“Those are the dead from my dreams,” Erik said. “Those are the voices of my nightmares.”
The dead laughed.
“Of course, they can hear us,” the dead said. “This is our realm.”
“No more dreaming for you, Erik.” Fox’s voice cut through the blackness, resounding over the other voices.
“We’ll see,” Erik replied.
“Your fear tastes exquisite,” the voices said. “Don’t worry. It won’t be much longer.”
“Piss off!” Switch screamed.
“Darkness,” the voices said. “Darkness. Forever.”
Erik smelled them. He felt them, their hot breath. Their stink filled the tunnel. He heard them get close, heard their shuffling feet, heard their cackles. He heard the scraping metal against flint.
“Bloody light,” Switch said. His voice shook. He breathed heavily. “Damn you. Bloody light.”
Erik heard Balzarak’s voice. It sounded methodical. He was talking to himself, praying.
“They’re close,” Erik said.
He swung out. Ilken’s Blade caught rotten bone and putrid flesh. The smell proved that much. Others attacked, swinging recklessly in the darkness.
This was an ancient magic, but more ancient than fairies? More ancient than the first creations. It had worked twice before, why not again? Eventually, it would all be gone, but he could not worry about that now. If the others could hear them, then things had changed. And certainly, for the worse.
Erik opened his haversack and retrieved the bag. He took a handful of the dust and threw it. The tunnel lit up with a pale light, and he could see their faces, rotting and distorted. They screamed and growled, and for a moment, everyone could see what they were attacking, but then the light was gone.
He heard them. They were on them again. Something brushed Turk’s face. Something cut Demik’s cheek. Something grabbed Dwain’s ankle. They would kill them.
“More, Erik!” Balzarak yelled. “This is much more powerful than before.”
Erik threw another handful, and another, and another. Soon, flecks of dust floated all about. When they touched one of the undead, the creature burst into flames and screamed as it was incinerated. Even if the fairy dust didn’t touch the dead, it injured them. They grabbed at their eyeless sockets and tore away already rotted flesh. As blackened skeletal hands reached out, they dissolved into black dust when the light hit them.
They cut some down. Others burned away when the fairy dust touched them. Others disappeared into the walls of the tunnel. And the dust hung there in the air, casting its eerie moonlight onto the tunnel. Half the bag was now gone, but they were alive.
The tunnel, narrow and constricting at first, widened and gave such a sudden and steep incline that Balzarak and Wrothgard, leading the party, almost fell when they first came to it. They continued to march upwards, the thundering and roaring still raging behind them, shaking the tunnel.
“The walls are going to collapse on us!” Switch cried through one deafening roar.
“These are dwarvish walls,” Demik replied. “They’ll never cave in.”
Just as Demik spoke, the wall shook and cracked. The sound was almost as deafening as the dragon’s screams. The fissure in the wall grew upwards like some crawling weed, and as it reached the ceiling, the wall opened and ancient rock spilled onto the walkway, as if the wall was a belly that had been opened to spill its intestines. There was so much debris that everyone had to find their footing. Erik found himself slipping and bracing himself with a hand on the other wall. He heard more cracking, felt more shaking, knew that more rubble spilled from the supposedly unbreakable dwarvish walls.
The ever-growing heat said the dragon was right behind them, but the fairy dust seemed to cool the air a little around them. However, the tunnel leveled off, and the heat returned, apparently too powerful for the fairies’ magic to stave off.
The tunnel curved suddenly to the left and, as they turned the corner, Wrothgard gave a sharp cry, and Erik found himself stepping right into the back of Dwain.
“Just bloody great!” Switch cried. “Now what? Is Erik going to pull some wings out of his ass so we can fly across?”
The tunnel had opened onto a wide ledge. Erik stepped up and saw that the ledge abruptly dropped off. He looked down. There was no floor. Only darkness. Erik looked upwards. There was no ceiling. Only darkness. He looked forward. He could see an opening—another tunnel—on the other side of the chasm.
