and plunged it into its ribs. It howled, and it was just enough time and space for Bryon to escape from underneath it. He stood, sheathing his dagger and once again holding his sword with both hands. He felt woozy and swore the room began to tilt.

  The beast hissed and growled. The steam that left its nostrils and mouth filled the space between it and Bryon, and as it touched Bryon’s face, it stung his eyes. As he breathed it in, it caused his lungs to burn. He could feel the growing splotch of blood on his chest.

  Bryon wanted to faint. He wanted to hunch over and catch his breath, or splash water on his face, but this creature was about to attack. That much Bryon could tell through blurry vision and labored breaths.

  The creature readied itself again, but before it could attack, Bryon swung hard. The animal dodged the attack, swiped with its claws, and then leapt forward. Bryon ducked out of the way, and as the creature slid along the ground, slipping on coins and gems, Bryon rushed the thing. He felt himself stumble forward clumsily, but as he did, he cut deep grooves along either of the beast’s sides, his magical sword searing its flesh as it cut it. It lunged forward again, trying to bite him. Bryon stood, unsteadily, and as the creature attacked, Bryon brought his sword down hard on the creature’s neck.

  The beast faltered but was still alive. Bryon brought his sword down on the neck again and again until its head finally fell loose from its body, its blackish-green blood spewing over gold coins.

  As Bryon looked down at the dead creature, his chest burned with even more intensity. His consciousness waned, and his vision blurred until he fell backwards, seeing only black. He could hear distant voices.

  “What happened?”

  Bryon tried to focus on the blurry figure speaking and finally could make out the face of Balzarak. The dwarf knelt next to Bryon. He felt tugging at his armor and realized it was Turk removing his mail and inspecting the wound on his chest. He saw his cousin, Erik, as well.

  “It burns,” Bryon wheezed. It hurt to speak. It hurt to breathe.

  “What did this?” Erik asked.

  Bryon shook his head.

  “I don’t know. Some dog, lizard, cat-like thing.”

  “Dog, lizard, cat-like thing?” Balzarak repeated.

  “Well, then see for … see for your … for yourself,” Bryon said, having to take breaths in between each couple of words. He pointed to where the dead creature lay.

  “This is not good,” Bryon heard Balzarak say.

  “What’s not … not good?” he asked, closing his eyes hard as Turk pressed on his wound.

  Then he heard another dwarvish voice say, “Drak Vurm.”

  ****

  The room dulled, the luster of the treasure fading. Bryon sweated. He knew some of it was due to his wound, but it had also gotten decidedly hotter in the treasure room. He heard frantic yelling, mostly in Dwarvish.

  “What’s going on?” Bryon asked, his voice slow and slurry.

  “Be still,” Turk commanded as he worked on Bryon’s wound.

  Bryon lifted his hand, the one the creature had licked. It was red as if he had burned it. He saw blisters appearing.

  “My hand,” he said.

  Turk pushed Bryon’s arm down.

  “Yes, I know,” the dwarf said. “Your face is blistered as well. But this wound is much more pressing.”

  “Doesn’t Drak Vurm mean dragon?” Bryon heard Erik ask.

  “Aye,” Balzarak replied.

  “How?” Erik had asked.

  “I don’t know,” Balzarak replied. “This is the realm of the Shadow. Dragons are minions of the Shadow.”

  “Focus on me,” Turk said, and Bryon looked at the dwarf’s face. “I am sure your vision is a little blurry, but the dimness of the room is not your vision.”

  “Why does my wound hurt so much?” Bryon asked.

  “A dragon’s wound is poisonous,” Turk replied.

  “Dragon,” Bryon muttered. “That was a dragon?”

  “Aye,” Turk said. He pressed hard on Bryon’s chest, and Bryon felt not only burning pain, but something oozed across his skin.

  “I thought a dragon would be bigger,” Bryon said with a smile on his face, “from what I had seen on all the tapestries in Thorakest.”

  “That was a mere baby,” Turk said.

  “Of course, it was,” Bryon said. He lifted his head just enough to see all of his companions running about. Then, he felt Turk’s rough hand on his forehead, and the dwarf pushed his head back down.

  “We must do this later,” Balzarak said. Bryon saw the general’s face as the dwarf stood over him, looking down at Turk and him.

  “He has a fever,” Turk said. Bryon closed his eyes and pretended not to hear. “His wound is already infected. Without the best of care, he will not survive.”

  “We have to leave,” Balzarak said, “or none of us will survive.”

  “Very well,” Turk replied.

  Bryon opened his eyes. “Will we go back through the keep?”

