Heart of a Dragon dc-1

by David Niall Wilson

  "It is perfect," he said.

  Jake nodded. He held one corner of the canvas to the wall. Snake stepped up and placed a nail against the canvas, then drove it home with shiny metal hammer. Jake moved to the other side and lifted the canvas until it lay flat against the wall, and Snake pounded in a second nail. Then he did the same for the two bottom corners. The canvas was nearly four feet wide and another three tall.

  Salvatore stood in front of it and stared at the white empty space. He closed his eyes, and summoned that other place…that dark place with its impossibly tall walls, the ocean waves crashing, and the moon silver gray behind banks of clouds. The sound of the table's legs squeaking on the floor brought him back, but his mind remained in a fog.

  "It's time," Martinez said.

  "Time?" Salvatore answered. "Time for what?"

  Martinez unrolled the tube of red paint. He turned to Salvatore.

  "It will be red. Is that not true?"

  Salvatore nodded.

  "This is special paint," Martinez went on. "All of the colors that I mixed for you are special but this…"

  He turned and stroked the tube of paint, gazing at it thoughtfully.

  "This is something more," he said at last. "This is a very special hue, a color named for one of the elements. They call it the Rojo Fuego."

  "Fire red," Jake said softly. "That means Fire Red."

  Martinez nodded. "Exactly." He turned to Snake. "We should leave him now. There isn't much time left.

  Salvatore was about to protest, to tell them that he had plenty of time, and that he didn't mind them being there, but he couldn't quite drag his mind out of that other, darker place. He heard a sound, like the steady beating of great wings. He thought, maybe, that Snake had said something more, or possibly Jake…but he could make out none of the words.

  He turned back to the canvas, and a moment later he had a piece of charcoal in his hand. He made the first stroke of dark black outline on the pristine white, maybe the second, and then it faded. The walls stretched up before him, endless and unbroken, and the tide rushed in at his back. There were no stars.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  There were more dragons in the sky than Salvatore had ever seen at one time. They dipped in and out of the clouds, dove toward the water and soared over the walls of the dark city. He stepped across damp stones to the wall, and turned right, as he had on his previous visit. This time, something had changed.

  Ahead he saw something jutting from the sand, turned perpendicular to the wall. At first he couldn't make it out, but as he approached, he saw that it was an easel. He'd never owned an easel, and he'd only seen them through the windows of art supply stores, but he knew what it was. He stepped closer, and saw that there was a small round-topped table beside it, it's legs embedded in the damp sand.

  The moonlight was bright, and the canvas on the easel shone brightly in the silver light. Salvatore stepped closer. The shadow of something immense passed overhead, and he shivered. He glanced up, but was too slow. The very tip of a serpentine tail disappeared into the clouds above, just as they floated across the face of the moon.

  He ran his fingers over the canvas. The charcoal outline he'd begun was there. The canvas was stretched tightly over a frame, not nailed to a wall as he'd first seen it, but there was no doubt the basic form was Snake's dragon.

  On the table, Salvatore saw the palette, the three tubes of paint, and the small chunk of charcoal. He took the charcoal and turned to the canvas. The shadow returned overhead, but he ignored it. He drew a sweeping line, and the connection between his fingers and the canvas, the painting and the dragon snapped into place.

  His hand flew across the canvas, only lightly touching as he filled in the outline and created the course his brush would follow. He heard waves crashing on the beach behind him. It felt and sounded closer than he remembered it. It seemed as if any moment salt spray would drop across his shoulders and dampen the ends of his hair where it brushed his collar in back. He thought it might splash the canvas as well, but that was the only thing he could see clearly, and there were no invading droplets.

  Above him, the dragons continued their wild dance through the clouds, but he ignored them. He knew that any one of them could have dropped from the sky and smashed the easel, the canvas, and his small body to the ground. He felt that they would not — or that they could not — that they were in some way bound by the work itself. He also knew that if he pulled back, faltered, or allowed anything to truly distract him, he would forsake that bond, and that protection.

