by Bruce Blake
“Khirro.” Shyn rushed to his side. “We have to get into the keep before the dragon returns.”
He shook his head. “You go. I have to see what’s happening.”
The skin on his face felt tight and hot. He could imagine how it must look, hoped he wasn’t burned like Athryn. He retrieved the Mourning Sword and shuffled around the tower. A hand caught him under the arm, steadying him—Shyn at his side.
“Ghaul will get the others down the stairs. I’ll ensure you get there, too.”
Khirro looked at him, too tired to smile, and nodded, then returned his thoughts to keeping his balance. They crept around the keep, the dragon’s shrieks prompting them on. More than one voice snarled and bellowed in answer.
The giants have caught up.
They rounded the curve of the keep and saw boulders strewn near the foot of the wall, rubble chipped from the tower scattered amongst them. Three giants—two males wearing bearskin loincloths and the female they’d encountered before—hurled stones at the dragon held aloft above them, the mighty sweep of its wings stirring the trees like a tornado’s wind. The dragon’s head cocked back and the tiny spark lit the depths of its throat. The giants shouted and growled, unaware of what the little flame meant until fire belched from the dragon’s jaws.
Flames engulfed one of the males and the giant’s war cry became a scream of agony. It stumbled into the forest, igniting shrubs and brambles as it went and the dragon followed flame with tooth and talon, diving at the others, slashing and raking, whipping its tail.
Khirro saw no more as Shyn drew him away only half-willingly from the battle. Pride swelled his chest—he’d stood against the dragon and lived where three giants would fall under its savage attack. Distracted, he stumbled on a stone fallen from the tower wall, but Shyn’s hand under his arm kept him upright, pulled him back from his self-congratulations. He righted himself and let Shyn lead him at a faster pace.
Ghaul stood at the top of the stairs leading into the ground, urging them on. As they hurried toward him, the warrior’s eyes strayed to a spot over their heads. His expression changed and he rushed down the stairs. A snarl echoed in Khirro’s head. He looked over his shoulder as the dragon rose high above the tower, ruby wings blocking the sky. The arm of a giant dangled from its claws.
A few more yards.
The air swirled around them as warm breath singed the hair at the back of Khirro’s neck. Shyn dove down the stairs pulling Khirro after him. Teeth gnashed, slammed closed like a clap of thunder, but he was out of reach.
Khirro ran down the dark stairs as fast as he dared but couldn’t help but glance back at the dragon’s head filling the opening, its green eyes blazing anger. Then the face disappeared, replaced by darkness.
And a spark.
Khirro leaped down the stairs, praying the bottom was close. His feet caught, pitched him forward. Abruptly, he saw every detail before him—the grain of the boards in the ancient stair, frost painting the earthen wall a sparkling white, his companions diving down a tunnel, out of sight. His world filled with light, then fire and heat, and finally darkness.
Chapter Forty-Four
The tyger was not the same as in the other dreams. The black and white striped fur which looked like it would be soft to the touch was gone. Instead, the tyger stalking a tight circle around him pulsed and flowed, its shape formed by fire. Khirro shielded his eyes from the light, but felt no heat. When it halted a few feet in front of him, he reached out a shaking hand and brushed its flaming whiskers, its blazing ears. It still didn’t burn him.
“Don’t be afraid,” it said, its voice a deep, pleasant rumble in his head. “We are one with the fire. It burns within us.”
Khirro stared at the beast, at the flames flickering in its face. “Am I dead?”
“No.” The great cat took a step forward, a fiery tongue flickered out and caressed his cheek. “I will heal you.”
“Thank you, King Braymon.”
“I am no longer King Braymon but the spirit that dwelled within him. I will remain so until the Necromancer restores me.” The cat paused, head titled. “But we will both always be of the fire, Khirro.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but the tyger and the dream dimmed like a taper nearing the end of its tallow: flickering, fading and finally going out.
The darkness of waking was a startling change from the light of his dream. For a moment, Khirro couldn’t remember who or where he was, but memory returned quickly: the keep, the giants, the dragon.
