The Last Stand of Daronwy

by Clint Talbert

  “Hey, I have the money from the recycling.”

  “Rad! How much did we get?”

  “Five dollars.” He pulled five crumpled one-dollar bills out of his pocket and handed them to Daniel.

  “Wow, thanks!”

  Jeremy watched as Daniel snatched the money from his hand and stuffed it into a bank in the shape of Optimus Prime’s head.

  “Do you want to play that we’re going to find the Dragon King’s Stone? It is the last one that we know of, and if we can find it, it will give us an edge over Kronshar.”

  Jeremy shrugged, still staring at the bank, wondering if he had done the right thing.

  Daniel continued. “The legends say that the Dragon King ate an Edenkiri, so Niritan might know where the Stone is.”

  Jeremy took a deep breath. He let his vision blur, making the clutter of Daniel’s room fall away and reassemble itself as the northern crags and towering spires of snow capped mountains. They sat on two dragons, bundled against the cold, wind whistling in their ears with each beat of the leathery wings. “Let’s say that we’re flying dragons into the northern crags. You and I are on one, Rathian and Niritan are on the other. We’ve been traveling for days to find the home of the Dragon Lord.”

  Daniel nodded. “Are you sure it’s up here, Niritan?”

  Jeremy used a deeper voice for Niritan. “Reginurl took the Red Stone into these mountains. Dragons roamed these parts.”

  “Our grandfather was a ranger on these lands, no one has seen a dragon here since his time,” said Eaglewing.

  “If a Dragon Lord were here, he would never be seen. They can sleep for centuries,” said Rathian, scanning the horizon.

  Eaglewing looked out over the unvarying sameness of the peaks and valleys that rolled beneath them as though they continued to the end of the world.

  Daniel and Jeremy tied pillowcases around their necks for cloaks and ran through the house with arms outstretched, flying on their dragons. Jeremy brandished a wooden sword. They swooped outside, running toward the canal’s embankment that began at the edge of Daniel’s backyard.

  The gray scales of his dragon shuddered as though a chill had taken it. Eaglewing squinted into the distance.

  “What is that?”

  “DIVE!” shouted Rathian. They plummeted toward the tree-lined valley below, leveling out just above the pines. A beam of red light cut through the valley, transforming entire trees into firebrands, popping and exploding with sparks. The dragons howled, banking left and right. Lightningbolt pulled his staff from its holster, his other hand gripping the straps that bound him to the saddle.

  Something stood on a summit above the valley. In the Shadow World, it looked like a piece of the sky had been punched out, leaving a darkness blacker than night in its place. Rathian and Eaglewing spurred the dragons. Niritan shouted to Lightningbolt, “It’s a demon! Ice and shadow spells!”

  Lightningbolt threw a shadow spinner, an unstable spell uniquely suited to destroying Shadow beings. Niritan threw his black spells, but the demon deflected them. Another laser beam of red light cut through the valley.

  “Hold on!” Eaglewing rolled the dragon through the air, then dove toward the base of the peak, gaining speed.

  Niritan and Rathian were lost in the valley’s raging inferno and smoke. “Where is Rathian?”

  “I don’t know. Get us to that summit!”

  Eaglewing pulled the dragon into a vertical climb. The boulder-strewn slopes of the mountain sped past, close enough for them to see patches of snow tucked into its crevices. They broke free from the cloud of rising smoke and saw the demon on a plateau near the summit. It held the Red Stone above its horned head with thick black arms. It followed Niritan and Rathian, turning its back to Eaglewing and Lightningbolt.

  Jump on three, Eaglewing told his brother.

  Eaglewing sped the dragon toward the demon, banking at the last moment. Lightningbolt launched into the air, sending four shadow spinners before him. Bone-crushing explosions dropped Eaglewing’s dragon from the sky. The dragon screeched as it bounced against the cliff face, falling into the smoky updrafts from the burning valley. Eaglewing wrestled the reins, managing to soar on the hot, choking updrafts. Once above the summit, he dove for the cloud of dust where the demon had been, and pulled the fire rein. On Eaglewing’s cue, the dragon coated everything before them in a raging inferno. As they passed over the demon, the warrior untied himself from the saddle and leapt, sword pointed down and gripped in both hands.

  “Let’s play that you nearly landed on Rathian.”

  Jeremy swung his wooden sword at the thick wisteria vines. “Okay, but then I swung and almost took off the demon’s foot.”

  “Niritan and I are firing tons of magic at it,” said Daniel, pointing his staff at the vines and making noises for his magic. “But it’s countering everything we’re doing.”

  “Clouds of ash and flame and rock dust are everywhere. And out of nowhere, one of the dragons swoops up behind the demon and bites its leg.”

