Blood of the Dragon

by Jay D Pearson

  Pet store. Too many kids go there. Vitamin store. No kid goes in there. Department store. Too obvious.

  Then his eyes caught the raunchy black-and-white display for Fitzwilliams with its young, perfectly chiseled models. His mom would kill him if she found he’d gone in here, so he thought it would be the perfect place to hide from the man. The store’s lighting was dark and a wall display by the entrance hid the rest of the store from view.

  He nearly ran back out when the store’s cologne scent assaulted him, causing his eyes to water within seconds. Instead, he forced himself around a corner into the men’s section. The mahogany paneling and black ceiling made him feel as if he’d stepped not into a generic mall store, but another part of the city entirely. The music was not loud hip hop as he’d expected, but some soft rock his mom would probably like. More dark walls chopped up the store, nearly hiding the women’s section at the rear. A lone blonde clerk adjusted clothes on a rack at that end. She looked up, but her pretty smile disappeared the moment she saw him and he blushed. He knew he should feel slighted that she didn’t see him as a customer just because he dressed geeky, but mostly he was disappointed that such an attractive woman would ignore him, even if he was barely a teenager.

  The clothes, however, quickly caught his attention. These were styles the popular kids wore and, for several moments, he fingered the casual shirts, admiring them. He checked the price tag and knew his mom had given him enough cash to buy at least one. Maybe if he bought one, other kids wouldn’t look at him as being so strange and might even forget how badly he stood out.

  “Not exactly your style, this place,” said a quiet, raspy voice from behind his shoulder.

  He froze, one hand holding up the shirt he was examining, and slowly turned around until he was face-to-face with the gray-haired man. Miguel was not short for an eighth-grade boy, but he didn’t reach the man’s chin.

  The single dark eye was riveting, holding his attention like a vise, and his tongue felt too thick to respond. He backed up against the rack of clothes, but there was no room to get away.

  Where’s the clerk? was all he could think before the world…shifted.

  The change was sudden and jarring. Fitzwilliams’ dark colors were suddenly light pastels, the music no more than a single flute, and the shop smelled of forest instead of cologne. His heart pounded, however, and he felt even more trapped.

  My power! he thought. He frantically searched inside, desperate to discover some trigger to start the burning in his gut but could find only ice.

  “I have watched you for some time, Miguel Martinez. I know what troubles you, because you are special.”

  “Who are you?” was all he could mutter. There was something familiar in the softness of the man’s sandpaper voice, a memory of something faint or a whisper.

  “Me?” The man chuckled, and Miguel shivered. “I am an old acquaintance of your mother from…”

  The man hesitated, but Miguel blurted out, “From Ireland?” before he noticed the man’s pause.

  “Yes. Ireland.” As the man spoke, his gut clenched as a single panicked thought filled his mind: Is this the man who murdered mom’s family?

  He reached into his pocket with his free hand. The old piece of leather felt unnaturally warm. He clenched it as if it might elicit some response from his power. The heat seemed to reconnect him to his power like a conductor being added to a circuit, but it still wouldn’t ignite. He was missing a switch. He squeezed the piece in his hand, but nothing happened.

  He glanced frantically at the one-eyed man. The scarred face loomed closer and he stepped back until hangers pressed into his back. What do I do? He hastily blurted the first thing that came to mind.

  “You don’t have her accent.”

  “I’ve lived in America for a long time, but I once lived in the village next to hers in Eire. That’s where your power comes from. You’re the one who inherited it. Not your brother and not your sister.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Look at you,” the man answered, gesturing to his orange hair that he knew stood straight up. “You’re different from the others. Unique. Special.”

  Confusion filled him, but pride also, and he relaxed a bit despite his apprehensions. The man did not say them with love the way his parents did when they told him the same thing. All parents tell their kids those words. This man spoke of the weird things happening to him the same way Carlos’s coaches did when they saw how fast his brother could run.

  “Your mother has the power, Miguel. You get it from her, but she’ll never show you how to use it, let alone acknowledge she has it. I can teach you, however. At least the Irish part.”

  He frowned at the implication.

