Talon the Black

by Melissa Mitchell

  His sword was as impressive as it was heavy. Her fingers traced the icy-cold metal. A weapon like this must have cost a fortune. Its pommel was shaped like the head of a dragon. Was that a coincidence? Adorning the grip was a single gemstone. The scabbard was decorated by a fine pearlescent stone pave to match. She carefully placed it back onto the table then moved on.

  His belt held a few curious trinkets: a woman’s locket with a lock of hair inside, a small hunting knife, and a coin sack. Most intriguing was the small leather pouch she’d taken from his neck. She poured its contents onto her palm. There were two small stones, abnormally shaped, each about the diameter of a quarter. One was gold, the other black. They were highly polished and glittered with movement. The black one was iridescent, shimmering from hues of green, to blue, to purple.

  The moment they touched her skin, shivers ran down her spine. The hairs on her arms stood on end, as if electrically charged. Raw hunger for power clawed at her, tainting her, filling her mind with greed, eliciting desires that were tucked away.

  For a long time she stared possessively at the stones, stroking them in her palm, turning them this way and that, studying them, picturing many unrealistic dreams that suddenly appeared tangible.

  Eventually exhaustion reminded her of the time. She tightened her fist around her prize. They would be hers in exchange for finding the man who carried them.

  She didn’t see the absurdity of her behavior until she broke contact with the precious stones. As soon as they were tucked away, her trance evaporated and she reclaimed her mind. Spooked senseless, she tossed the pouch away and cringed. Magic wasn’t real, but against all logic, those stones possessed some form of it. The thought unnerved her. In fact, the entire ordeal was nothing short of impossible. Maybe she was going insane. What if the upset Jake caused had driven her mad?

  At last she tumbled into bed, her mind brimming with fake reassurances. Life would be back to normal tomorrow. Tonight was simply a bad dream. Her car was safely parked in the driveway. Jake wasn’t a total ballbag. The creepy stones were part of her imagination. There was no wounded man outside. Dragons did not exist. And the idea of a dragon-man shapeshifter was downright outrageous!

  2

  Shadowkeep

  Kane paced within the dark edifice of Shadowkeep, his bare feet slapping the rocky floor. The chill had no effect on him. He was used to the cold of these snowcapped mountains.

  Try as he might, the repetitive motion failed to quell his agitation. His plans had gone terribly awry. The King’s Shield was surprisingly powerful: His mind still bore the headache like a painful memory unwilling to recede.

  He had not anticipated the guard’s ability to bend minds. The task should have been easy—overpower the carrier and steal the remaining Dragon Stones. Instead, he underestimated the protector. When they battled, the wretch broke into his mind, only to discover the grand scheme lying within. In the end, the powerful intrusion left his head burning in agony, forcing his retreat.

  So much for remaining in the shadows. His entire plan hinged upon secrecy. It would be far easier to carry out his tasks without hordes of Drengr scum searching for his fortress and counter attacking at will.

  He could hardly wait to rid the world of the abominations to dragon-kind who called themselves Drengr. Only the dragons were meant to carry the mythical form bestowed upon them by his forbearers, the great Asarlaí of old. Blessing certain dragons with humanity, gifting them the ability to transform into humans, wholly disgusted him. What was Queen Isabella thinking? But never mind that, he would succeed. Soon, none of draconic descent, dragon or Drengr, would walk this earth again.

  He continued to pace, working to control his temper. Every so often, he stopped to peer from the many loopholes in the tower, searching out over the tall jagged peaks of the Northern Barrier Range. Still, there was no sign of his lethal assassins. The Vodar were wraiths from Undirfold. He had summoned them to finish his work, and with luck, save him from further exposure. The longer they tarried, the greater his fury grew. Greater still was the doubt-ridden voice within the depths of his mind. Had they failed? After hundreds of years of meticulous planning, would his precious work be destroyed by one, stupid mistake?

  To say he was eager was a vast understatement. He was growing desperate. The two remaining Dragon Stones were all that stood between failure and fulfilling his masterplan. With them, he would have a complete set. With them, he would bring about an end to the Drengr monarchy. What a sweet end it would be.

  He always found it intriguing that such seemingly harmless objects held so much power, and funnier still that so few in the world knew what they were, or how they worked. But he knew, oh yes, and he had to have them, even if he died trying.

  He first learned about the Dragon Stones during his early years of magic, long before his skin turned pale and gaunt, longer still before his eyes had taken on the red glow they now held. During those times, he lacked the knowledge to truly understand their worth, let alone possess them. Even then, the stones called to him like a shadowed whisper in the night. They were but a myth. Descriptions of their existence could only be found scattered throughout old tomes of stories long past. He never let that stop him. Eventually the day came to seek them out.

  It took him nearly half a millennium to locate all five. During his searching, he delved deeper and further into dark magic, learning things the Magoi could never possibly know. His increasing power kept him alive, giving him the needed strength to carry on. How formidable the power of living was for one determined to fulfill a destiny, especially a prodigious destiny such as his.

  The first Stone was an easy acquisition; he procured it from the bottom of Eagle Lake in the North. The depths of its hiding place were far greater than any human could reach. But he was no human; he was an Asarlaí, the last living Asarlaí in Dragonwall.