  The demon’s shield faltered. Eaglewing’s sword rammed to the hilt through the demon’s arm. A shadow spinner flashed past. Rathian tackled Eaglewing as the spell ripped through the rock, the dragon, and the demon. The Red Stone fell to the mountain, cracking the granite where it landed.

  “Is everyone all right?” Lightningbolt shouted over the ringing in their ears and the roar of the fire below.

  Rathian and Eaglewing stood, coughing. “We’re fine.”

  Niritan limped to their side, leaning on a rock.

  They stared at the Red Stone.

  “Is that it?”

  Niritan nodded, too tired to speak. He limped forward, reaching for the Stone.

  “Where did that demon come—”

  An orange and black scaled claw the size of a horse slammed down over the Red Stone. Their eyes followed the powerful leg to the rest of the beast emerging from the smoky haze. The Dragon Lord’s wings were the size of towers, its head as large as the dragons they had just ridden. It curled its neck to peer at them and roared through teeth as tall as castle gates. Loose rocks rattled atop the mountain.

  No one moved.

  Niritan raised his arms. “Ancient One, I am the last Edenkiri master. I have come to reclaim the Stone.”

  The dragon’s eyes narrowed. A glittering halo surrounded them as the dragon lowered its head toward Niritan, meeting his eyes with an ancient depth.

  “Where?” Niritan said to the dragon.

  It snarled and tossed its head.

  “Then we must have it now. Hurry.”

  The dragon flexed its claw, snarling.

  “What is it?” said Lightningbolt.

  “Kronshar. He’s here.”

  Rathian spun, axe ready. “Where?”

  “Kronshar used the demon to steal the Stone, but the demon locked him and the Dragon Lord in the Shadow World. The dragon says Kronshar is coming.”

  “Why won’t he let us have the Stone? We need to go!”

  Niritan grimaced, locked in a mental argument with the dragon. Niritan limped forward, laid a hand against the paw, and reached beneath it. Rathian’s grip tightened on the axes. Eaglewing shifted to a guard stance. Blue light exploded against the beast, knocking it backward off the summit. The claw hit Niritan, throwing him backwards. Lightningbolt caught him. The Red Stone remained on the ground, untouched.

  “Shields,” Niritan coughed.

  A hundred beams thundered down against their shields, chiseling apart the summit. Smoke and dust clouded the mountain. The beams came from everywhere and nowhere. Somewhere to their back, the Dragon Lord roared again, shaking the mountain. As the rain of spells ended, Rathian dove for the Red Stone. Kronshar’s Stones peppered them with magic. Rathian rolled to his feet, emerging from the flying debris with
the Red Stone.

  Braided torrents of flame shot skyward from the Stone in Rathian’s hands. Kronshar’s attack ceased. The adepts ran through the smoke toward him, but the Dragon Lord’s massive foot slammed into the mountain, cutting them off from Rathian. As orange flames covered the sky, blue serpent-like streaks of energy converged where Rathian had been. White light shattered the rock, and a thunderous explosion scattered the adepts over the summit.

  “Wait!”

  They vaulted off the canal and landed face down on the embankment. Jeremy looked up the hill at Daniel. “What?”

  “You mean that Kronshar gets the Red Stone?”

  “Yeah. When the dragon came down, it crushed Rathian’s leg, and he dropped the Stone. Kronshar used his Stone to eliminate the fire and converge against the Dragon Lord, but when the beams didn’t hit any resistance he knew the Red Stone was released. After the explosion, he swept in, grabbed the Stone, and disappeared ‘cause he thought we were all dead.”

  “What about Rathian?”

  “He’s actually dead.”

  “No, he can’t—” Daniel gestured in the air.

  Jeremy crossed his arms. If Daniel got the money, then they were going to play this out his way. “There is no way he could withstand the dragon landing on him and then be at the center of that explosion. We would be really wounded even if we had shields.”

  “Let’s say we did.”

  “Then we’re still going to be burned and scattered around the top of the mountain.”

  Daniel frowned. “We lose Rathian and the Red Stone?”

  “Yeah. Let’s play that the air is still smoky after the explosion, you were the most shielded so you are still able to walk, and you’re trying to find the rest of us.”

  Daniel rolled his eyes. “Are you—”

  “Hey, boys,” Mrs. McClain interrupted from the back porch. “Jeremy, do you want to stay for supper? We’re having roast beef.”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  “Come call your mom and make sure it’s all right, honey.”

  “What do you want to do now?” said Daniel. He shuffled through the grass, picking up the wooden weapons and stained pillowcases.

  “I don’t know. Do you want to help me with the Pollution Club tomorrow?”

