“I’ll think of something? Are you serious? What—what happens to people who break your king’s laws?”
“It depends on the law. But for a crime like that, beheading most likely.”
“Are you insane?! You want me to risk my life?”
“There is no minimizing the task ahead of you. You would be treated as an outsider—tried in court as a threat to the kingdom—as a criminal. The law is the law. None are permitted to pass in any direction through the Gates. Exceptions can be made for those of our world, for reasons I am sure you can understand, but for those of yours? I’ve heard stories…” He did not look at her, but rather, watched the field intently, suddenly interested in the corn. He didn’t want to admit to her how dangerous his proposal was.
She crossed her arms. “You’re crazy. I’m not doing it. I’m not—you can’t make me.” So much for escaping into a magical world. It wasn’t worth her life.
“Isn’t the impending danger worth the risk, Claire? Think of all the lives you might save.” While he said this, he continued studying the corn fields, not once meeting her gaze. Something held his attention—a bird perhaps.
“Yes, I’ve thought about that—about the lives I might save—and the answer is still no.” Maybe she was being overly selfish, but anyone in her situation would refuse such a daunting task, right? “Cyrus, you’ll just have to push through the poison and hope that someone is coming to—”
“Be silent!” he hissed.
She was taken aback by his scolding tone. He still wasn’t looking at her. Instead he sat erect, scowling into the distance. Suddenly his expression changed. His iced tea glass dropped and shattered all over the porch. Then he looked at her, his eyes wide and fearful.
“Cyrus…” Her skin began to crawl.
“They are here. They have come for me.”
A dreadful feeling came over her. “What—what do we do?” she whispered.
They both jumped to their feet. He ripped the leather pouch from his neck and thrust it in her hands. “You, Claire, need to get inside and bolt the door. I will fight them. This is my fight.” His sword was now drawn.
She looked from the blade to him. “Fight? You can hardly stand! Are you insane?” She shook her head back and forth. “No. No way. I’m not going to hide like a scared little girl.”
“But you are scared. And you are a little girl. Now go!” The insult stung. Part of her wanted to defy him. “Claire! You must protect the Stones. I cannot protect you and them both. Do not make me tell you again. Get inside and stay out of sight.” His voice was suddenly powerful and commanding. Only then did she realize how much he truly towered over her. He was a force to be reckoned with.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and went to the front door. He did not wait to see her go but rather, strode quickly from the porch out onto the lawn. He displayed newfound strength.
At the front door, she looked out over the field. Her eyes scanned the tops of the corn stalks, sweeping back and forth. Then at last she saw it! The stalks of corn were subtly moving—something was advancing through the field towards the house. She stood frozen in place, watching while holding her breath. In her hand, she tightly clenched the warm leather pouch containing the Dragon Stones.
With each passing moment, her heartbeat grew stronger. The movement in the field came closer. Like a scene playing out in a movie, the stalks of corn parted and she felt a scream rise within her chest. Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle her cry.
The figures gliding towards Cyrus were assuredly Vodar in every sense of the word’s ominous meaning. Their bodies were covered in black oily smoke. The illusion created rotting cloaks to cover the true terror beneath. Tendrils of black smoke made up the ends of their ragged cloaks, which trailed behind them like slithering snakes. Everything they touched died. The grass itself dried up in their wake, turning scorched and brown.
Smoke oozed like fog through the holes in their shrouds, as if they were smoking and burning beneath them. These wraiths had wings too, transparent wings of smoke that sprouted from their backs. They held them limply at their sides. In total there were six, and each grasped a sword much shorter and narrower than the one Cyrus held at the ready.
She began trembling as she watched her beloved Cyrus. How did he expect to fight six of these things? How?! Suddenly she knew the answer. He couldn’t. There was no possible way. She was his only hope.