The fire.
A torch guttered at the edge of his vision; he shifted toward it, drawn to the flame. His body ached, kept him from moving much, so he fell back with a creak of armor. The smell of something burnt filled his nose.
“He is awake.” Athryn’s voice. The magician appeared over him, the torch in his hand reflecting flame in his polished metal mask. Khirro looked to see himself in its surface, see what damage the dragon had done, but the torch obscured his view. “Do not try to move.”
“Where are we?” Khirro croaked, his throat a desert, his words sparse water squeezed from the sand.
“In the tunnels under the keep,” Elyea replied kneeling beside him.
She stroked his forehead, brushed hair from it, and the burnt smell intensified. Her eyes didn’t stray from his. He blinked slowly, a vision of dragon fire filling his mind as his eyes closed. He snapped them open again, struggled to prop himself on his elbows but Athryn’s hand kept him in place.
“What of the dragon?”
“We are far enough into the tunnel neither the dragon nor its fire can reach us,” the magician told him.
“But it's perched on the exit,” Ghaul said, an edge to his voice. “We’re doomed to die here.”
“There will be another way out,” Shyn snapped.
Khirro brushed Athryn’s hand from his shoulder and pushed himself to a sitting position. It hurt. His skin felt as though it had shrunk two sizes. Elyea and Athryn each supported him under an arm and helped him to his feet.
“Are you okay to move?” Elyea asked.
“I have to be.”
Athryn nodded. “Elyea, help Ghaul and Shyn get ready while I change Khirro’s dressings.”
She kissed Khirro lightly on the cheek then went down the tunnel to join the two soldiers.
“How long have we been down here?”
Athryn shrugged as he unwound a bandage from Khirro’s chest. “It is hard to tell without the sun overhead. Perhaps two days.”
Two days!
Khirro wiped sweat from his brow though Athryn’s touch felt cool. He glanced down the tunnel at the others and saw they all wore their tunics.
It’s the burns making me warm. Or fever.
“How bad is it, Athryn?”
The magician didn’t look up. “Your wounds are clean. They heal quickly, more quickly even than the blood of the king healed them before.”
“No, I mean the burns. Do I...” He hesitated. “Do I look like you?”
Athryn stopped, raised his eyes to meet Khirro’s. No tone of accusation or offence entered his voice.
“No, Khirro. You are unscarred.”
He moved his head so Khirro could see his own features reflected in the mask: hair singed, eyebrows gone, but no burns. He sighed with relief—hair would grow back. But there was still the heat.
“I’m hot, Athryn. Do I have a fever?”
Khirro had seen many people in his village succumb to fever after they thought their wounds healed. A chill shook his spine. What mockery it would be to survive a dragon only to die of infection.
“You survived the dragon’s fire.” Athryn’s tone was hushed, his eyes gleamed behind his mask. “Not once, but twice.”
“That’s why I’m warm?”
Athryn tapped his finger against Khirro’s chest. “It gets inside and burns there.”
Khirro stared, wide eyes reflected and distorted in the contoured silver mask as he remembered the dream tyger’s words.
&
nbsp; “What do you mean?”
With a shrug, Athryn went back to changing Khirro’s bandages. “You saw what effect it had on my brother. We shall soon find out what it means to you.”
Chapter Forty-Five
The dragon landed heavily on the stone floor, teetered before toppling on its side; the impact snapped a wing from its body. It lay unmoving, feeling no pain, before small fingers wrapped around its middle and picked it up from the floor leaving the broken wing behind.
Graymon held the wooden dragon up to examine the damage. He looked from the carved dragon to the wing lying on the floor and sadness welled in his eyes, but he bit his lip. How could Gorgo, king of the dragons, fly with only one wing? What good was a dragon who didn’t fly? He looked at the toy, sadness turning to disgust at the useless, broken thing. No good to him or anyone now. Angry, he threw the dragon to the floor. It bounced once, the other wing separating from the body, and smacked against the wall.
