by Bruce Blake
A spell. A trap.
“Elyea!” He sprang forward, reaching her in three strides, and grasped her shoulder.
“It’s so beautiful,” she said, voice distant. “So beautiful.”
Khirro spun her around, looked into her deep green eyes; they stared back blankly and he wondered if she saw him. He shook her and recognition seeped back into her face.
“What are you doing?” Annoyance tinged her tone.
“It’s a spell. Another trap.”
She twisted her head to look over her shoulder at the dragon, then back at Khirro. He saw she understood. She buried her head against his shoulder.
“I thought I could have it.” Her voice muffled in the cloth of his tunic. “It beckoned me, offered itself.”
“It’s all right. Go warn the others. If they know, they won’t be affected.”
She nodded and went to the tower sneaking another glance at the dazzling statue. Khirro watched her stay close to the wall as she disappeared around the curve. He gazed back at the dragon but this time, instead of seeing riches, the blood red stone seemed solid fire waiting to be unleashed. He moved closer, staring at the black veins within as they seemed to pulse and pump. He blinked twice to dispel the trick of the light.
It’s ash. He took another step. Ash flows through the veins of a dragon, not blood.
He stalked a cautious semicircle around the statue, starting in front and ending near its tail, staying ten yards away the whole time. Snow crunched beneath his feet but the ground lay bare and muddy a few yards out from the statue. The dragon crouched halfway between sitting and lying down, its belly not quite brushing the ground. Khirro stared hard, imagining he saw bones in there, the remains of its last victim. He was kneeling, peering beneath its hanging belly, when the others rounded the tower.
“This is your dragon, Khirro?” Ghaul said with a laugh. “It doesn’t look so dangerous.”
“It also began as a statue in my dream.” Khirro didn’t look up. There was something under there, something he couldn’t quite see.
“What is it?” Elyea asked.
“Dragon teats,” Ghaul commented; no one laughed.
“I think there’s an opening.”
He moved closer, feeling braver now his companions were there. A yard from the beast, he crouched again.
“There is. Right under its belly.” He shuffled closer, mud splashing his boots.
“Wait, Khirro,” Elyea called. He ignored her.
No more waiting.
He stretched for the opening. The dragon’s belly rested six inches above the opening—not enough room for a man to get to it.
There has to be a way.
Sweat rose on Khirro’s brow as he inched closer. His cheek touched the dragon’s belly; it was rough and pitted, not smooth as it appeared from a distance, the stone hot. The heat on his cheek intensified but he reached farther. Another inch or two and his fingers would reach the opening, maybe confirm it the entrance to the keep.
One of his companions shouted something he didn’t hear. Other voices joined the first, but he was so intent on reaching the hole, they might have spoken a foreign tongue.
A little farther. The voice in his head drowned the others out. Just a little farther.
The dragon’s belly lurched up, revealing the opening. Khirro saw wooden stairs disappearing out of sight before the red belly slammed down narrowly missing Khirro’s arm as he pulled away. His companions’ voices rose to fearful shouts. This time he heard and understood.
“Get away, Khirro! The dragon lives!”
Chapter Forty-Two
They saw the fortress wall rising against the horizon while they were still leagues away. To many, the sight instilled wonder and awe, but not to Therrador. The first time he visited, in his idealistic youth full of dreams for the future, he’d felt what others felt as he’d gaped at the wall standing fifty yards high and running the entire width of the isthmus—more than two leagues. The wall had endured for a thousand years, each stone brought by wagon from quarries across the kingdom. The immensity of the structure and the complexity of building it deserved awe, but years spent behind the wall caused reverence to erode into indifference.
“How hold the troops?” Therrador asked.
“The wall holds,” Sir Alton Sienhin replied from his right, his horse half a length behind.
“I didn’t ask about the wall,” Therrador said between clenched teeth. Traveling always made him distraught—too many times the trip ended at a fight. “The wall has stood a thousand years—I’m not concerned for the wall. How are the men?”