Without wasting another moment, she opened the door and slipped quietly inside. Cyrus may have commanded her to go inside and bolt the door, but a bolted door wouldn’t stop these creatures from hell. She raced to the dining room and pulled her mom’s Starry Night painting from the wall. Her hands trembled as she entered the safe‘s combination. At last she ripped the large metal door open and flung the stones inside. Her grandfather’s revolver was there—she grabbed it and the little case of bullets. Then she slammed the door shut, turned the dial, and replaced the painting.
Her father’s shotgun was upstairs in his closet—two guns were better than one. With speed she never thought she possessed, she took the stairs two at a time. Recovering the shotgun and the box of ammunition, she flew down the stairs. She nearly slammed into the front door as she came to a halt.
Cyrus was out on the lawn, surrounded by his predators. She allowed herself a quick glance as reassurance. He was still alive. The Vodar were circling him, closing in on him. He held his sword in position, waiting for their attack.
She dropped to her knees and began loading the shotgun first, and then the revolver. Her unsteady fingers dropped bullets everywhere, many of them rolling away from her across the hall floor, but she managed. She also stuffed some shotgun shells into her pockets for later. When the guns were loaded, she stood at the window and watched, still trembling violently.
She had never been so uncertain in her life. Should she storm out firing everything she had, or wait until the fighting started before bursting through the door? Did she possess the courage for either? Having courage meant acting in the presence of fear. She was afraid, terrified, but could she take action?
Damn it all to hell! Why did heroism seem so effortless in movies and books? How come being brave looked easy? It wasn’t easy! She wasn’t even sure if it was possible for someone like her.
Her heart pounded in her chest, but she kept her eyes glued to Cyrus. He kept moving, turning, looking back and forth over his shoulder, waiting for the first move. And then in a rush they attacked all at once. At that moment, an admiration welled up within her. Cyrus wielded his Sverak with effortless grace. He performed a memorized dance—one he had done many times before. Even though there were six of them and only one of him, he managed to slice and dodge and kick and duck as quickly as they did.
His bravery was contagious. She was driven to be valiant like him. After all, he didn’t run scared when he could have. He faced his enemy despite his fear. She wanted to be like that.
Quietly, she turned the knob of the door, opening it just a crack so that it still appeared shut. Then she turned her back on it, giving herself a final moment of clarity. She looked at the hall in front of her—filled with so many childhood memories—allowing her mind to go to its happy place. Then she tucked her grandfather’s single action revolver into the back pocket of her jean shorts. She would use the shotgun first. That meant she would need to be close enough to pack a punch.
Concentrating, she went through each of her dad’s drills in her head. Then she placed her non-firing hand on the hand stock of the shotgun, right in the middle just as Dad taught her. Her firing hand went on the grip of the gun, forefinger at the ready. The shotgun was double-barreled, so she would only get two shots before needing to reload. Each one had to count.
The sound of metal striking metal was ringing in her ears, echoing loudly. She tried to ignore it. “Now or never, Claire,” she whispered. “Now or never!” Taking one final deep breath and closing her eyes, she pushed her back up against the door to open it, then slipped through.
12
Battle Ground, Indiana
Claire’s appearance on the porch went unnoticed; the fight between the Vodar and Cyrus was intense. The logical place to target Cyrus’s enemies was from the top of the porch stairs. Trying not to draw attention to herself, she crept into position.
The wraith’s attack on Cyrus was well coordinated and relentless. Their advantage, six to one, meant constant vigilance on his part. Both of his hands were occupied wielding his Sverak, blocking and parrying every blow they dealt. His legs fought just as hard, dancing back and forth. His skill was nothing short of incredible, but how long could he possibly keep up with such excellence?
She placed the butt of the shotgun against her shoulder. Resting her cheek against it and positioning it along her line of sight, she squinted at the black figure furthest from Cyrus. If she missed, if she hit Cyrus…No, she couldn’t think negatively.