  “Your eyes, boy. Chinese. Your skin. It’s Aztec. You have roots in three ancient powers. There’s never been anyone like you, Miguel. You could be great.”

  Curiosity pushed him a half step forward out of the hangars. “What do you mean?”

  “I am known as Balor, and I can sense what’s in your pocket.” The man reached up, raising his bangs so that Miguel could clearly see the eyepatch and the scar. “What you carry has the same source as what did this to me.”

  He frowned. Whatever the man was trying to say made absolutely no sense.

  The gray-haired man nodded sagely, further confusing him.

  “Your mother will know what that is, although I doubt she’ll tell you the truth, because it frightens her. You probably aren’t ready for the truth yet, but you will be soon. Let me teach you how to unlock your power, boy. When you can do that, the truth will make perfect sense, and I doubt much of anything will frighten you then, even me.”

  The man’s raspy chuckle grated, and Miguel stepped back again, aware once more of the pastel colors and forest scent.

  “Where are we?”

  “This is the otherworld. Our planet—and planets man might someday visit—are the only universe most are ever aware of. Think of our universe as 1.0. The otherworld could be considered universe 0.9, near enough to our reality that those with power like yours can shift between the two, but a reality not fully realized.”

  He couldn’t help but gape. “You could teach me this?”

  “Perhaps one day.” The one-eyed man leaned closer.

  “Look for me, boy. We will meet again. Then you can choose.”

  Suddenly, everything shifted again. Cologne assaulted him, colors were once more dark, and soft rock music returned. The man was gone, leaving him standing with the shirt still in one hand and the piece of leather in the other. He had a name to share with his mother—Balor—but would he? What would her reaction be if he told her who he’d met?

  He hung the shirt back up and studied the piece of leather, turning it over and over. It really did resemble an oversized lizard scale, and he wondered how she’d respond if he showed it to her.

  At almost the same moment, his phone buzzed. A text from his mom: Where are you? It’s lunch time.

  Do I tell her I met Balor? Do I tell her I met someone from her past? Is he the killer?

  Chapter 9

  The Dragon

  “N

  ow!” Wu Tian ordered, launching forward. Wu Zhao and the rest of the hong followed, diving off the high rocky precipice, wings snapping out, flapping just long enough to get away from the cliffs. Then she tucked her wings, dropping into a steep dive, her long whiskers tight against either cheek, the tips tickling her ears. For several seconds, all she could see were thick misty strands that briefly clung to her scales as she and the other nine dragons of the hong plunged silently.

  This was the moment they had spent three months training for, the day they fully abandoned their parents’ Path of the Heart for Ao Shun’s Enlightened Path and entered the war against the Sluagh Sidhe. They broke through the bottom of the clouds into the gray morning light, veering sharply to avoid smashing into the steep southern edges of the Xiu Lei Mountains. The range was vast and rugged, nearly splitting the continent in two from
northeast to southwest. The hong weaved around jagged peaks, flying close above the tree line to remain hidden as long as possible before entering their first battle as ascended dragons.

  She wasn’t certain if the rumbling in her gullet was simply a fireball forming or nerves. Ogres she had fought once, but only a handful, and they lacked magic. Disrupting faery circles out in the wild never involved fighting, just scattering a small tribe or two, a prank to break up their dances. Today they would face an enemy armed for war in numbers and magical strength that could bring a dragon or two down.

  The wind howled in her ears as they plunged towards Ath Dara, the dank, twisted, primeval forest that covered most of the lands between the Xiu Lei Mountains and the great ocean. Her heart pounded as she glanced at Wu Fei beside her. This would be his first battle as well. Until today, the fiercest creature most of the hong had faced had been the fish they hunted.

  A month after leaving her parents, Ao Shun had taken her and a few other young guardians back to the Cavern of the Ancestors in a last effort to convince the Great Ones, or at least some of the elders, to recant. Not even her mother would acknowledge her, nor would any of the mature ones recognize they were there. The mature ones simply lay there, waiting for death. She had rested her cheek on her mother’s shoulder, feeling a quiver at the touch, the only acknowledgement of her presence. The scales had been dry, and several flecked loose when she gently caressed her, causing Wu Zhao to pull back.