  When the outline was complete, he set the charcoal aside. In that instant, just before he took up the brush, there was a violent rush of wind. He stood his ground and dipped the brush into the red paint. The silence was shattered by a scream of rage. The beat of leathery wings vibrated the air overhead, and the sand at Salvatore's feet shifted and sifted over his feet. He stood as still as possible, and pressed the brush to the canvas.

  He did not look up to see, but he knew that, in that instant, the dragon soared back into the clouds, and was gone. There was something different about the red paint, something powerful. As he stroked it along the length of the dragon's curling body, heat emanated from the canvas. Sweat beaded on his brow. Even when it trickled into his eyes, burning and blurring his vision, his hand was steady.

  He filled in the darker reds, moved through shades of coral and blended bright to dark as the dragon came to life. He knew that he could have stopped, looked up, and caught sight of his subject, but he already knew the dragon, and he sensed that it knew him as well. Something was different this time. Something had disrupted whatever thin cloud he passed through from one world to the next. Whatever it was, the dragons were restless, particularly the giant red one — the dragon he now painted.

  As Salvatore worked, lights flickered to life and glowed in the highest windows of the city beyond the walls. The dragons soared in and out of the clouds, and though he felt them dive near again and again, they did not swoop down as they had in the past to lift him. Something prevented it. Something in the red of the paint, he thought. He had thought he would have to highlight with white paint to catch the way moonlight rippled over the great beast's scales, but it came easily. The air of this place lent power to the paint. He worked steadily up the body from the tail, moving toward the head and the eyes. Before he finished, he hesitated. He stepped back, just for an instant.

  He studied his work. The dragon was so close…so nearly perfect. It would only take a single stroke of the brush to complete it. As he stared, the sky opened up with a roar of wind and sound that nearly crushed him to his knees. He threw back his head and saw the red dragon. It dove straight at him, dropping at impossible speed with a scream of rage and defiance. Salvatore still clutched the brush. He met that dark gaze, and held it. He reached up and dabbed the final bit of Rojo Fuego onto the canvas.

  The action took no more than a second, but in that time Salvatore released himself to the dragon. He knew the dive was too steep. It would crash into him, crush him into the sand, and there would be an end to the visions. The brush dropped from numb fingers and he followed, dropping flat on the sand.

  He closed his eyes and waited for the impact that never came. Somehow, as the painting came to life, the creature flattened its dive. It came so close that its wings raised a cloud of damp sand to choke Salvatore's breath and blind his eyes. As it passed, it gripped him tightly in massive talons and lifted him skyward. Its wings beat like huge tents in a high wind, and it screamed. Salvatore rubbed at the grit and sweat in his eyes and fought to regain his site.

  He opened his eyes, and the city spread out beneath him. The towers rose so high their uppermost spires brushed the clouds. There were lights in the windows. They glowed, each a different hue. The streets, if there were streets between those massive structures, were lost in vast shadows near the ground. The clouds roiled, caught in the grip of a storm that raged and slashed at the city with wind and rain. The waves far belo
w crashed against the rocky beach and pounded at the sand, as if trying to reach the stone walls.

  Salvatore saw all of this in the few seconds it took the red dragon to rise and flatten out its flight beneath the lower edge of the clouds. He looked down from above at the uppermost spire of the city. Red light flickered in the windows. The dragon swept back its wings, and they stopped in the air, just for a second, directly above that tower.

  Salvatore opened his mouth, as if he might speak, but in that instant, the dragon released him. His breath was sucked from his lungs by the speed of his fall. He tried to scream, but couldn't force the air from his lungs. He approached the tower so quickly it grew from a tiny speck to a huge, stone edifice in the span of a heartbeat. For the second time in only a few minutes, he closed his eyes. Darkness enfolded him and he fell into it with a choked sob.

  ~* ~

  Snake stepped into the room as he saw Salvatore topple. He moved quickly, arms outstretched. He caught the boy just before he hit the floor and lifted him easily. He saw the brush on the floor and was oddly drawn to a splotch of red paint. Then he raised his gaze to the canvas, and stood very still. He rose, still holding Salvatore in his arms, and stared.