  The second he discovered by chance. Like the first, it once belonged to the dragons, specifically those of the Ice Clan. Rage, their leader, had hidden it well, along with the other two he once possessed. This one was not at the bottom of any lake. Rage locked it away in the frozen realm of Kalderland, requiring him to parley with its inhabitants, the Kalds, great ice giants of Black Rock Ice. In exchange for their cooperation, he made it possible for them to seek a prize of their choosing—support in their planned attack against the North. It was he who led them through the range and into the kingdom. Yet it was no fault of his that their desires ended in failure.

  The most difficult of the three was locked away with the Gobelins. Luckily, obtaining this stone resulted in his alliance with them, a most convenient outcome. Although, he would not have guessed it at the time.

  Now only two Stones remained. These were the two Rage failed to discover. They stayed hidden for years immeasurable, until the King’s Shield recently procured them, which, mind you, was an integral part of his grand plan. What he had not planned for was the guard’s ability to retain them. The wretch should have been an easy kill, but now he protected his prize with the threads of his very existence, exercising every bit of magic to keep them safe and out of Kane’s hands.

  Fortunately, the Vodar wraiths were lethal. But where were they? His dark assassins were trying his patience. He knew it was foolish, but he was tired of waiting, so he removed six onyx crystals from a shelf and set them in a row. If his wraiths would not come, he would make them come.

  Behind the crystals he spread fire powder, finer than the finest sand, and valuable beyond measure. The barrier was mostly symbolic, but nonetheless, a necessary part of the process.

  When everything was assembled, he stepped away and began his incant. His lips hardly moved as he muttered, “Skaepa an eldár, vaxa eldár, brenna eldár…” The first words spoken ignited the powder, coaxing the flames forth into a blaze. They burned blue—the color of honest magic. These flames were to be the tall backdrop necessary to eliminate any possibility of retreat, not that they were stupid enough to run from him.

  As his
incant progressed, a powerful shadowy line of darkness connected the stones. The black thread grew in thickness until he moved on to the next set of phrases. A loud crack like the breaking of stone echoed against the rocky walls. His six lethal assassins appeared. The number was symbolic, six Vodar wraiths to match the six King’s Shields. Each stood in front of its respective onyx crystal.

  His chanting ceased.

  “Why have you summoned us, great lord?” the first hissed from beneath its shadowy hood.

  “You dare question me?” His voice was a low snarl. He looked them over, glancing from one to the next. They had arrived with their short swords drawn, ready for battle. He regretted his rash decision, but he dared not let that be known.

  “What have you to say for yourselves? What of your mission?”

  “We nearly had him, my lord!” the one in the middle said, taking a step forward. “We had our prey surrounded. You will be pleased to know that I have successfully wounded him.” There was blood dripping from the Vodar’s short sword.

  “Wounded? Pleased?” He repeated the words back to them in the same hissing manner they used. If they understood his mockery, they made no notice of it. “The Drengr is not dead then?” The news was inexcusable. “Where are my Dragon Stones?”

  What legitimate reason could they give for the length of time this mission was taking? Were these not the most evil creatures in all of existence? Certainly there were others, but none that he dared summon as of yet.

  “We would have obtained the Dragon Stones, great lord, had you not summoned us at the worst possible moment.”

  Kane was never one to admit a mistake, nor would he now. Perhaps he should have given them more time, but the deed was done, and here they stood. Besides, time enough he had given them.

  “You have been tracking the Drengr for weeks,” he pointed out. “I grow tired of your inability to carry out my orders.”

  As his anger flared, so did the fire line. The Vodar wraiths flinched and stepped forward out of its way.

  “I should burn you here and now.” Silent anger clutched at his being.

  “Please, great lord, we will not fail again.”

  Vodar wraiths were terrified of fire. It was the only painful way they could be punished. Perhaps they needed to feel the weapon of their weakness.

  “No, I dare say you will not fail. You know what awaits you if you do.” Again, the fire flared. “I want him dead, and I want those Stones. Now go!” He removed his magical hold on the fire and the flames extinguished, freeing the way for the Vodar, who fled from the room like a gust of black wind, hissing its way from Shadowkeep.

  3

  Battle Ground, Indiana

  Claire awoke to incessant squawking. The annoyance drifted through her open window along with the sun, whose pesky rays were too bright for her aching head. No question about it, hangovers were the devil.

  She rolled over to relieve her sore muscles, and despite the humidity, snuggled deeper under her lavender comforter. She was drifting off again when more squawking jolted her awake. “Sh-up,” she cried, trying to ignore the damn birds. Sometimes her mom’s little chickens bickered. What did she care for chicken squabbles? She was comfortably tucked away in her palace of solitude.

  Her bedroom was more like a library than anything. Its walls were covered with hundreds of books. When she started collecting them, there were only a few shelves. As her collection grew, more were mounted, until every bit of wall space was occupied. Her mother called it hoarding, but she begged to differ.

  By high school, she had made shelves from all the reclaimed wood in the barn. At that point, her mom put a stop to it, forbidding further construction projects. "No more shelves in your bedroom," she insisted. "You've got enough books."