  When they spotted Bailong’s body—throat slit and lying in a pool of dried blood—she and the other young guardians had roared, ready to attack Finaarva and his faeries. From that day forward, their training for ascendancy became their purpose and revenge against the Sluagh Sidhe their quest. Any thought of traveling the stars was shoved aside.

  “Bank,” shouted Wu Tian, and the hong followed in a tight V formation, angling to their left towards the forest. Two dragons’ wings entangled briefly, breaking the perfect V, and she groaned, hoping Ao Shun had not seen it or they would be drilling for hours upon their return.

  The hong regrouped and hurtled forward, following her brother as he weaved a path, their wingtips scraping the treetops. Their approach was silent, flying into the wind as much as possible so their advance would be undetected by either army.

  Soon the enormous cedars and firs of Tir-nam-beo, the glen of King Oberon mac Lir, could be seen in the distance, sunlight gleaming off their needles. In all of Faery, no trees were taller or greener than those of Tir-nam-beo, a bright garden in the midst of fusty weeds.

  “Ascend!” called Wu Tian, and the air shimmered. It was not a call to rise, but to shift the air so the hong would be all but invisible. It was supposed to be her brother’s final order until they attacked.

  The air rippled. Within seconds, all she could see were faint crystalline outlines of the dragons on either side as they reached the edge of Oberon’s glen. They arched upward as one, gliding, all eyes searching for the Binne River.

  Tir-nam-beo was a vast glen. A mile wide and several miles long, the Binne River snaked through it towards the fens separating the Ath Dara forest from the ocean. Wide and brown, it did not take long for the hong to find the Binne coiling lethargically through the glen like a python that has just devoured a pig. They dipped and dove below the tree line until they skimmed just above the smooth, still surface of the water. Whitecaps followed their passage, rippling waves lapping both shores.

  Emerald and amber lights twinkled in the trees, the only evidence of the thousands of faeries who lived in the glen. She knew homes and buildings were nestled in the soaring trees and their broad, spacious limbs, but they were indiscernible from the surrounding wood to her eye. She’d been to the glen once before, shortly after joining Ao Shun, when the First Ascendant had introduced the young guardians to the faery king. Then, life had teemed in Tir-nam-beo. Today, it was silent and still, for war had come.

  Finaarva could not have waited for Bailong’s blood to dry before attacking the Daoine Sidhe. Ao Shun’s rainbow dragons had provided some aid, but their numbers were only enough to allow Oberon’s faeries a slow retreat until a siege of Tir-nam-beo became inevitable.

  The young guardians’ training had been hard and rushed, but Ao Shun had not needed to push them. She and the other colors understood their purpose: an ambush to break the siege. It was not the entrance to the Enlightened Paths she had imagined, but until justice was served, no other path lay open.

  They continued to careen through the Ath Dara, rushing to unleash their ambush at Orgá Vale, the Golden Valley, in the center of the forest, before the Daoine Sidhe were overwhelmed. The large, circular valley was the heart of Tir-nam-beo, treeless, but covered with a rich green sward and dotted with clusters of the yellow daffodils that gave the valley its name. Sprinkled on all sides of the vale were faery circles of red, white, and lilac toadstools. Here Oberon had held court for hundreds of years. Here, among the circles, dances were performed that no being who was not a faery had ever seen.

  As reckless as her brothers could be, she knew they’d never consider disrupting those dances the way they often did with small tribal dances in the wilds. Not that they could, for Oberon had long ago woven a great magic following Finaarva’s rebellion, a domed mesh covering all Tirnam-beo that prevented any from entering without the king’s permission. Even Ao Shun could not pass through if Oberon was not willing, or so she’d been told. In the grey and dim early morning light of her first visit, she could not see the magic as they’d arrived, but in the full sunlight of afternoon when they had left, it had shimmered gently and faintly.