  "My God," he said. "My God, Sal, look what you have done…"

  He still stood there, staring, when Jake entered, took Salvatore from his arms, and carried the boy to his bed. Without another word, Jake slipped back out of the room. When he closed the door, Snake still stood, one hand outstretched toward the canvas. The air in the room felt uncomfortably warm, and the eyes of the painted dragon glowed like red hot coals.

  Chapter Thirty

  As the circle closed around them, the world beyond it became a murky haze of blurred images. The sky was clearly visible if Donovan stared straight up. It was like standing in a cylinder of smoke stretching toward the stars.

  Amethyst struggled fiercely against her bonds, but she was tied tightly. They had gagged her to be certain she couldn't disrupt the ritual, and at least one of the tall, bald servants remained close by her side at all times. Anya Cabrera sat in her makeshift throne, overseeing the ritual. Donovan kept an eye on her, but she seemed not to have noticed him. He wasn't worried about the Escorpiones who were still possessed; he had the pendant Amethyst had given him tucked in beneath his shirt. His spell was holding, as well, though he had no way to know how long it would be effective. So far none had noticed him.

  He moved slowly toward the outer edge of the circle. To release Amethyst he knew he'd have to get around behind her; no easy feat with so many of Anya's followers milling about. A drumbeat rumbled to life, and what had been a somewhat disorganized mob coalesced into a sinuous, moving line of bodies. They spread out and formed a third concentric ring. Amethyst fell just outside that ring, and Donovan managed to slip beyond the dancers just as they closed the gaps. They danced in odd, disjointed steps that somehow fit the pounding on the drums. As they passed by Anya Cabrera, she handed each a bottle. They were identical this time, dark glass that seemed black in the firelight. Each man tipped his bottle up, took a long swig of the contents, and then continued around the circle.

  Donovan watched his steps carefully as he moved toward the rear of the stake. Everyone else within the boundaries of the circle was involved in the dance except for Anya and Amethyst. The guardian who'd stood at Amethyst's side had been drawn into the dance with the others. All Donovan had to do was stay as close as possible to the outer ring without touching it.

  Then the first of the dancers, one of the bald servants, drew forth a wickedly curved blade. He flicked it around his fingers and hands deftly, almost like Japanese Hibachi chef getting ready to dice chicken. The silvery metal glittered in the firelight. Donovan held his breath. The big man was very close to Amethyst. The dancer drew back his arm and spun. The motion was sudden and graceful, and Donovan only bit back his scream with a desperate clench of his jaw. The blade spun down past Amethyst's chin and barely missed cutting her breast as it sliced cleanly through her jacket. The cut was clean, and as they passed, the others reached out, some flicking at her with fingernails, others gripping and tugging. The jacket was shredded in a matter of moments, and the man with the knife approached for a second time.

  Amethyst wore a form fitting top and tight jeans. Her eyes glittered with anger, but she was tied securely, and there was nothing she could do as the drums pounded out their rhythm, and the dancers pranced and whirled past her in an ever faster, ever more violent circle of motion and color.

  Donovan sped his pace, but there were only a scant few feet between himself, the outer circle, and the dancers. If one of them bumped into him, either the spell would break, or they'd find him. Then he'd end up tied on the far side of the pole if he couldn't fight his way out.

  The key was getting Amethyst free. When Los Escorpiones had rushed the circle from the inside at the junk yard, it had broken like so much smoke. Donovan thought the same would be true here. The circle was meant to keep things out, not to keep them in. The ritual was essentially identical. He just had to make sure they were ready to make their break before that circle was broken. He had no intention of allowing the ritual to reach its conclusion, but given the choice between that and Amethyst, he was ready to move quickly.

  The dancers finished their circuit, and the big man with the knife drew closer. Donovan tensed. He had only seconds to make his decision. Move and try to get Amethyst free, or trust that the knife would not cut her throat, or worse. He had no illusions about her intended fate. Anya Cabrera intended to sacrifice Amethyst before she was done; the only question was — when?

