Talon the Black

by Melissa Mitchell

  He shook his head. “You do not understand, do you?”

  She opened her mouth then closed it. Apparently, she didn’t.

  “I cannot simply transform into a dragon and fly home. Transformation takes magic, precious magic that has already been spent blocking the poison from spreading. Even the smallest act would break the barrier and kill me.”

  A frown pulled at the corners of her mouth. “So it is hopeless then…”

  “No, not hopeless.”

  “Not hopeless?”

  “There is the small chance that I might be rescued.”

  “You—you think someone will come for you? Here? Into my world?” A guilty thrill shot through her at the prospect of meeting other people like Cyrus.

  “My survival depends upon it.”

  She so badly hoped he was right, because there was nothing more she could do to keep him alive. At this point, all she could do was offer him refuge in the comfort of her home.

  She decided to skip work again that day, and the next. Cyrus slept a lot. In fact, she saw very little of him after their conversation, except at mealtimes (he never missed an opportunity for food).

  She was developing a fascination towards him. He was more complex than anyone she had ever met. This led her to watch him intently whenever she had the chance, especially when he wasn’t aware of it.

  She couldn’t help but notice certain things about him, like the way his eyebrows were often drawn tight. Something troubled him and she knew it had little to do with the possibility of the Vodar’s return. Sometimes he shook his head as if to disagree with an internal argument, as if he was deep in thought. But the moment he caught her gaze, his face would turn to stone again—unreadable.

  At times, he was overly polite. This made getting to know him difficult: He rarely appeared inclined to open up about personal stuff. Moreover, Cyrus was also very paranoid, frequently checking the windows, and many times “patrolling the grounds.” She always inwardly rolled her eyes when he insisted on doing this—usually before and after mealtimes.

  By the end of the third day, Cyrus’s hope of being rescued fizzled out. “No one is coming for me…” He said this as he gazed out the window into the growing twilight.

  After his realization, his mood changed from hopeful to downright morose. She tried to cheer him up when she could, and found it best to avoid any topic that had to do with his predicament; she especially never mentioned the Vodar. Instead she focused on asking him questions about things he was fond of.

  She had already learned a lot about Dragonwall doing this—geography, politics, magic. Cyrus told her much about the Drengr, too. That was her favorite topic of discussion. Whenever they talked about his world, she felt like she was being sucked into a fantasy story. In fact, she couldn’t help her longing; she wanted to escape her current life and live in Dragonwall. Things would be much easier for her that way.

  They were sitting at the dinner table on the fourth night when Cyrus told her that the Drengr took mates to be their riders. She nearly fell out of her chair. “There are dragon riders too?” She pictured herself on the back of a dragon, soaring high above the clouds.

  “Aye, there are Riders.” He rolled the wine around in his glass, staring at it intently. “We Drengr take life partners, mates, that become our riders.”

  This was yet another reason to love Dragonwall. “Do you have a Rider?” she asked, unable to contain her excitement.

  His face changed briefly. She saw a flicker of upset. “I do not. My Rider died.”

  “Oh…I’m…Cyrus I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”

  “There is no need to apologize.” He said very little after that, and even less with each passing day. But each day, she learned a little more, and each day, he grew weaker. She tried to make the most of her time with him. The difficulty was, Cyrus slept more and more as his health declined. His skin was now blackened up to his collarbone. It took significant self control to keep her gaze from staring at the skin around his neckline.

  Claire was preparing breakfast on the morning of the fifth day when she finally had enough of his sulking. His mood had reached an all-time low, and she was finding it difficult to take care of him in such a state. “Cyrus, I’m sure someone will come for you. If the king hasn’t heard from you yet, he will send others after you.”

  Cyrus looked at her, and the sadness in his eyes made her immediately regret saying anything at all. He finally sighed and shook his head. “I would not speak with such certainty. Daudagher will take me before my kinsmen do.”

  “Who?”