“It’ll be good for them to have their leader amongst them. It’s been difficult with Braymon gone. The officers do what they can to maintain morale and fight despair.” The sound of hooves on beaten earth filled the silence as he paused. “The constant rain of rocks and fire from the Kanosee does nothing to cheer their spirits.”
“They’ll have their leader soon.” Therrador shifted in his saddle, searching for a spot on his ass not yet sore. “We’ll be there by nightfall.”
“And the coronation, your grace?”
“The day after tomorrow. That will give enough time for news to spread.” He smiled to himself. “News the new king has arrived.”
They rode on in silence and Therrador thought about Graymon, wished he could have brought the boy, but a fortress during wartime is no place for a child. Certainly no place for the heir to the throne of Erechania. In two days, his son’s future would be assured and all those years of servitude would be paid in full. Therrador smiled again as his entourage rode across the plain, a cloud of dust billowing behind to mark their passing.
Torches flickered in windows dotting the wall of the Isthmus fortress as Therrador and his host rode through the gates, though there were few people in sight as they entered the bailey. Only soldiers and their support remained. Most farmers, merchants and other residents of the fortress had fled at the first sign of the Kanosee army crossing the land bridge onto the salt flats, many of them camping around the outskirts of Achtindel, the rest scattered to villages in the area. Only the greediest merchants remained to take the money of the more than ten thousand soldiers housed in the fortress, but in the large stronghold, even such numbers made it feel empty.
Therrador’s steed trotted down the stone boulevard, Sienhin and the rest close behind, horseshoes striking sparks in the dim light. Boulders lay strewn around, occasionally a house lay in ruins or ashes. He turned in his saddle to speak to Sir Alton.
“See this mess is cleaned up first thing. The men hear the catapult fire thumping the wall, they don’t need further reminders lying in the streets.”
“Yes, my liege.”
“And send for some whores from Achtindel. Offer them double if you must—even whores have a duty to their kingdom. If a man’s cock is happy, his head is clear. If his head is clear, he’s a better fighter.”
“Yes, my liege.”
They wound through the streets, passing men here and there who only looked up at them. Therrador gritted his teeth but reminded himself they didn’t yet know he’d be their king in a few days. When they reached the stables, Therrador dismounted first, followed by Sienhin, then the others. The stable hand took the reins from him, a smile upon his face.
“It’s good you came, Lord Therrador,” he said leading the big chestnut toward a stall.
“Lord for now,” Therrador said more to himself than the stable hand then turned his attention back to Sir Alton. “Take me to the fortress commander. I'll know from his mouth how we fare.”
He strode into the courtyard and scanned the area as Sienhin trailed behind. The state of the fortress disgusted him. Braymon would never have let it look like this, so neither would he.
“And then I’ll need to speak with the chamberlain. There are many arrangements to be made.”
Therrador breathed deep through his nose, smelled the scents of horse manure, burnt wood, and the sweat of the journey still damp on h
is body. Smells a soldier lived for and loved.
Chapter Forty-Three
Khirro tightened the straps of his shield around his left arm; it felt uncomfortable, awkward.
“The tyger said the seeker must face the guardian,” he said swinging the shield, testing the straps. “It’s the only way to gain entry.”
The dragon crouched over the opening, sides heaving, smoke spouting from its nostrils as it breathed. It hadn’t moved since Shyn and Athryn dragged Khirro away, but neither had it returned to its slumber. Gleaming emerald eyes stared at Khirro. Deep inside the translucent chest, he imagined a black heart beating, sending streams of ash coursing through its veins.
It’s alive. And anything that lives may die.
“This is foolishness,” Ghaul grumbled and pulled an arrow from his quiver. Not many left. “You’re no warrior, Khirro. What chance do you have fighting a dragon carved of stone?”
He nocked the arrow and drew the bowstring before Khirro could open his mouth to protest. The arrow sliced through the cold air to shatter upon the dragon’s breast. The beast threw its head back and roared, shaking the ground and shivering the trees. Smoke billowed from its mouth.
“Very brave, warrior,” Shyn said. “Are you trying to get us all killed?”