  Donovan held his breath The big man spun again. The blade slashed out with eerie precision. A tear appeared in Amethyst's blouse. Donovan heard her try to scream through her gag, but he hadn't cut her. The others followed along behind as before. Donovan slipped up close behind the stake, but didn't make a sound. He didn't breathe. The dancers passed, one after another, reaching out and tearing the shredded fabric of Amethyst's closing until it fell away to the sides.

  Very carefully, Donovan slipped a thin blade from his pocket and began to saw on the ropes binding Amethyst's wrists to the stake. He leaned closer, took a deep breath, and spoke as softly as he could almost directly into her ear.

  "If you scream or speak they will kill us both. I'm cutting your wrists free. Don't move them."

  He continued to saw at the rope. He felt Anya stiffen, just for a second, and then, as if nothing had happened, she continued to struggle and fight to speak through the gag. He breathed a bit easier and worked harder at her binding. It was taking too long. He slipped the blade back into his pocket and fished out a small vial of white powder. He uncorked it and sprinkled a little onto the ropes, letting it sift into the knots. He squatted quickly and did the same for the rope binding her ankles. When he was satisfied, he corked the vial, slipped it back into his pocket, and waited.

  There was a point at the end of the line of dancers, just before the big man made his next circuit, where there was a gap. The two ends of the line were like the head and tail of a writhing, whirling snake. One of the men on the far side of the circle suddenly flung his head back and screamed. He twitched crazily, his arms and legs moving in ways they were never meant to, and the line slowed. They didn't stop their dance, but as the spirit took one of their own, they accommodated the motion, making it part of the music and the ritual.

  In that moment, Donovan moved. He slipped around to the front of the stake, standing scant inches in front of Amethyst. She knew he was there, but could not see him. He saw the fear in her eyes. He also noticed she was now naked from the waist up, and despite their circumstances, he smiled.

  Then the line moved again, and the big man was dancing in slow, mincing steps straight at them.

  Donovan closed his eyes. He imagined the white powder pouring into the knotted ropes. He imagined them slipping and sliding free. In a soft whisper, he spoke a single word.

  "Libre."

  Several t
hings happened in a very short span of time. The ropes went suddenly slack. Amethyst, not expecting the sudden release, toppled forward. Donovan caught her in his arms, and without a word turned toward the outer circle.

  Behind him he heard a disruption in the music. He heard Anya Cabrera screeching for someone to stop him. In that instant, his spell was broken, and they saw him, but it was too late. With a scream of his own, he dove through the smoke of the outer ring and broke the circle.

  The effect was instantaneous. The smoke disappeared in thin wisps, leaving the circle, the dancers, and Anya Cabrera in plain view from the street beyond. Donovan didn't hesitate. He clutched Amethyst to his chest and ran for the alley. He had the element of surprise on his side, but that advantage lasted only seconds. Before he hit the alleyway where the portal lay, he heard heavy footsteps pounding behind him.

  "Put me down," Amethyst hissed. "I can walk. We'll move faster."

  Donovan clumsily lowered her to the sidewalk. She lurched forward, caught her balance, and then the two of them ducked off the street and out of sight.

  "Wait," Donovan said.

  He hit the short staircase, and concentrated. He took a step down, and then another, then one back up and three down. The pattern was invariable, and it didn't matter if Hell itself was pouring in at their back, there was only one way he knew to open the door. It wasn't one of those he normally used, so he had to depend on the more generic key he'd first discovered. He stepped forward again, ignored all sound, and all thought but the pattern. One more down, four back up, and he reached back.

  "Now!" he cried.

  They dove down the stairs and into the shadowed alcove below. The doorway shimmered, then opened, and they stepped through. There was a horrible screeching sound behind them. Donovan ignored it and took Amethyst by the hand.

  "Run," he said.

  They rushed down the ancient passage, watching stairs and portals pass on either side, and ignoring them.