  “Daudagher—the god of death. Ultimately, he will decide my fate. Any hope that I harbor now is but a foolish hope.”

  “Don’t sound so dejected,” she said, frustrated by his negativity. “Hope is hope. Even a flicker of hope is enough to drive back darkness.”

  He offered her a small smile. “You are wise for one so young.”

  She eyed him with curiosity before handing him his breakfast, then she sat down beside him with her oatmeal specialty. “I’m not that much younger than you.”

  His entire expression changed, until his eyes danced with mischief. “Are you sure about that? How much are you willing to wager, Claire?”

  “Um, I don’t know. How about, if I guess right, you have to quit being so negative.”

  “And if I win?”

  “I don’t know. Name your prize.” She regretted the words the second they left her mouth. He’d probably think of something good.

  “If I win, then you must grant me one favor, which I may ask at any time.”

  She scowled. He was certainly raising the stakes. “That’s hardly fair, you already know how old you are.”

  “It changes nothing. How old do you think I am? You sounded certain a moment ago. Do we have a deal?”

  “Fine.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched but he didn’t smile. “Good. Now, how old do you think I am?”

  “You can’t be more than—wait, how many guesses do I get?”

  He considered it. “How about five. Does that seem fair?”

  “Okay. You can’t be any more than ten years older than me. I would say, thirty, thirty-two at the most.”

  He stared at her in silence, as if waiting for her to recant. At last, he gave her the opportunity to try again. “More than that. Many more.”

  She swore under her breath.

  “Okay, how about...forty?” Goodness, he couldn’t be any older than forty. And even still, if that was the case, he aged extremely well, or had a great plastic surgeon. She almost laughed at the thought.

  “Guess again, Claire. Three more tries.”

  Her jaw dropped. On a whim, she decided to overestimate and work her way down instead. “Sixty,” she said. There was no possible way in hell he was sixty. He was totally thirty and pretending otherwise.

  “Again.”

  “I don’t think so! You’re lying.”

  He shook his head. “I would not lie about something as trivial as my age.”

  “Ha! Well you’re not a woman, are you?”

  “Verily so. Another guess?”

  “Fine. A hundred years old.”

  “No. Wrong again. Last try. Use your guess wisely.”

  She chewed on the skin of her lower lip, thinking about her next answer. “All right…You are three hundred years old.” There was no way, no effing way.

  “Close, but no.”

  Her eyes widened. “Tell me then.”

  “Three hundred and thirty-six years of age.”

  “Impossible!” She knew he wasn’t lying, but that didn’t make it any easier to believe. In books, vampires and werewolves were generally immortal, never aging as they grew older. Why not the Drengr?

  “We are not immortal,” Cyrus said when she voiced her theory. “We simply age slowly. Most in my race can live to a thousand years or more.”

  “Wow,” she breathed.

  “Oh, and I win.” He looked smug.

 
; “Yeah, yeah. You win.” What kind of favor was he looking for anyway? She’d already done plenty for him. Eager to know, she asked.

  “I have not yet decided. I will inform you when I do.”

  “I’ll be in suspense until then.”

  “I do not doubt that.” He offered her a smirk before getting up to stand in front of the kitchen window. He stood there for at least a minute before she spoke. “You really think the wraiths will come back for you?” That was what he was looking for, wasn’t it? “And, in case if you’ve forgotten, you still haven't told me why they are after the Dragon Stones.” Her voice was low as she pointed this out.

  Cyrus turned to face her, his expression grim. “The Vodar are after the Dragon Stones because the Dragon Stones have the power to destroy my kingdom, and I’m not going to let that happen.”

  8

  Battle Ground, Indiana

  Claire felt her mouth fall open as her jaw dropped. When Cyrus fell into her life, she thought his death was the toughest problem on her hands. Now she realized that something more was at stake—an entire kingdom relied on the safety of the Dragon Stones—Dragonwall was in danger. Cyrus’s news was a lot to process.