“Shut up. Someone has to kill the beast or we’ve come all this way for nothing.”
“It must be me.” Khirro tried to sound unafraid but his voice shook.
He was no warrior, Ghaul had that much right. Until the war, and then the water serpent—a kill more luck than killer instinct—he’d never killed more than pigs and chickens, and then only to fill his plate. But dinner rarely fought back. What hope did he have of slaying a dragon?
“At least give me the vial,” Ghaul said. “If you must sacrifice yourself on the whim of a dream, I want the reason I’ve been dragged across three countries and placed in so much danger to be safe.”
Khirro shook his head. “The vial stays with me. It gives me strength. And courage.”
Bale had named him bearer, so he must convey the vial to Darestat. If he perished, all else would be lost. The vial warmed his chest and he chuckled faintly to himself. Things were about to get much warmer.
Khirro adjusted his helm, drew the Mourning Sword, and stalked away from his companions. He didn’t look back for fear Elyea’s expression would melt his heart and what little courage he’d mustered. The dragon flicked its tail, canted its head to better see him. Khirro stopped some distance away, searching for a weak spot in the creature’s ruby skin, but saw no fault, crack, or opening. He crept around to the dragon’s rear, carefully remaining clear of its whip-like tail. The beast turned its head to watch.
Elyea and the others disappeared from Khirro’s view as he padded around the far side of the creature. It looked much the same as the other—solidly armored, impossible to breach. Coldness penetrated Khirro’s heart, his head felt light. How could he kill this thing? The only plausible opportunity was the most dangerous. The head. Maybe if he struck at the emerald eyes. But how to get past the mouth and the fire within?
Pacing a wide berth to the front of the dragon, Khirro stopped ten yards from the farthest point he judged its long neck could stretch. To his right, his companions stood, weapons drawn, halfway between the dragon and the keep. He almost laughed at the dagger in Elyea’s hand—so small compared to the beast. The dragon’s gaze followed his.
“The eye,” he called. The dragon’s attention flickered back to him. “Aim for the eye, Ghaul.”
In an instant, Ghaul nocked an arrow and drew the bowstring. The dragon stared at Khirro, green fire burning in its eyes. Ghaul’s bowstring twanged. The dragon flicked its tail and knocked the arrow out of the air. Ghaul loosed another and again the tail flashed. A lump formed in Khirro’s throat—the dragon hadn’t taken its eyes off him. Ghaul pulled another arrow.
“Save it,” Khirro said. He glanced at his companions. “It must be me.”
With the Mourning Sword held in front of him, Khirro willed his legs forward a step. His heart beat hard at his temples and in his throat, in his chest and the palms of his hands. The forest to his left with its snow dusted trees, and the tower and his companions to his right all disappeared as the world became nothing but the dragon with its teeth and claws and fire and him with shield and sword and vial. His breath rasped loudly in his ears, but he realized it was so because he heard no other sound. The dragon snorted, smoke spilled from its wide nostrils filling the air with the odor of brimstone. Khirro pushed his other leg forward. Steam rose each time he released his breath, mimicking the smoke seeping from the dragon’s nostrils.
Two more agonizing steps and the runes on the Mourning Sword’s blade began to glow dully. It smelled blood in the air, sensed the coming taste of flesh. Khirro looked from the dragon to the blade in his hand. The scrolling runes pulsated, writhing like snakes up and down the steel, their redness rivaling the dragon’s scales.
The dragon arched its back, threw back its head; an earsplitting roar reverberated skyward as though calling to the heavens themselves. Khirro covered his ears, knocking the shield against his head, momentarily dropping his defenses.
The dragon’s head shot forward, the roar still rumbling at the back of its throat, jaws snapping.
Startled but out of reach, Khirro stumbled back. Another roar tore the air. Khirro fell to his knees, hiding behind the shield. The beast reared its head, jaws gaped wide. Voices called to Khirro from a very long way away and part of him wanted to turn his attention to them, to leave this awful world where there was only him and the dragon that would kill him. But another part, a part he hadn’t known existed until he fell into the lake and faced the serpent on his own, ignored them. He climbed to his feet and moved the shield from his face.