  Balzarak shook his head. “No. She is out there.”

  “Who?” Bryon asked.

  “The mother,” Turk replied.

  Chapter 11

  She opened her eyes, one at a time. Her joints and muscles were stiff, and she stretched, shaking the unconsciousness from her body. She felt the cavern around her vibrate with her movement. It was dark in this place. There was no way of telling how long she had slept. Eons perhaps. Her minions were there, but they would not show themselves. Why? They were tasked with caring for her … caring for her children. She could smell their fear. Something was wrong. Clea
rly. She was awake. Why was she awake? Cursed dwarves. Cursed dwarvish magic.

  That smell stung her nose; it had been so long since that happened. Her slaves carried that smell, but it was faint, waning. This was strong, and she hated it. Their taste was even worse—hairy, tough little things—and she spat. She remembered a world without them, a world primitive and simple, a world before they plundered the deep depths of the earth and stole what the earth had to offer, stole what the Shadow had put there for her and hers. But why would they be there? How would they be there?

  She crouched down and slithered through the opening, her back sliding across the ceiling. She had settled in this place because it was hidden. Only her children and her slaves knew where it was. She stretched her long neck and looked out over the city, the skeletal remains of the once shining dwarvish citadel—so dead and, yet, so alive. If she could, she would have smiled.

  She felt some of the old buildings, burnt and brittle, crumble under her feet as she walked through the ruined city, gone with the quick inhalation of her breath. That smell was here, but faint. She moved her head from side to side, and she caught it. They were here. They had come back. She winced at their smell, he body shuddered, and the walls shook.

  With her keen eyesight, she looked into the darkest of places, the most hidden corners. Nothing. Then, she looked to where she had killed the one the Shadow called the king, him and his offspring and mate. That’s where they went.

  She walked closer. Yes. Their smell was the strongest here. She growled, and the walls shook again. Clearly, they had found it, the cause of her slumber, her cursed hibernation. They would pay, those imbecilic creatures, those insignificant beings. So ignorant, so weak, and, yet, they thought they were so strong. She had showed them true strength before, and she would show them again.

  Anger got the better of her, and she spat, roared, and screamed. The walls shook. She was awake because they had found the spell. Then, she wasn’t angry anymore as a new feeling came upon her, one she had never felt before. Fear. Where were her offspring? Even in her cursed slumber, she knew they would have fed on her teats, slept in her hidden place. So her waking would have surely summoned them. She let out a loud call for them. They still did not come.

  She roared loudly and called for them again, and the male appeared. He slinked towards her, shaking with fear. She nudged him and smelled him, and she tried to comfort him with licking; he wet the ground. His tail, short and stubby, curled as far as it could under his body. She grunted, and he understood. He slinked back to her sleeping chambers. She grew more impatient, more indignant. Where was her other offspring, the female who would continue her line, would grow their number? She howled again, calling to her in her most ancient of languages, and the walls and the ground shook as she moved closer to where she had killed the king.

  Chapter 12

  Andragos stood in front of the Lord of the East’s dais, waiting. Two men, covered from head to toe in black robes, stood on either side of the Lord of the East’s chair. A giant curtain hung just behind the chair and extended the whole length of the hall, and Andragos knew the Lord of the East was behind it. The Messenger clenched his teeth. He didn’t like being made to wait. Kings had died for making him wait this long.

  Naked men and women lounged on rugs at the foot of the stairs that led to the dais. They giggled and caressed one another and kissed. Two tigers lay in front of Andragos, white with black stripes. They watched him lazily. They wore diamond-studded collars.

  All this extravagance. Andragos’ lip curled. The Great Hall of Fen-Stévock used to look very differently, even under Morken, the Lord of the East’s father. Now, it looked like some fancy whorehouse.

  “You do not like being made to wait,” the Lord of the East said as he passed through the curtain and sat in his seat. The robed men standing next to him didn’t move.

  The Lord of the East wore thin, black pants that billowed just above his calf length boots, flowing gently over the arm of his chair as he draped a leg over it. His robe, open and showing a well-built chest, spilled over the sides of the chair as well. The Lord of the East’s hairless skin had a pallid color to it, although not a stark pale, and it glistened with sweat, as if he had been exercising. Or doing something else.

  “Should I be made to wait?” Andragos replied. “My news is important.”

  “You will wait as long as I wish you to wait,” the Lord of the East said, haughtily. “My father gave you too much power, Andragos.”