Even though the fairy light still illuminated the air around them, something else lit up the wide gap. It looked like red water, only thick, like porridge. It spilled from a crack in the mountain wall across from them, just below the tunnel opening. It poured like honey in thick clumps and gave off a reddish, fiery light that combatted the pale whiteness of the fairy dust.
“Magma,” Balzarak replied. “The earth’s lifeblood.”
As Balzarak spoke, another roar rumbled through the tunnel and shook the ledge on which they stood. Erik heard what sounded like a whip cracking from somewhere up above, far beyond the light and, only moments later, a large rock—a piece of the mountain—fell past them and down into the darkness below.
“So, here we are,” Wrothgard said, shoulders slumped, “stuck again. I don’t suppose, despite what Switch said, you have something else in that haversack of yours, Erik, that might save us.”
Erik shook his head, but then saw something, something odd, out in the expanse of the chasm. He hadn’t seen it before. Maybe, it hadn’t been there until the great piece of mountain had broken loose and fallen past them.
Another distant scream shook the world.
“Is that …” Erik said, speaking to no one.
“Is that what?” Switch asked.
“Look. Don’t you see it,” Erik said, pointing. “More dwarvish trickery.”
“What are you talking about?” Dwain asked.
“It’s dust, sitting out there, sitting on nothing,” Erik said, huge smile on his face. “At least, that’s what the ancient dwarves wanted us to think.”
The mountain shook again. Another piece of mountain broke free.
“Bloody wonderful,” Switch said, “but as you stand here laughing about tunnel digger tricks, we’re going to die.”
Erik dug into his haversack again, again removing the bag of fairy dust. Dipping his hand into the sack, he removed a small handful. He stepped forward and threw the dust into the space before, into the air, to seemingly descend into the ravine below.
“A lot of good a lit-up gully will do us,” Switch said.
“Just wait,” Erik said.
The dust floated through the air, dropping slowly as the mountain rumbled and shook around them. When the dust should have continued floating into the darkness below, it came to rest, midair.
“What, by the gods …” Wrothgard said.
“Floating fairy dust.” Switch shrugged. “So, how is this going to save us?”
“I see it,” Turk said.
“Aye, so do I,” Demik agreed.
“It’s a bridge,” Erik said, “made to look like the side of the ravine. Step out. You won’t fall.”
“You step out,” Switch said.
Erik shrugged and did as he was asked. He looked down, and it looked as if he might fall into the darkness as he let his foot down, but he stepped onto stone and stood in what must’ve looked like midair.
“Clever tunnel diggers,” Switch said, smiling. He almost sounded as if he believed it.
“Clever indeed,” Turk grumbled.
Erik ran across the land bridge. He could hear his companion’s footsteps as they followed. The tunnel at the other end of the bridge was short and, even though the fairy dust stilled followed him, it glowed with the sickly red glow of the melted rock that flowed through the mountain.
The short tunnel opened again into a large chasm. This one had a clear bridge running from one end to the other and a river of the fiery, melted rock flowing under it, lighting up th
e whole of the chasm so Erik could see in either direction as far as his eyes would let him.
The river gurgled and moaned as it flowed under the bridge. Large bubbles emerged and then popped, spewing the stuff into the air like some geyser. The other end of the bridge wasn’t as much of a tunnel as it was a wide shoreline that rose up from the river and extended back into darkness.
“I will go first,” Balzarak said. “Turk, you follow with Bryon.”
The general stepped out onto the bridge, Turk—half dragging Bryon—after him, and it seemed solid. Then, the mountain shook again.
“She sounds closer than ever,” Erik said. He clasped his hands together, trying to stop them from shaking.
Rock and rubble from the mountain fell into the river, and it hissed and sizzled as they melted away into the red magma. The flow undulated, and some of it spilled over the bridge like a flood rushing over a dam. The bridge steamed where the magma had been.
Behind them, Erik heard more rumbling and roaring. He heard stone cracking and rock falling. As he looked backed through the tunnel and into the cavern behind them, it lit up as if the sun had somehow been stuffed inside the mountain and a blast of hot air struck his face. He saw his fairy dust fall away, float to the ground and blink out, like the heat had sapped away its strength. Sweat once again poured from his brow. He could feel it pooling under his arms and in between his legs and at the small of his back.