Gaping jaws, rows of sharp teeth. Deep inside, at the back of the dragon’s throat, a spark flickered, tiny and dim but dangerous. Khirro knew what the small flame meant.
He pulled the shield in front of him and curled his body into a tight ball behind it as the flame hit. The force nearly knocked him to the ground. He closed his eyes, concentrating his energy and strength on keeping his feet—if he lost his balance, there would be no more fight. Sweat streamed down his face, trickled down the back of his neck. What they’d experienced on the boat earlier in the day paled in comparison.
The pressure against his shield eased and Khirro opened his eyes. The ground was bare and steaming for yards around him, the snow vaporized, the mud beneath turned dry and cracked. His shield glowed red-orange; the red on the Mourning Sword glowed more brightly than ever.
The force ceased. Khirro dared a look over his shield, careful not to bring his cheek too close to the red hot edge. The dragon’s head hung on its neck, its great ruby chest heaving. Khirro used the respite to creep closer. The cold air dimmed the heat radiating from his shield, but the Mourning Sword continued to glow fiercely. He took another step and the dragon reared back, howling. Khirro planted his feet.
This time, the dragon’s breath didn’t hit as hard nor last as long. When it stopped, Khirro rushed forward, closing distance before his foe recovered. His mind swirled, part of it taking control, part of it wondering what he was doing. If he stayed at a distance, the dragon would wear him down and he wouldn’t be able to counter. At close range, dragon fire was useless. He’d have to contend with tooth and claw, but he could attack.
He caught the dragon by surprise, getting within arm’s length before it reacted. The Mourning Sword struck it in the lower chest, shearing through ruby scales. The dragon jumped back screeching. Khirro glimpsed the opening hidden beneath it—decrepit wooden stairs disappeared into impenetrable darkness and the Gods only knew what lay beyond.
The dragon lunged forward, jaws snapping. Khirro dodged, its warm breath stirring the hairs on the back of his neck. The Mourning Sword flashed, seeming to act of its own accord, and pierced the dragon’s neck, spilling gray ash from the wound. The beast roared in pain as Khi
rro swung for its leg but it danced aside, impossibly quick for a creature of its size, and the sword cut empty air.
A huge paw crashed into Khirro’s back, razor sharp talons slashed his flesh and sent him flailing to the ground. The Mourning Sword slipped from his grasp and the old part of him—the coward farmer—flashed panic through his limbs. He fought it, clamored to reach the blade lying in the mud out of his reach. He rolled to his back, teeth grinding against the pain, and pulled his dagger—a needle compared to the dragon. The beast reared, air whistling into its lungs, and Khirro’s dream jumped to mind.
How did it end?
He saw the spark flicker at the back of the dragon’s throat and remembered the fire engulfing him in the dream, but did he survive? He struggled to position the blackened shield over himself so he wouldn’t find out how it turned out.
The ground shook under Khirro’s back but he resisted the urge to look around, see what caused the tremor. The dragon closed its jaws, cocked its head. Another quake, this time accompanied by the sound of stone crashing against stone. The dragon screamed and spit a pillar of fire over Khirro setting the trees behind him ablaze. The noise sounded again; the dragon coiled on its haunches and leaped into the sky, translucent wings spread wide. Talons dragged across Khirro’s chest as it took to the air; its tail lashed, narrowly missed his face.
And it was gone.
Khirro lay on his back, dagger extended, wondering what happened. Elyea appeared at his side, hugging him, the reflection of the fire in the nearby trees shone in the tears streaking her cheeks. She said something, smiled a strained smile, but Khirro didn’t hear, his mind was still occupied with the dragon and the noises emanating from the far side of the keep.
The dragon cried in anger, its howl mixed with another, more guttural noise. Wincing at the pain permeating his whole being, Khirro pushed himself to his feet, leaned on Elyea for balance. He stumbled away from the charred earth and the opening in the ground, unsteady legs carrying him toward the keep. Elyea grasped his hand but he pulled away.