The boy sank to the floor and sat cross-legged, head hung. If Da was here, he’d have fixed the king of the dragons.
Why did he go?
Nanny was no fun. She didn’t like to play and mostly left him alone—like now. Graymon rubbed at a smear of food caked on his trousers since lunchtime and wondered what to play now Gorgo was hurt. He got up and walked to the tapestry covering a hidden doorway and stood close, ear brushing the woven scene of wild horses galloping across the plain. No sounds.
Maybe nanny left.
She wasn’t very good company, but he didn’t want to be alone, either. He pushed the tapestry aside and peeked through the space between it and the wall. Nanny sat in Da’s chair snoring softly, feet up on the big red and white table.
Graymon let the tapestry fall back into place, relieved he hadn’t been deserted, but still with no playmate. He retrieved one of Gorgo’s broken wings, then the other, then slumped cross-legged and picked up the carven dragon. He held a wing against the body, the splintered ends fitting together like a puzzle. When he let go, it stayed in place until he moved the toy, then tumbled to the floor.
“Rrrr,” he growled as he walked the wingless dragon across the stone floor. “Rrrr.”
The half-hearted growl came out a shadow of its former self—the once ferocious beast would never be the same without wings. A dragon unable to fly was no more dangerous than a lion. Not that lions weren’t dangerous, he just already had a lion toy. Disappointed, he let go of the toy, leaving it standing on the floor, and glared at it.
He wanted his dragon back.
I want my Da.
He closed his eyes and sighed, fought to keep tears at bay once more. He didn’t want nanny to come in and find him crying. She’d get mad if she found him crying. Nanny didn’t like tears.
A scraping sound made Graymon forget his sadness. He opened his eyes expecting to see nanny or a guard standing in the doorway, but there was no one.
The boy glanced around his chamber, from unmade bed draped with red bedclothes that matched the frilled canopy, to wooden shelves cluttered with carved animals and tops and intricate toy soldiers, and at the armoire, so tall he couldn’t reach the clothes hung inside without help. Everything looked as it always did.
Movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention: one of the broken-off wings skittered across the floor. Graymon stared. He reached to pick it up but it skirted his grasp and crossed to where the dragon stood. The other wing followed, sliding and bouncing along until it lay on the floor beside its former owner.
Graymon opened his mouth, intending to call nanny, but giggled instead. What a wonderful trick the king of dragons had done. He leaned forward to examine the three pieces but they began to shudder, so he stopped. The wings rose from the floor, rotating and moving until their splintered ends lined up against the dragon’s body. The ends touched, glowed briefly with dim red light, and Gorgo, king of the dragons, became whole again.
Graymon clapped his hands and laughed. He didn’t think to wonder how his favorite toy had healed itself, only felt elated the dragons would have their king again and he his toy. He rocked happily back and forth, excited to play once more, but stopped when the dragon's wings flapped.
The wood creaked as the wings raised and lowered once. Graymon sucked in a sharp breath through his open mouth.
The king of the dragons never did that before.
The wings flapped a second time. Then again. The boy giggled. The dragon’s wings flapped harder and the toy rose from the floor, an inch at first, but its wings beat the air harder and it climbed higher.
Graymon’s laughter stopped as nerves nibbled in his tummy. Having a flying dragon appealed to him, but he knew toys didn’t move by themselves, not without gears and strings and keys to wind them. He stared as it hovered level with his head. The toy maneuvered until their eyes met. The dragon’s eyes held the same red glow that had fused its wings back together.
As he gawked at the dragon, Graymon noticed the figure standing on the bear skin rug by his bed. The person didn’t move. The hood of a black cloak was pulled down to cover its face while the cloak’s hem brushed the fur carpet; its hands were tucked into broad sleeves.
Graymon forgot the dragon toy. Fear seized his chest, climbed into his throat, but he swallowed hard around it.
Warriors don’t show others when they’re afraid, his father told him more than once. Not even little warriors like you.