  In a few short days, she had learned enough about Dragonwall to fall in love with the fantastical world—a world she had never seen and struggled to imagine. And even though it may not have been her world, she felt protective towards it. “Why do the wraiths want to destroy Dragonwall?” she asked.

  “It is not they who want to destroy it. Vodar wraiths have no desires, save to be left alone in their disgusting wasteland of Undirfold. But come now, let us save such grim matters of discussion for another time. I must rest and let my breakfast settle.”

  “Seriously Cyrus?” His avoidance frustrated her. She was done playing nice. She wanted some answers. “After everything I’ve done for you. You asked me to keep your existence a secret, so I have. I’ve fed you. I’ve clothed you. I’ve given you a place to stay. I saved your life, for goodness sake. The least you can do is quit being so secretive about everything to do with how you got here, and just tell me what's going on. If we're both in danger, then I have a right to know. Besides, what have you got to lose by telling me?”

  He sighed. “Very well. I will tell you, but on one condition.”

  “And that condition is?”

  “You must allow me to rest for now. I promise I will tell you.”

  “Later today?”

  “If you so wish.”

  She swallowed her frustration. “Okay. Go rest.”

  Instead of going to his room, he went into the living room and sat down. She watched him from the shadowy hallway, wondering if by rest he meant, turn into a living statue. Instinctively, she went to the coffee table and picked up the remotes to the television and stereo system.

  “Wanna watch some T.V. while you sit here doing…nothing?”

  “What is tee-fee?” He looked up at her.

  “This.” She grinned, turning on the television to flip through a few channels. Wound forgotten, Cyrus sprang from the couch as though it were a pincushion then grimaced in pain. His obvious discomfort was quickly replaced by a look of disbelief. Sometimes she forgot how little he knew of her world.

  “Kiaya’s Harvest! What in the name of all gods is that thing?” He pointed at the television like it was a monster. His bewilderment was absolutely hilarious. Her eyes watered as she held back laughter.

  After flipping through some channels, she settled on an action movie—Bruce Willis’s Die Hard. It was the original, an absolute classic by her standards. The movie was in the middle of the shooting scene where John McClane gets busy machine-gunning the baddies whilst running all over broken glass.

  Cyrus moved over to the television with excitement and examined it. “There are people inside,” he muttered to himself. “How did they get in there?” He looked behind it, then back at the screen, then behind it once more. When he decided it wasn’t a window, he got down on his knees to watch, his face inches from the screen. He couldn’t take his eyes off the action-packed sequence playing out.

  “You know, it’s bad to watch that close,” she warned him, completely amused by his behavior. “You’ll burn your retinas out.” He was hardly listening. Instead, he raised his hand and laid his palm across the screen to touch it.

  “Amazing,” he muttered. “Your world never ceases to surprise me.” He continued his assessment. She stood by for a little while, letting him have his moment. He would probably sit there all day if she let him.

  “Come on, Cyrus. Come lay down. You can watch from here,” she said. He followed her instructions and moved back to the couch to lie down.

  She went upstairs and took a seat at her computer. Another day of tedious job applications awaited. Today was technically her official day off, even though she’d skipped work all week. Keeping Leah and her boss off her back had become an annoying task. She loved Leah; her best friend meant everything to her, but she’d promised Cyrus that she would keep his existence a secret.

  After he disappeared, she would tell Leah everything, but not until he was good and gone. She silently prayed that by gone, he would be rescued, not…She shook her head. Thinking about his death was too much.

  When lunch rolled around, Cyrus was asleep on the couch, so she turned off the television and left him a sandwich on the coffee table. The fridge was nearly empty: Cyrus had eaten her out of house and home. She left him a quickly scribbled note and took off to the grocery store, but only after recovering her car, which sat unused on the side of the east field for the last five days. And since it was stuck in the dirt, she had to use the tractor to unstick it.

