Emergent, Book One : Isobel

by Virginia Nikolaou

  The abrupt stretch of absolute silence was infinitely more terrifying than the violent quaking. The fireball gave way to a green vaporous gas which quickly filled the air, gathering in the domed ceiling, casting an olive pall over the junction, and it smelled noxious, like anchovies and burnt sugar, searing a caustic path to Isobel's lungs.

  She stumbled out of the dissipating cloud, waving her arms wildly, and fell to her knees, sucking in desperate gulps of air along with her own blood. Eadric held a hand to his bleeding nose, his expression so ominous that she couldn't quite find the courage to follow his gaze. Waves of bristling heat shriveled the air around her like singed plastic, the blood dripping from her nose feeling cool on her prickly skin. Grabbing the dagger, she turned, and stumbled away at the sight of the immense dragon regarding her from emerald eyes illumined with shots of indigo and gold.

  The dragon glared from under protruding jagged brows that continued along the temple, turning into the two side horns of a six-horned corona. One of the rear horns was broken to a nub, but the remaining five were capped in metal sheaths, like a crown set upon its mighty head. The dragon brought its nose close to Isobel's face, wispy ribbons of fine vapor swirling around the large nostrils, and inhaled deeply. The charcoal gray scales that covered its body were chipped and crusted over with sooty grime, and a dented silver breastplate, blackened from age and emblazoned with a blood red ouroborus covered its powerful chest.

  The ouroborus gorged on itself, ravenous, roiling under the tarnish of the silver.

  Unfurling its vast wings, the dragon pulled back, sucking her forward with the draw of the air. She fell to her knees and gazed up at the creature, completely ensnared by the towering beast, as sure as if she'd been caught in an iron trap.

  "I am Jita, Six Horned Daughter of the Dracona Leumane, Guardian of the Inner Pythean. How do you, a mere mystic child, come to carry the blood and bones of my mother, Empress of the Three Territories?" the dragon asked in a deep, resonant growl, sputtering sparks and smoke.

  Isobel sat back on her haunches, unable to find her voice, and simply stared at the ravenous ouroboros.

  "I asked you a question, child! How do you come to hold a Dracona Leumane dagger?" Jita bellowed, leaning in bellicosely, the air around her crackling.

  The dagger radiated hotly in Isobel's trembling hand, and as she stood up, her legs threatened to give. "I am Isobel Phaelan of the Mystic House of Phaelan, Moredea. Daughter to Cadence Phaelan," she replied, wanting to faint.

  "Well then, Isobel Phaelan, daughter of Cadence, how do you come to carry the Middle Terra Dagger of my Pythean Domain?"

  "I killed the Rat King," Isobel said simply.

  The dragon drew her brows, emerald eyes alight. "You killed the Rat King? He is dead by your hand, you say, and by this very dagger," Jita said, a sudden bark of laughter ringing through the junction. "So then, child, you are what the Rat Queen seeks. Her mutant soldiers are scurrying deep in the Pythean searching for you, and for this dagger. Know that she will not rest until revenge has coated the same blade with your blood."

  Isobel looked to the dagger. The glowing crystal at the pommel was already coated with her blood, as was the blade.

  "All three daggers containing the blood and bones of my mother Leumane disappeared during the great storms, along with my sisters, Laska and Saba. I have roamed the Pythean for over two centuries searching for them, and only now do I find hope - in you. I cannot protect the Gates of Barrenterra alone."

  Eadric fidgeted behind Isobel, clearing his throat before speaking. "Dragona Jita, it is not by chance that you cannot find your sisters. You must know that they perished in the great storms. And these stories of alien beasts at the Gates are fables that our ancient Pythean ancestors thought up around fires at day's end. A minstrels tale, nothing more."

  "Your Eanderan ancestors would rise from their graves if they knew how little you regard their spoken truths, mortal child. Mere fables to entertain the children! Absurd. Well, hear me now, young warrior, the Beasts of Barrenterra are real."

  "My elders are not the ancients of Eandera, Dragona Jita. I come from different blood than that of those barbarians. Never have I, nor anyone, seen these beasts you speak of," Eadric replied.

  "The day you do see one, mortal, is the day you die. These beasts do not covet your land, the only thing you warriors care to fight for. What they seek is far more valuable," Jita said softly, her breath searing his eyebrows. "It is the souls of young men like you they seek to own, the nectar of your youth. They extract it from your breast like a length of aurous yarn and weave it into a garment of great power they call their cloak. And all the while you are sentient as they pull you through and tie you up, wearing you for eternity on their humped backs." Jita swooshed her tail like an agitated cat. "When they are done, they consume your flesh and suck you dry, down to the very marrow, using your splintered bones to pick out the errant bits and pieces of flesh from their blunt teeth. Know that they are real. These beasts have grown impossibly strong, far stronger than the collective power of all your silly armies."

  "The legendary myths of these beasts are just that, Dragona Jita, legend," Eadric insisted, tapping the smoke unfurling from his brows.

  Ignoring him, Jita faced Isobel, continuing the story. "The meteor storms carried the living cells of an alien organism, a being that thrived in the vast, hot subterranean caverns of Barrenterra. These are the beasts I speak of. Our only hope is for you to find my sisters. Bring them to me," Jita said.

  Isobel looked from Jita to Eadric. "And if I don't - or can't. What then?" she asked.

  "Then everything your ancients fought for, everyone you love and hold dear will be defiled in the most vile, hideous way, and you will have wished a million demons had slowly ravaged you instead," Jita replied.

  Isobel loosened her hold on the dagger, and, laying it flat on the palm of her extended hand, offered it to Jita. "You must take the dagger then, for I cannot promise to find your sisters."

  The dragon looked from the dagger to Isobel, and pulled back with a disgusted grunt. "And you call yourself a mystic, from the House of Phaelan, no less," she snorted, two plumes of fire escaping her nostrils.

  "I can't find your sisters. I'm sorry," Isobel insisted, extending her arm.

  The dragon stepped away and roared a great ball of fire. She turned on Isobel, acerbic green smoke trailing. "Put the dagger away, silly child. It is nothing without its keeper. From the moment I requested this of you, keeper of my mother's blood and bones, you were sworn to do as I bid. It is written," Jita stated, mouth curled in a scaled smirk.

  "And if I don't?" Isobel countered, still holding out the dagger.

  "You have no choice, for I have cursed you. Find my sisters and it will be done. If you fail, we all fail, and it will end in the most horrific way. Look for the markings," Jita said, cocking her head and staring off at the west tunnel. "The tunnel rats gather, a thousand strong, two of the Queen's vedettes at the fore. Be on your way. Find my sisters. I know not what form of trickery has been used to detain them, but they live. Of this I am certain. I will fight the rats while you leave," Jita assured as she turned to continue down the west bound tunnel, the ground quaking lightly in her wake, the blood red tip of her massive tail disappearing into the dark.

  Isobel was left with the dagger still extended. Her gaze drifted from the now absent dragon to Eadric, who, without speaking, gently took her arm and led her to the train where Beatrice and Admiral Vin waited, Ash following close behind.

  Charley emerged from under the train, a bent cigar hanging from his down turned mouth. He stared at the carnage, piles of charred tunnel rats strewn across the rails in every direction. He relit the cigar, if only to mask the unpleasant smell, and pulled a dead rat away from the rails.

  Bertram crawled out from under the train next, gawking at the battleground, his hat slipping from trembling hands. The gangly young man wiped his face across his shirtsleeve and retrieved his hat from the gro
und. Placing it on his head, he joined Charley in pulling the tunnel rats away from the rails to clear the way home.

  Chapter Fourteen