He wanted to be a brave little warrior like his Da wanted him to be, but it was hard.
“Who...who are you?” Graymon’s throat wanted him to cry instead of ask questions.
“I’ll not hurt you, my prince,” the figure replied with the pleasant-sounding voice of a woman, one which would sound good if it took up a song. “The king sent me to take care of you.”
“Da?”
“Yes, your father.” Her tone soothed him, as though she crooned a lullaby. “He sent me to get you, to bring you to him.”
Graymon tilted his head as he looked at the figure; she didn’t move as she spoke. Da had warned him to be careful of people he didn’t know, but the prospect of seeing his father sooner than expected made him excited.
“But Da is far away,” Graymon said, excitement in his voice. “He went to where there’s a real war with real soldiers.”
The person knelt in front of him, though he hadn’t seen her cross the room, startling Graymon. He noticed he needed to pee.
“Your father wants me to take you to him right away.”
She took one hand from a sleeve and placed it on Graymon’s knee. He looked down and saw slender fingers ending in long nails painted many colors. Tiny pictures adorned each one. On one: a bunny; on another a fox was painted, then a flower and a sun. As Graymon looked at them, the bunny jumped from one nail to the next and the fox took up the chase, leaping in front of the sun, chasing the bunny past the flower. The boy gasped and giggled.
The black cloaked woman reached out a finger and placed it under his chin, raised his eyes to peer toward where hers would be if he could see beneath the hood. As if hearing his thoughts, she reached up and pulled the cowl back.
Graymon cringed, expecting something dead and decayed to appear from under the black cloth. Instead, long hair so yellow it appeared golden spilled from the woman’s head, cascaded over her pleasant face. Painted lips curled in a warm smile that reflected in her dark brown eyes.
“We must go.” She put her hand on Graymon’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. He pivoted his head, trying to see the pictures on her nails. “Your father wants to see you.”
“What about nanny?”
Graymon allowed the woman to help him to his feet. The king of the dragons flapped its wings and climbed higher until it came to rest on his shoulder. He smiled as the toy nuzzled his neck.
“Nanny is sleeping.” She took Graymon’s hand. “There is no reason to wake her. She will know you have gone to your father.”
Graymon stroked the wooden dragon’s ridged neck; it nipped playfully at his
fingers. He didn’t know who this woman was, but he liked what was happening with her around. It would be all right to go with her—Da sent her, after all.
“Will we be riding horses?” He liked horses, they were more fun than riding in a carriage. Warriors rode horses.
“No, I have a quicker way for us to get there, but you have to promise you won’t be frightened.”
Graymon looked into her brown eyes and smiled involuntarily.
“I promise.”
“Good. And you must be quiet so we do not wake nanny.”
He nodded, being quiet like she wanted. The dragon hissed near his ear and the boy stifled a giggle. This would be an adventure like a real warrior would have. His Da would be proud of how bravely he acted. Smiling, he looked down at his hand in the woman’s. Figures still danced across her painted nails, but the fox and bunny were gone. Instead, twisted men with skeleton faces and creatures he didn’t want to see writhed from nail to nail. He looked away, suddenly regretting his promise not to be scared, and glanced toward the woman. He wanted to tell her he’d changed his mind about going but the black cloak whirled about him, fell over his head, leaving him in darkness.
Graymon began to cry, the black cloak swallowing his sobs as easily as it swallowed the light.
Chapter Forty-Six
Once the torch burned down to nothing, guttering and spitting its last bit of light, the darkness stretched on without respite. The tunnel twisted and turned, throwing off Khirro’s sense of what direction they traveled and how far they went. Against reason, it angled ever downward, away from the keep they thought their goal.
“Are you sure this is the right way?” Ghaul asked more than once, his tone becoming more angered each time he heard Khirro’s response: “I don’t know.”
He didn’t know. The Shaman showed him the way to the tower, no farther. The dream tyger told him it was he who had to get past the guardian, but no more. Perhaps neither of them expected a simple farmer to make it this far.