He heard them again. He heard their laughter and their screams. He smelled them, their rot and death. And then he froze. His hands seeming to be tied to his sides, his muscles rigid, like stone, his eyes were locked when he saw her.
You have to move.
The thought passed through Erik’s mind as if it was his own, but he knew his dagger was speaking to him. He wanted to answer, even if he answered in his own mind, but even that seemed frozen. Her very presence paralyzed him, and he heard the dagger again.
You must fight the fear, or all is lost.
Erik finally blinked his eyes. He felt tears spill down his cheeks as he closed his eyelids tightly. His eyes stared at the swirling reds and purples and pinks of the backs of his eyelids, the images of the mountain, the fire … her, all tattooed there when all he searched for was darkness, blankness … nothing.
Creator, help me.
He moved his hands, opened and closed them several times. Then his arms moved. He felt his knees buckle, and he almost fell but caught his balance. Then he opened his eyes.
“We must go,” he said, looking to his companions as they slowly crossed the land bridge, avoiding more of the fiery river’s undulations and floods over the top of the walkway.
“What do you bloody think we’re doing,” Switch replied.
“No,” Erik said. “Faster.”
He could hear them. He could hear her. Just behind them. Coming. Fast.
His companions seemed to crawl across the bridge.
“Move!” he yelled. “She is right behind us! She’s in the cavern! I saw her! Move!”
The dwarves needed no more encouragement. Their snail crawl turned into an outright sprint, and the men needed nothing else other than the fear of their dwarvish companions to spur them on as well.
Balzarak and Turk and Wrothgard, carrying Bryon, were the first to reach the other side. Then Switch and Bofim. Erik found himself in the back, Bim and Befel in front of him. As he reached halfway across the bridge, her deafening roar ripped through the cavern, followed by the sound of rock breaking, cracking, crumbling. Erik turned to see the wall behind him—the wall all around the tunnel opening and as far up as he could see—crack and bend.
Then he saw her again. Her head poked through the tunnel opening, taking some of the mountain with it. The scales on her face were golden-green, her head long and slender, lizard-like. The nostrils at the end of her long snout steamed, and her eyes—red with black, cat-like pupils—squinted when she saw them. Erik could sense intelligence in those eyes as they scanned the cavern. The dragon’s head—attached to a long neck—poked farther into the cavern, breaking off large chunks of rock. Large spines—fan-like ridges—ran down the dragon’s neck and, as her body pushed through the tunnel, Erik could see they ran down her back as well. She was so powerful, she simply pushed herself through rock, breaking the mountain at will.
As the dragon emerged from the mountain wall, standing partway onto the bridge in order to fit her whole, massive body into the cavern, the tunnel behind her crumbled and caved in. Erik stopped and stared. The sight of her, her very presence, caused him to stand in awe, unable to move. Her body was long, and those same golden-green scales covered her all the way to the tip of her tail, which she slapped against the mountain wall, cracking it and sending debris everywhere.
She surveyed the cavern, glaring the whole time at the party—at Erik. Wings protruded from the dragon’s back, just behind her shoulder joints and just above her forelegs. She spread them, and as they stretched, they rattled. She lifted her head and dug her claws into the stone of the land bridge. Looking upwards, she sucked in a deep breath of air.
All sound left the cavern. It was as if Erik had gone deaf. The movement of the burning river below. The falling of rock from above. The cries of the dwarves behind him. Nothing. And then …
The dragon opened her mouth and a pillar of fire erupted. She blew her fire high into the cavern and with that came a roar so loud it pushed Erik to the ground. He clutched his ears, pressed as hard as he could, and still he couldn’t drown out the deafening sound. He felt something wet coming from his ears and, when he looked at his hand, saw blood. When the sound stopped, all Erik could hear was ringing, constant ringing, and his vision went blurry. He heard something behind him, someone yelling, but couldn’t make out the sound, the words. He turned to see Turk at the other end of the bridge, waving at him, yelling. It looked like he was telling Erik to run.