  The Lord of the East pushed some of his long, black hair off his face. Most of it had been pulled into a tail, held back by a leather thong, but some had escaped during whatever his exertions might have been. He looked down at Andragos over his nose, his jawline flexing as he smiled. His face, even and handsome, belied his age, and Andragos knew the magic that kept the Lord of the East so young was strong, even though this ruler was but a baby compared to The Messenger’s own age.

  Be careful, my lord, for magic always has its price. This I know personally.

  “As you say,” was all Andragos said.

  “What is so important anyway?” the Lord of the East asked. “I am busy.”

  “With them?” Andragos asked,

  Exercising indeed.

  The Lord of the East sat up straight. He squinted hard at the Messenger. The muscles in his chest flexed, and as he rolled his head, his neck popped. He was powerful. Andragos knew that, but not as powerful as he thought he was.

  “It is none of your concern,” the Lord of the East said.

  “If it concerns my nation,” Andragos said, “then it is my concern.”

  “This is not your nation,” the Lord of the East hissed, “and you forget yourself.”

  Andragos bowed quickly. The naked people lounging at the bottom of the stairs stopped. They didn’t even move. The tigers seemed attentive now, staring at the Messenger.

  “They have found her, Your Majesty,” Andragos said. “They have awoken her.”

  The Lord of the East looked surprised, only for a moment. Then he sat back in his chair and hung a leg over one of its arms again.

  “Yes,” the Lord of the East replied, “I know.”

  He was lying. Andragos knew it. He was powerful. His witches were powerful. His mentor, Andragos’ thoughts hung on that word with disgust, was powerful. But they weren’t as powerful as he was. Those bitches poisoned the Lord of the East’s mind and that cheap hedge wizard was a simpleton compared to him.

  “It was some of the … the mercenaries I engaged at Finlo,” Andragos said before he added, “they are with some dwarves from Thorakest.”

  “Why should I care?” the Lord of the East asked. “Dwarves are of no concern to me.”

  “They will know she is there,” Andragos said. “They will know they are there. We don’t need them as an enemy right now.”

  “Keep following them,” the Lord of the East said. “Inform me of changes.”

  “Are you not worried that the dwarves might try and take it?” Andragos asked.

  “Take what?” the Lord of the East asked, suddenly paying no attention to Andragos and watching two men and a woman lounging with one another on a chaise.

  “Your prize,” Andragos said sternly. “The scroll you sent these mercenaries there to look for.”

  “Why would the dwarves care to look at it?” the Lord of the East asked lazily.

  “They are not necessarily our allies,” Andragos replied.

  “So?” the Lord of the East said.

  “Your Majesty,” Andragos said, stepping forward.

  He looked to the trio of people that the Lord of the East once again fixed his attention to. They giggled and moaned as they began fondling one another. The Messenger felt his face grow hot. He narrowed his eyes and snapped his fingers. The three people turned into small frogs, bouncing around the chaise and croaking.

  The Lord of the East glared at Andragos, no longer a nonchalant look on his face. He squinted and pursed his lips.

&
nbsp; “The dwarves do not trust you,” Andragos said. “They will want to look at this scroll you want from one of their cities. When they find out what it is, they will want to keep it.”

  The Lord of the East stood, shoulders pulled back, and a resolute look on his face.

  “It is no longer their city,” the Lord of the East said, “and if they do try to take it, it will be to their destruction. Their time in this world is nigh … whatever happens.”

  The Lord of the East snapped his fingers, and the frogs turned back into the three people. They looked confused and scared, but the Lord of Fen-Stévock then waved a hand in front of him, and they calmed and went back to caressing and fondling one another.

  “Keep following them,” the Lord of the East repeated. “Let me know of any changes.”

  “Your Majesty,” Andragos said with a quick bow.

  Chapter 13

  “Why is it getting so hot in here?” Erik asked.

  “She is near,” Turk replied.

  “The dragon?” Erik asked.

  Turk nodded.

  “Fire is her element,” Turk said. “Her very presence changes the climate.”

  Gôdruk yelled something to Balzarak, who in turn replied, and then yelled something else to Threhof.

  “They found scales,” Turk said, “back by the weaponry. This is not good.”

  “Scales?”

  “Aye,” Turk replied. He pointed to the headless body of the baby dragon. “Dragon’s scales. If there was any doubt before that this was a dragon, now there is not. We must leave now.”

  “But we can’t go through the keep,” Erik said. He looked to the dark tunnelway back into the throne room. He could still hear the dead screaming, though they did not seem to be any closer.

  “No, we cannot,” Turk replied. “Even if we wanted to, that thing’s mother will be there, waiting for us.”

  “Then how?” Erik asked.

  “There will be an exit,” Balzarak said.

  “Where?” Erik asked.