  When she returned, she found Cyrus awake, feasting on the food she’d left. She quickly put away the groceries and took a seat in the arm chair to watch him. He paid her little attention as he scarfed down the remainder of his sandwich. Then he stretched out once more on the sofa, sighing contentedly, and fell asleep. In all that time, he didn’t give her a single word. She was forced to take a deep breath and remember that patience was a virtue.

  It wasn’t until the end of their dinnertime feast—and feast it was because she’d pulled out all the stops—that he finally addressed the question he promised to answer during breakfast. He began by telling her about a secret mission given to him by his king, and how it had gone terribly wrong. “King Talon believed the stones were threatened. He sent me to retrieve them before they fell into the wrong hands. All along we believed this thief was merely a minor threat. We had no idea what he was capable of.”

  He talked about his journey into the Gable Forest, an enchanted forest where the Stones were hidden for years immeasurable. The Gable Forest was a place where Sprites lived. These beings were considered mysterious to those of Dragonwall because they never ventured beyond their forest. Cyrus’s description made her think of elves.

  After Cyrus obtained the Stones, Cyrus left the Sprite city of Esterpine and began his trip home. “I believed all was well. I believed my mission was a success.” He sighed; his face grew troubled. “I was not prepared for what happened next.”

  He was then confronted by the thief. “He goes by the name of Kane.” She felt her brow crinkle as she heard the name. It left her feeling gross inside, as if the name itself possessed evil.

  “Kane is old, far older than any of my kind, and he is powerful—capable of summoning Vodar from the depths of Undirfold. In truth, I am lucky to be alive after facing him.” He shook his head, clearly surprised to have escaped with his life. “He will do anything and stop at nothing to obtain these stones.”

  “But why?” she asked. “Why does he need them to destroy your kingdom? How exactly do they work?” Part of her was afraid to know.

  “There are five stones in total. I have two. If all five are brought together, my race will be finished. We will become nothing more than a memory and a monument to the landscape.”

  “You’ll all die?! Cyrus, that’s horrible!”


  “When the Dragon Stones are brought into contact with each other, every living being of draconic descent will turn back into the stone forms from whence we originated.”

  “Stone? But that would suggest that dragons were made from—”

  “From stone. Yes. We were—the first dragons were. Or so the chroniclers have written.”

  “And he wants to do this to you? This Kane person? He wants to kill all the dragons?” Kane sounded like the epitome of a storybook’s perfect villain. Dragons were such beautiful creatures. Cyrus was noble and kind. She assumed that all were like him. Why would anyone want to kill them?

  Cyrus was silent for a moment before he shook his head. “It would seem so at first, but I had a deeper glimpse into Kane’s plans. While it is true that he could easily destroy us with all five stones, he could also exert great power over us simply by possessing them. There is not a single living soul that can attest to the scope of capabilities that wielding the stones will bring.”

  “So Kane wants power.” It made sense; all evil people were hungry for power.

  “Andalynn sem haldai an Gorrkevi valdi an dreki.” Strange words rolled off his tongue.

  As he spoke, the words echoed in her ears, almost familiar, as if she had heard them before. “Dreki,” she repeated. “It was written on the the back of the coins you gave me. But what does it all mean?”

  “It means, ‘He who holds the Stones controls the dragons.’”

  She spent a few moments processing his words. If someone gained the ability to control all of dragon kind, how would any one stand against them? The night she had held the Stones, one feeling dominated all others—power. No wonder keeping these remaining stones away from Kane was such a big deal.

  “He can’t have them, Cyrus.” Her heart pounded as she spoke. Passion for Dragonwall welled up inside of her. “You’ve got to protect them, no matter what.”

  “Aye. This I know. Why do you think I fled Dragonwall through the Gate?”

  Cyrus knew such a thing was against the kingdom’s laws. But the law—old as it was—was not a good enough excuse to let the Stones fall into Kane’s hands. He had no other choice.