by Paul Cude
Anger welled up inside him. It had all been going so well, and now... this! Red Jacket had managed to pin one of Flash's arms to the ground by the time he'd cleared the snow from his eyes, and had one arm around Flash's throat, while the other fended off the dragon's free arm. Something inside him snapped as his anger got the better of him. Over the last few seconds, he'd felt the overwhelming supply of magic call out to him, urging him to use it. As the helmeted attacker hovered over him, he caught his own reflection in the mirrored surface of the dark visor. Instantly Flash cast a silent mantra, designed to heat anything that he focused on and turn it molten in a matter of moments. Targeting his attacker's helmet as the hand around his throat tightened, darkness formed on the periphery of his vision. Abruptly he felt both his attacker's hands withdraw, so he used the moment to breathe deeply, instantly returning his vision to normal. Rolling off, his attacker landed in the soft unbroken snow with a thud, kicking and screaming, all the time clutching the smoking hot helmet that covered his head. Jumping to his feet, Flash kicked the attacker in the chest, forcing the wind out of him as the muffled screams echoed from inside the twisted headgear. Leaning over, he prepared to get a grip on the dark helmet with a view to breaking his attacker's neck.
Before his hands even touched the shiny helmet, from which a sickly smelling smoke was now oozing all around the visor, a blistering pain seared across Flash's back, forcing him to his knees. As he fell, his brain screamed for him to react, knowing that something bad had just happened, almost certainly in the shape of the other naga. Hitting the snow face first, he ignored the fiery pain that crisscrossed his back and instead feinted to roll one way before quickly rolling the other. On doing so, he saw the glint of a razor sharp dagger land just where he would have been, had it not been a dummy. Knees nearly buckling from the pain, he stood and turned to face the threat that had ambushed him from behind. It was of course the other naga, standing there helmetless, blood streaming down both sides of his face from two deep wounds around the top of his head, his blonde shaggy hair matted and stuck to his skull. Flash realised that the man he was facing was one of the base carpenters, O'Brien, if his memory served him correctly. Distinctly, he remembered having a drink with the guy at Splinters, after a closely fought darts match. Evidently he'd been hurt quite badly when the skidoo had turned over at speed. The two faced each other, both panting frantically, while the helmeted naga rolled aimlessly in the snow only feet away, the dagger that had been thrown only moments before sticking out of the snow, about halfway between them, glinting invitingly in the bright sunlight.
"Save yourself the trouble and come quietly," O'Brien spat, wiping the thickening blood from his hair with his gloved right hand.
Flash's face creased with agony as the pain in his back felt like every nerve ending there was being attacked simultaneously. O'Brien smirked at his discomfort, making Flash more determined than ever to take him down. Briefly he considered diving for the dagger, but knew he couldn't get to it before O'Brien got to him. Disappointingly, his magical reserves were lower than he would have expected. The mantra he'd cast on the naga's helmet really shouldn't have taken so much out of him, but he felt positively drained, so casting something on this one, even to slow him down, seemed out of the question. Before he could come up with a plan, his hand was forced. O'Brien moved as fast as lightning, on him in an instant, gloved fists smashing into the side of his face and chest. Trying unsuccessfully to block the withering blows, Flash felt his nose break during one particularly vicious onslaught. Falling back into the snow he noticed the very prominent splattering of red blood, from his nose he assumed, standing out against the pristine white carpet of snow. O'Brien kicked Flash in the ribs, causing him to howl with pain. Before he had a chance to recover, the carpenter's powerful arms wrapped around Flash's upper limbs, his hands pushing hard on the base of Flash's neck. As the most amazing pain coursed through his broken body, Flash knew that he was in no condition to fend O'Brien off.
'He's trying to kill me,' was all he could think. Starting to succumb to O'Brien's superior strength, Flash's only thought was that perhaps death was a preferred option to being captured and spending all eternity in that... hellhole of a prison.
Sunlight dazzled him as it reflected into his eyes off the dagger in the snow, some five yards away.