Planting her feet, she braced herself for the kick back. Then she counted in her head—three, two, one. The shot rang out, silencing everything. At first, she thought the world around her had frozen, but the wraith she had hit stumbled backwards. After that, everything switched to fast-forward. Cyrus moved quickly, taking advantage of his attackers’ surprise. He removed two heads from his nearest opponents in one clean sweep. She hardly had time to watch.
The black figure she hit square in the chest regained its composure and began speeding towards her, gliding across the grass like a ghost.
“Shit!” she cried. Fear flooded her system. Without hesitation she fired again, this time aiming for its head. The moment the bullet hit its head, it exploded in puff of smoke, disappearing. There was no time to be shocked.
“CLAIRE, NO! GET OUT OF HERE!” Cyrus roared while fighting with two others. She ignored him. The third remaining Vodar wraith began gliding towards her, its short sword ready to strike. Adrenaline coursed through her veins.
There was no time to reload the shotgun. She flung it away and grabbed the revolver from her back pocket. With trembling hands, she held it out in front of her. As the wraith approached, she took aim. Not a moment too soon, her thumb pulled back the hammer and her finger pulled the trigger. Several blasts rang out, one after the next, mixing with the sound of clashing metal swords. Each bullet struck true.
Like magic, this one exploded in a puff of smoke and disappeared just like its predecessor. Their heads were the sweet spot. It was almost too easy.
Unfortunately, Cyrus did not have the luxury of a gun. He was still wrestling with the remaining two wraiths. Their movements were a blur. She tried to take aim, but there was no way to get a clear shot, not without running the risk of shooting Cyrus.
She edged closer in hopes of distracting the enemies. If she could separate them, she could get a clean shot. As she moved, she kept the revolver aimed in front of her. She was ready to pull the trigger at any moment.
“NO CLAIRE!” Cyrus yelled again.
Just then, one of the two wraiths backed away from the fight. It moved quickly towards her. She did not hesitate. Two shots rang out as she fired at the demon’s shrouded face. It exploded into thin air.
Her stomach jolted with relief just as an anguished scream echoed in her ears. Her breath caught in her chest. “Cyrus!” she gasped, turning her attention towards him. His assailant stood over him, its short sword lodged deep in his abdomen. Cyrus was on his knees, his face aghast.
She didn’t think. She pulled the trigger. One bullet fired directly at the side of the Vodar’s hooded head. As she fired again, the revolver clicked and clicked and clicked. The barrel was empty. The demon disappeared in a puff, leaving wisps of smoke in its wake. She stood motionless, gasping for air.
“Argh,” Cyrus cried out. The sound of his torment brought her from her fearful daze. Her stomach twisted. She dropped the revolver and rushed to him, falling to her knees before him.
“Cyrus,” she whispered, running her fingers into his hair, caressing his head to comfort him. His Sverak lay on the ground beside him. Both of his hands were wrapped around the hilt of the Vodar’s weapon. It was all that remained of the terrifying creatures—each of their swords had disappeared with them, except the one lodged in Cyrus’s abdomen. Cyrus attempted to remove it, gasping with effort as he pulled and pulled. It didn’t budge.
“The…” he gulped, trying to speak. “The poison…” he choked. He was too weak to remove the weapon. “The poison—I can feel it. Get it out of me!”
Panic set in. What was she supposed to do? She met his wide eyes and saw anguish and defeat. He looked at her like she was the only person left in the world whom he could count on. His steadfast gaze strangled her heart. There was no one else. She was all he had left.
Fortifying her nerves, she placed her hands gently over his, wrapping her fingers around the grip of the sword. Then she pulled. The blade came free and dropped to the ground, releasing a hissing black smoke. It laid in the grass like a filthy enemy.
Cyrus coughed and sputtered before falling forward. She caught his fall, rolling him over onto his back. Each gasp of air he took was a precious gift of extended life—life that was quickly melting away.
His labor to breathe terrified her more than the wraiths did. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispered. “Everything is going to be okay.” She peeled back his blood-soaked T-shirt and flinched. The incision, though narrow, was deep.