His voice finally reached Erik’s ears, and the pain, the fear in the dwarf’s voice, brought him back to his feet. He had never heard such raw terror in Turk’s voice, never seen such horror in his eyes.
Erik looked back at the dragon. She took a step further out onto the bridge. She stared at him with a high-arched, craned neck, and again, Erik sensed intelligence in those eyes, something far beyond a simple animal acting on instinct, something beyond the intelligence of any man. He ran.
Another roar erupted from her mouth, and a pillar of fire burned the stone where Erik had been standing. He pushed Bim and Bofim and yelled to his brother.
“Run Befel!” Erik cried. “Don’t look back. Just run!”
As they ran, the bridge shook, and Bim fell. Erik ran past him, but Befel stopped.
“What are you doing?” Erik yelled, still running.
“We have to help him,” Befel replied.
Erik stopped and watched as two spears glanced off the dragon’s armored neck. He looked over his shoulder to see Gôdruk and Threhof throw two more. Nothing. The dragon looked at them before focusing on Erik, her piercing eyes suggesting she mocked their pathetic attempts to attack her.
Befel helped Bim to his feet, and they both returned to running. The dragon took another step and then turned. For one moment, Erik thought she was going to retreat, but then her tail flicked at the roof of the cavern. She could fight them in more than one way; she wanted to take her time before her fire did its last terrible act.
From high up in the darkness, a shower of rocks, large and small, came crashing down, and Bim caught the worst it. One huge boulder hit his lower back, and he went down before smaller rocks half buried him. Even though Erik couldn’t hear his screams above the dragon’s roaring, he saw them. Bim squirmed on the ground, clawing at the huge stone of the bridge and pounding his fists. Befel regained his feet and bent down to help Bim up, but the stone was too heavy. Befel grabbed a hand and tried dragging the dwarf, but he could not be moved.
“Befel! Leave him!” Wrothgard yelled.
“Hurry!” Turk cried.
“R
un!” Bofim yelled.
The silence came again as the dragon sucked in all the air in the cavern in one, heaving breath. It was as if she sucked out life too.
“Run, brother!” Erik yelled.
Flame consumed the spot where Befel and Bim once were. Erik couldn’t breathe. He grabbed at his chest as he fell to his knees. He couldn’t blink. Even the beating of his heart stopped. When he found the power to breathe once again, his breaths came in short, sporadic spurts.
Pathetic.
It wasn’t his thought. It wasn’t his dagger. It was the voice of a woman, one of dignity and nobility, almost soft. Erik looked up to see the dragon standing over him, looking down at him. Her eyes now definitely mocked him. As her mouth moved, it could almost have been a sneer.
Pathetic. Pathetic little insects.
Erik just stared.
You are doomed. All of you. Doomed. You. The dwarves. Your people. But you—I won’t kill you yet. Oh no. First, you will suffer. Then, you will join them.
Erik heard the laughter of the dead, the voices from his dreams snarling and screaming. How could she know?
“Come on, Erik!” Wrothgard’s voice yelled. “You’ll do no good dying today!”
We’re dead anyway, no matter how fast we run, we’re dead.
Yes, yes you are.
As her voice rang in his head, Erik felt the familiar pinch at his hip, but his dagger was telling him something. It was something about another gift Marcus had given him—two stone-sized rubies that refused to glimmer in the light. He dug into his belt pouch and retrieved one of the red stones. His dagger told him what to do.
He held out his hand, the ruby-like stone sitting in his palm. The dragon looked down at him. He heard her cackle, the softness gone, and she threw her head up and spouted forth flame. The cavern shook, and more debris fell, causing the river of magma to spill over the bridge. But Erik didn’t move.
He saw a white light begin to glow, appearing from deep inside the dull stone. The light grew brighter and brighter until it consumed the whole stone. It looked like it should be hot, but it wasn’t. It just glowed and gave off a reddish-white light that seemed to combat the red, eerie glow the dragon brought with her.
Breaking the Flame Page 10