'If only I knew a mantra for calling the dagger over to me,' he reflected as the pressure on the back of his neck became almost unbearable. 'It's just what I need right now. I could gut him like a fish.'
As his vision faded around the edges once again, the feeling of stupidity overwhelmed his every thought. Learning his lesson while he was still alive to do so, he tapped the back of his right boot on the front of his left one, forcing the chamber with the hidden dagger to spring open. With renewed hope, he slipped his right hand out from O'Brien's grip, dislocating his shoulder in the process. O'Brien ignored Flash's free arm, knowing that in only a couple of seconds he would succeed in breaking the Crimson Guard's neck. Fortunately for Flash, he needed less time than that. Grasping the hilt of the razor sharp weapon, he thrust it into O'Brien's meaty thigh. Shock from the dagger piercing his leg like a knife slipping through butter caused O'Brien to lose his grip on Flash's neck. In the blink of an eye, Flash had turned round and carved O'Brien open in a fitting display of wizardry with a blade that would have put Zorro to shame. O'Brien stood wide eyed for a split second, before slumping to the ground.
Dagger in hand, Flash knelt over him, checking he was dead. He was. Only yards away, the other naga lay still in the thick, deep snow. Crossing over to him, dagger shaking in his hand, Flash thought about plunging the weapon directly through the beast's heart, but hesitated. Being as careful as possible, fearing the naga was just playing dead, he prised open the visor on the dark helmet with the dagger. Flash jerked back and let out a yelp on seeing what lay beneath. There could be no doubt now that both nagas were entirely deceased. Judging by the state of him, the naga with the helmet on had been poisoned by the fumes. Flash was glad he hadn't plunged the dagger through the naga's heart: it would have ruined his thick outer jacket, something he could now procure in an effort to stave off the cold. Gingerly, he removed the coat and slipped it over his shivering body, knowing that he should steal the trousers as well, but somehow thinking of this as crossing a line. So many lines had been crossed today, they all seemed in his mind to have blurred into one. Wanting to get it over with, he untied the naga's boots, throwing them over his shoulder as he did so, then removed the trousers and put them on. Whilst doing his bootlaces up, he cleaned his bloodied dagger, before replacing it in the hidden compartment. Sitting down, he grabbed a huge handful of fresh snow and began to shovel it in his mouth, ignoring the burning sensation on his tongue, surveying the mess that surrounded him.
'Two nagas down, which in itself is good. But I really can't leave things here like this for someone to stumble across, which they surely would. It's just a matter of time.'
Finishing his extremely cold drink, he rose to his feet and wandered over to the rocky face he'd jumped from. Once there, he threw his dislocated shoulder at it with all his might. With a loud 'CRUNCH' his bones painfully slipped back into place. A roiling wave of pain hit him like a steamroller. Trying to ignore it, all the time struggling for breath, it felt as though someone was waving a blowtorch up and down his back. After a minute or two of not being able to move, the pain finally receded, disappearing almost as quickly as it had ignited. Moving slowly for fear of the pain returning, he trudged over to the naga's knife that lay embedded in the snow. Picking it up carefully by the handle, he examined it, particularly the blade. As he'd expected, it had been laced with some kind of venom. When the naga had sliced into his back, as well as making a deep cut, the blade had poisoned him. Without the time to find out exactly what with; he would just have to cast a general toxin combating mantra and hope for the best. This he did instantly, not even bothering to say the words out loud, just whispering them in his mind while
reinforcing them with all the belief he could muster. Feeling the tingle of magic washing over him, he expected his back to return almost to normal. When it didn't, and he could still feel a burning tingle in the background, he became slightly anxious. Shaking his head, he knew that his injuries would have to wait until much later. Getting on with the job at hand was his number one priority.
Wandering over to where the skidoo had come to rest, its handlebars bent almost beyond recognition, he knew it was well past any repair he could instigate here and now; besides, he knew better than to waste what little magical energy he had left on something like this, especially with the other naga still on the loose. Trudging back through the vehicle's path in the snow, he started to gather up everything that had spilled out of the heavy equipment pouches. The things he picked up shocked him, but he supposed they shouldn't have: clips of bullets for a pistol, a rifle with a telescopic sight, four handguns, a twin set of radios, two mobile phones and most amazingly of all, a rather large amount of explosives.