Blood pounded in her ears. She ripped off her own shirt, leaving behind her camisole. Bundling up the fabric, she placed it over the wound. “It hurts,” Cyrus hissed. “Make it stop! Please!” There were tears seeping from the corners of his eyes.
“I know.” She stroked his hair. “I know it hurts. But—but only for a little bit. I’m going to make it stop. I promise! I’m going get you fixed up and feeling better. Just—just like last time, remember?” Her voice shook as she spoke, choking on half the words.
He would never survive the severity of this wound—not now—not in his already weakened state. However, her mind was no longer thinking rationally. So for her there was no question, she had to try and save him. Every second was precious. The shirt she used was already drenched in blood. She needed to get to her dad’s supplies quickly.
“Hang tight for just a minute,” she crooned. “I will be right back.” She tried to rush away, but he grabbed onto her hand. His eyes locked onto hers, desperate, beseeching her to stay.
“Please—please do not leave me.” His begging came in between his staggered breaths.
“But I’ve got to! It’s the only—it’s the only way I can take away the pain.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but fit of coughing left him shuddering.
“I will only be a moment. I promise!” She tried to pull away but he tightened his grip.
“Please—no. Not alone!”
“Cyrus, you’ll die!” she squeaked. Didn’t he understand?
“Claire! Claire listen—listen to me!” He coughed again, violently this time. Blood spattered his face.
“Cyrus…” she whimpered. Her stomach lurched into her throat. She could barely see him, her eyes were so blurred with tears. He wouldn’t let her leave—he wouldn’t let her save him. Out of everything, that hurt the most.
“Please, Cyrus,” she pleaded. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Please…”
“Listen—listen to me, Claire.” He struggled to speak. “I have little time. You must—you must deliver the Stones. Take them to King Talon.”
“I…” She shook her head. “I can’t!”
“You can!”
“But I don’t—”
“You must do this—” He coughed again. “Do this for me.”
She wanted to scream at him. Anger and sadness battled each other, beating against her insides. Why was he asking her to do this? It was bad enough she was forced to watch him die. She wanted nothing to do with the horrid Dragon Stones. They were the cause of all this horror. She hated them more than she hated anything.
; “Please Claire!”
Overwhelmed, she began to sob loudly. Her body heaved and shook and she collapsed onto his chest, wrapping her free arm about him, clinging to him as if holding on would keep him from slipping away.
“Cyrus! Cyrus!” Voices screamed in her mind, mirroring her own pitiful cries. For a moment, even her sobbing stopped. She listened, motionless from the shock of it.
“Cyrus!” the voices called again. “Cyrus!”
She sat up looked down at him, wiping tears away with her bloody hands. “Cyrus? Did you hear that?”
Cyrus wore a faraway expression. He ignored her question continuing on with his own pleas, “Claire, there is something—” He let out a long groan, tightening his hold on her hand. “Listen to me now. Do you…the names I gave you…the betrayers…the Nasks. Do you remember?”
“I…” She was too upset to think clearly.
“Their names, Claire…the king…you must tell him. Tell him everything…tell no one else. You must keep your mission secret. Consider everyone a suspect. His Nasks…everywhere.”
“Cyrus! Cyrus!” The same strange voices echoed in her mind. She tried to ignore the absurdity of it. The shock of his death was breaking her apart.
“Claire, promise me.”
“I don’t think…I can’t,” she cried. “I don’t have the courage for it!”
“Courage?” A faint smile appeared on his otherwise deathly face. “You were so brave today…so brave. I have never witnessed such courage…” His approval made her sob harder. “You are my last hope, Claire.” His voice was fading. Even now it was barely a whisper. “Please…I must let go…I must.”
“Let go? No! You can’t let go!”
“I cannot hold the poison any longer. It is…it is agony. Let me go!”
All she could do was shake her head violently.
“The names—do you remember the names?”
“No! Cyrus I don’t...”
Talon the Black Page 9