  How could anyone have enough books? She still managed to sneak in a few more. At last it seemed her room did have a limit, and she was determined to reach it, down to the final book.

  It wasn't until her parents bought her an iPad that she finally agreed to go digital. However, nothing would replace the experience of holding a real book: the smell of the paper, the feel of the pages, and the excitement of reading cover to cover.

  She groaned dramatically and flung away her comforter. The pesky squawking reached its peak. Angrily, she threw herself from her bed to close the window. That’s when she caught sight of the naked man in the chicken coop.

  “Oh. My. Eff,” she breathed. Memories from the night before flashed through her mind like a bad dream. That’s why she felt terrible.

  The naked man was failing miserably at the task of chicken catching. He sloppily chased the hens and roosters around the coop. His wound hindered him, but he did not stop trying. He limped and stumbled around with outstretched arms. Meanwhile, the chickens squawked and screeched, protesting in earnest, but moved effortlessly out of his way.

  It would have been hilarious had it not been pathetic. Even still, the longer she watched, the harder she laughed, until she couldn’t take it any more. Quickly dressing into her favorite pair of black stretchy-pants, she rushed downstairs.

  When she reached the coop—much to her surprise—the naked man had successfully procured one of the fatter female hens. His hand wrapped around its neck, about to end the poor thing’s life.

  “STOP,” she roared. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Her mom would kill her if a single, precious chicken was harmed. He looked dazed and confused. “Those chickens are for eggs, not for eating, you oaf!”

  “I need food,” he said at last, holding the clucking chicken forward. When she made no move to take it, he released it to the ground.

  She rolled her eyes. What the hell was wrong with this guy? He too was perplexed; he cocked his head to the side, trying to make sense of the situation. Then he looked down at his naked body, and used his hands to cover himself. Like she hadn’t seen male goods before!

  “Where are my clothes?”

  Bidding him to come out of the coop, she recovered his blanket. He eagerly wrapped it about himself, but not before she glimpsed the black skin creeping from beneath his bandages. Skin never acted like this. Whatever it was, it was spreading quickly.

  He looked at her suspiciously. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he clutched at his neck and grew frantic. “Where are they?” he whispered. “I had them here. Where…” His scowl depend. “Where are my belongings? Where is my Sverak—my sword?”

  There was no, “Thank you for saving my life.” No, “What happened last night?” No gratitude. There was only fear and distrust.

  She humored him and held up her hands. “Chill. I’ve got everything inside.” He was relieved.

  “What’s up with those stone-things, anyway?” she asked after handing back the leather pouch he now tied around his neck. “They’re creepy. Wanna know what they did to me?”

  “You looked at them?!” What little color he had, drained from his face.

  “Duh. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “You should not have done that.” He clutched the pouch firmly against his chest. The thought of her actions agitated him.

  “Chill! It was an accident. Nothing happened, all right?” That wasn’t necessarily true. Strange things had happened, leaving her thoroughly freaked out. At last he nodded, putting the subject to rest.

  Since she’d trashed his clothing, she raided her dad’s closet. There she found a T-shirt and sweatpants large enough for a man of his muscular stature. Once he was dressed, she escorted him into the kitchen to cook breakfast. At first he didn’t talk.

  “Can you at least tell me your name?” she asked after placing a glass of orange juice in front of him.

  He drank half the glass in a matter of seconds before speaking, “My name is Cyrus.”

  “Nice to meet you, Cyrus. I’m Claire.”

  “Well met, my lady.”

  She snorted. My lady? This guy…

  Cyrus drained his glass of orange juice before his regard returned to her. “Can I trust you, Claire?” His gaze w
as intense, as if he tried to glean the answer from the depths of her mind. And perhaps he did. Out of nowhere, her headache multiplied ten-fold.

  “Really, Cyrus? You want to know if I’m trustworthy after all this?” She clutched her head as she spoke, gritting her teeth against the pain. He was the one who couldn’t be trusted. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be dead.”

  As quickly as it’d hit her, her headache receded. At the same time, his eyes widened. He looked down at his bandages then back at her. “This was you?”

  “Sha-duh! Who else do you think chased you out into a corn field in the middle of the night?”

  “I—I did not think. I am very hungry.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She went back to the frying pan to stir the egg scramble.

  At least he looked at her differently now, impressed by her kindness, or perhaps by her ability to save his life. All the same, he was a man of few words, so he said nothing else. It made him much more mysterious. Who didn’t love a mystery man? Especially one so devilishly handsome.

  As she cooked, she wondered what he was hiding. When would she get some answers? She restrained herself from questioning him because he was hungry, and if he was anything like her on an empty stomach, she didn’t want to make him hangry.

  His Sverak was reattached to his waist. Her mother would have had a fit seeing an armed stranger in her home. “You don’t need to wear that around the house, you know.”

  “I do apologize, my lady. I assure you, it is for our safety that I wear it.”

  Safety? What safety? Were they in danger? Was the coat rack going to come alive and strangle them? She pressed the matter, but received nothing more than an incoherent grumble, so she rushed to finish her culinary masterpiece.