'These two,' he thought, 'could have started their own war with all of this.' After gathering up everything he could find, he piled it up next to the broken skidoo, taking both mobile phones and slipping them into his jacket pocket. For the moment he'd stopped shivering from the cold, due mainly to his newly acquired clothing, while the shaking from the shock of having to fight, and having killed, was also beginning to subside. Despite his vast training, it still affected him deeply. Perching on the skidoo's comfortable saddle, about the only thing that hadn't been damaged in the crash, Flash's stomach growled with hunger, having not eaten anything for what seemed like an age. Typically, there had been no food in any of the equipment pouches, and he'd searched both nagas for any sign of anything to eat, but had come up empty handed. Clapping both his gloved hands together, he decided that whatever he was going to do, he'd better get on with it, having already wasted too much time. Probably, if the nagas were as professional as their equipment suggested, they would be expected to check in regularly with their leader back at the station. The longer he waited, the more chance there was that their leader would realise something had gone wrong.
Flash knew what he had to do. He couldn't leave the area like it was; two dead humans would cause a riot, particularly the way that they'd died. On top of that, if the base carried out an autopsy, which they most certainly had the equipment and facilities to do, they would find out that the two humans were nothing of the sort and were, in fact, an entirely different species. Using the explosives to blow everything to hell was really the only logical choice. That could just about cover things up if he did a half decent job. The problem was that he would probably alert the naga leader at the base to what was going on. He or she would never believe in a million years that an accident had occurred. One of the last things he wanted to do was to forewarn the leader of his presence, but it seemed as though he had little or no choice. He really couldn't leave things as they were. As he slipped off the saddle, a devastating wave of pain again crisscrossed his back, forcing him to his knees. Clearly the poison combating mantra was having little effect against whatever had been on the naga's knife, he thought, catching his breath before getting back to his feet. Slipping off both gloves, he pulled out one of the mobile phones and powered it up. Not surprisingly, it asked for a code to be input. Shaking his head, he tried with the other phone. The same thing happened. If he'd still had his watch, it would have defeated the code in mere moments and he would have been able to get out a message for help.
'Two mobile phones and I can't get either working. Perhaps I can run a course for the Crimson Guard new recruits when I get back. It could be entitled, 'How not to be a secret agent by Dendrik Ridge, aged three and a half'.'
Cursing under his breath, and then wondering why as there was nothing, not even any animals, for nearly two miles, he began to put the phones back in his pocket, only to suddenly stop, and have a good look at one. A plan started to form in the back of his mind. Opening one back up, he started to power it on again, only this time he paid much more attention. Before it got to the point where it asked for the code, the option for flight mode appeared. Flash pressed the button to enter flight mode, designed to be used on board a plane or in a hospital where all the functions of the phone could be used, except incoming or outgoing phone calls or messages. Checking out all of the handset's functions, it had just what he was looking for: an alarm, set on a countdown timer. It was then he knew just what to do.
* * *
Thousands of miles away in a small, terraced house, deep in the city of Salisbridge, Peter Bentwhistle had just finished a snack, not wanting anything more because for the first time in ages he was going hockey training that evening. While he wouldn't say that the injuries he'd picked up in the fight with Manson on that fateful bonfire night had healed entirely, he did feel much better, so much so that as well as going to work, he felt he could manage training, and show his face there for the first time since the events of November 5th.
Gazing at his empty plate, with an hour to go before he had to leave, he decided to grab today's copy of the Daily Telepath, as he hadn't seen a dragon paper for a while, and more to the point, the laminium ball league season was less than a week away from kicking off. Barely without thought, his consciousness disappeared off to find today's copy of the popular telepathic paper. Sitting happily at home as his mind flew across rooftops, swooped down alongside the river and headed for the tree on the small island in the waterway that runs through the fantastic park adjacent to the water meadows, he blinked as his consciousness disappeared straight up into the tree branch. This always happened, however hard he tried to resist. Sometimes, he sat and tried with all his might not to blink. Not once had he ever succeeded.