  However, as Ao Shun had predicted, there had been no dome when they’d swooped up above the glen. Without Oberon’s magic in place, they’d been able to dive deep into the forest towards Orgá Vale. All they knew of Oberon and Ao Shun’s plan was they intended to draw Finaarva’s forces deep into Tir-nam-beo until they neared the sacred valley where the faery king’s magic was strongest, and where the dragons would finally enter the faeries’ war.

  Long minutes passed as they weaved in their V above the sluggish brown waters, the silence broken only by chirping insects until the hong whooshed past. Finally, beams of golden light shimmered through the thinning trees as they neared the great clearing. As they burst past the last of the trees, sparks showered as if hammers beat iron where Finaarva’s army of goblins, ogres, and faeries battered what remained of Oberon’s magical dome. It was visible now, faintly pink and translucent as it protected only Orgá Vale, and she shuddered. Cracks spiderwebbed the dome: it appeared far weaker than it should be, at least according to Ao Shun.

  They hesitated as they glided closer. There was no sign of any other dragons. They should not be the first. Ao Shun should be at the forefront, saving Oberon’s faeries. She’d anticipated releasing a mighty fireball with a roar to announce their arrival at their first battle as ascended dragons. Instead, the hong’s V formation collapsed in confusion.

  On the opposite side of the dome, the two faery armies battled. Oberon’s Daoine Sidhe in their green cloaks and padded wool armor held rank, many armed with jewel-tipped staves that emitted beams of aquamarine and sapphire towards the dome, healing the cracks. The remaining faeries stood in orderly rows, drawing their long bows as one unit, then firing arrows into the swarming, howling hordes of goblins and their ogre commanders, cutting the attackers down as if shearing grass. Even with their vast numbers, it took a score of goblins, even with an ogre captain, to take down a single faery, so that the battlefield was littered with small, broken bodies.

  Beyond the goblin throngs, Sluagh Sidhe warriors in gold armor with glass-green ridges shone as they rode on the backs of giant boars and manticores, brandishing their swords, forcing their slaves to mindlessly attack. Further back, outside the dome at the edge of the forest, archers and sorcerers loosed their shafts and magical bolts. Although they lacked the precision of the Daoine Sidhe, their continual barrage was clearly breaking down Oberon’s magic, based on the cracks
she could see.

  She glanced at her comrades, but in their ascended state, she could not read their expressions. She could only assume they were as confused as she was.

  “What do we do?” Wu Tian whispered. “Do we attack?”

  She sensed her brother’s bewilderment as his wing speed slowed further, and he drifted downward.

  “No!” she said firmly, speaking aloud so all the hong could hear. “We reform and we hold. The other hongs may already be here, so we wait for the First Ascendant’s signal.”

  “Wu Zhao is correct,” said Wu Tian passionately. Without seeing his expression, she could not discern if he appreciated her interruption or was angry. All she could hear was the emotion.

  Even as they regrouped, there was a sudden clamor above the dome and her entire hong glanced up, startled. Ao Shun and a dozen rainbows hovered, bellies glowing with pent-up fireballs. On all sides of the Sluagh Sidhe, four other hongs twinkled into view. She and her hong shifted the air, the last to do so, and she realized her brother’s hesitation had left them the only hong not in position. If the enemy escaped, it would be their fault.

  The dome flickered once, then dissolved. It was the sign. Ao Shun’s wings snapped open and he dove, followed by his hong, their bellows echoing through the valley, and Finaarva’s army screamed.

  It’s not too late! Without waiting for her older brother’s command, she beat her wings as hard as possible, breathing deeply to ignite her gullet. The first two snaps were slow, but she quickly built speed, hoping the rest followed.

  Swooping low over Oberon’s forces, Wu Zhao spit a fireball as soon as she was in reach of the enemy, careful to fire over their heads as they’d been instructed. Several of the braver Sluagh Sidhe hastily fired arrows or bolts of magic, but in the suddenness of the attack, their aim was wild and no dragon was seriously hurt.

  The air shrieked with the howls of dragons. Adrenaline surged as she hurtled into the midst of the Sluagh Sidhe. Faeries dove to the ground to escape her extended front claws while warriors screeched as their beasts reared or darted.