Sifting through all the previous copies of the paper, his mind grabbed hold of the latest one and gave it a tug in the direction of the exit. Wondering how hockey training would turn out, he was abruptly jolted from his thoughts as a giant purple trident zoomed out of nowhere and pierced the copy of the Daily Telepath he was holding onto with his mind. His consciousness and the copy of the paper wobbled horribly in mid air. Back in reality, he fell off his chair, landing with a bump on the tiled floor. Standing up, he felt a little head rush as he scrambled back into his seat. What on earth was going on?
His consciousness remained where it was, somewhere high above the filing cabinets it had retrieved the paper from. Closing his eyes, Peter used all his concentration to catch up with that part of his mind. When he did so, he was surprised to find his mind firmly wrapped around the paper, looking to pull it out of the storage facility, the huge purple trident currently stuck right through the middle of it, giving off occasional wisps of thick purple smoke. Trying to jerk his consciousness back towards the exit, he hoped to pull it away from the trident, even if he broke the paper, after all, he could just return and pick up another copy. It had no effect whatsoever. Frustrated, he pulled some more. Nothing happened. For the first time, he zoomed in on the trident, studying it properly. A long strand of purple smoke hung inconspicuously from the end of it. Written along its length were the words, 'Pull to unravel.' Carefully, he gripped the strand with his mind and then yanked a little. Slowly, the strand began to unwind, soon getting faster and faster. Before he knew it, the whole thing was a whirlwind. His consciousness hovered in mid air, mesmerised by what was happening in front of him. It looked like the kind of knitting project that NASA, the American space agency, might undertake, if indeed it decided to take on a knitting project. It was just... mad! Just as he thought he might try and leave without the paper, the trident and the mess surrounding it burnt themselves out, leaving a giant face formed from purple smoke, staring straight at him. It was a face he recognised instantly, a face that had featured more and more in his dreams of late. It was a face that most of the dragons in the world would perhaps struggle to recall, despite the fact that this being in his dragon form was one of, if not THE most famous dragon on the whole planet. It was the face o
f the... KING! As Peter noticed other dragon minds stopping all about and staring, the smoky face broke into a smile and started talking.
"Hello Peter," mouthed the king's face. "I hope you and your friends are well and that you've sufficiently recovered from the injuries sustained in your... bonfire night escapades. I'm sorry I haven't been in touch sooner but as I'm sure you can appreciate, I've been exceptionally busy of late. Anyway, I've managed to juggle my commitments so that I have a whole morning free this Sunday. I'd rather hoped that you and your companions would join me at my private residence. I have some fascinating things that I'm just dying to show you. Perhaps you'd be good enough to extend the invitation to our mutual mantra making friend as well, as long as it's alright with you. I haven't seen the old dragon for what seems like centuries and I'm sure he'd love to poke around the private library here. Anyway, let me know if you can't make it by sending a message to the council building in London. Otherwise I'll expect you and your friends around 9am on Sunday. Regards George."
With one giant puff, the massive, purple, smoky face dissolved into nothing, leaving Peter's consciousness floating alone with his copy of the Daily Telepath. All around, other minds that had been eagerly watching the exchange, whizzed off in every different direction, some delving into filing cabinets, some heading off towards the exit at high speed.
Peter's eyes shot open to the sight of an empty plate on the table in front of him. Immediately he willed his consciousness back to him. Thirty seconds later it arrived with a copy of today's Daily Telepath. Filing it in the back of his mind, receiving the message from the king had made him lose interest in reading it at the moment.
'Wow,' he thought. 'I get to go and meet the king at his private residence. How cool is that?' Not caring that it was a slightly childish thing to do, he danced around the kitchen like a pop star on the way to putting his plate in the sink. All he could think about was going to see the king and taking his friends with him.