  Daniel shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll play you a game of chess while we wait for dinner.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cars swished past in the constant drizzle, leaving plumes of white mist in their wake. Darkening clouds snagged on the tops of pines, tearing themselves into tatters of fog that rested on Jeremy’s shoulders. He shuffled his sloshing shoes through the wet grasses, dragging the black bags behind him. There were plenty of Styrofoam cups, Big Mac boxes, and red STP bottles, but there were no cans. The drizzle transformed into ponderous drops. Jeremy took shelter beneath a pine tree near the embankment of the canal. He sat on the roots in his soaked clothes, hands under his chin, trash spear by his side.

  Maybe Daniel’s brother was right. What did it matter if he spent his entire life cleaning up one highway? A pickup sailed past through the increasing downpour. The driver threw a shiny red Coca-Cola can out the window. It spun through the air and clattered down onto the asphalt, rolling into the grass near Jeremy. Who were these people? Why did they throw their trash out onto the highway? At least it was a can. Jeremy ran from his shelter into the downpour, speared the can, and sprinted back.

  Did these people really believe that the world was their dumping ground? And why was he out here picking up the trash? Maybe Daniel was right to stay inside. The wind pushed the rain sideways in ragged curtains along the road. Thunder rumbled up above the dark clouds. I oughta leave the trash bags here. That’s what everyone else does, Jeremy thought. He sighed. The rain blew beneath his tree, pelting him. He grabbed the bags in one hand, the spear in the other, and sprinted for home. The trash bag bumped against his legs, water splashed over his soaked shoes, and distant thunder threatened even harder rain to come. When he got home, he threw the trash away, took off his shirt, wrung it out, and put it back on before going inside.

  He was greeted by a frigid blast of air conditioning, the earthen smell of okra in gumbo, and his mom’s voice. “Jeremiah Trahan, you’re soaked!”

  “It’s raining, Mom.”

  “Where were you? Were you picking up trash on 408?”

  “Um…” He didn’t want to lie. “Not exactly?”

  “Jeremiah Trahan, don’t lie to me. You don’t need to be out on that highway when it’s raining. It’s too dangerous. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She flung a hand toward his room. “Go change into some dry clothes. We’re going to Confession in about an hour. Please tell me you didn’t wear your good shoes out there.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Good. Oh.” She turned away from the gumbo simmering on the stove. “There’s a letter for you. I put it on your bed.”

  “A letter? From who?”

  “Guess.” She took a sip of her Tab, smiling.

  “Um… Granny?”

  “No.”

  Jeremy shivered. She waved him away. “Go. Go get in some dry clothes, and bring it here when you open it.”

  He slogged to his room, changed into dry clothes, put his wet clothes in the hamper, and went back to his bed to look at the big envelope. The return address read, “1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, DC.” His heart stopped. The president had written him back. Jeremy held the letter at arm’s length as though it might bite and carried it to the kitchen.

  “Mom, President Reagan wrote me back.”

  “I know! Go on, open it.”

  Jeremy opened it carefully. There was a piece of cardboard in it, a picture of the president and the first lady, and a typewritten letter on blue White House ­stationery. He put the picture aside and held the paper at arm’s length, unsure if it was real—and what it might mean if it was.

  “What does it say?” his mom asked, stirring the gumbo.

  Jeremy took a breath and started reading. “‘Dear Mr. Trahan’—they called me Mr. Trahan. Isn’t that funny? They don’t know I’m not a grown-up.” He looked back down at the letter. “‘Thank you very much for your letter to us concerning the Environmental Protection Agency and pollution. We share your concern and your commitment to this issue. Please know that we are doing everything we can to address your concerns. Thank you for sharing your thoughts with us. Sincerely, President Ronald Reagan.’”

  Mom peered over his shoulder. “Isn’t that special? Look at the picture.”

  Jeremy waved the paper in the air. “But, Mom, he didn’t say anything about pollution. I asked him to make the EPA work on cleaning up stuff. And he didn’t say he was going to do that.”

  The corner of his mother’s lip turned down slightly. “Well, not exactly, but he did say that he is concerned about it. He’ll do the right thing. That’s why he got elected president.”

  Jeremy thought about Daniel, about Paul, about the truck driver who threw the can on the highway. No one really believed in fighting pollution, not even the president. He sighed. “I still wish he had said he’d do it.”

  “Are you ready to go to church?”

  Jeremy trudged back to his room, shut the door, and lay down on his bed. He looked up at the window, watching the rain pelt it. Somewhere out there, somewhere in the heart of Twin Hills, was a doorway to a place without pollution, a place where there was still adventure, where he could do something great like the hobbits in The Fellowship of the Ring. Here, no one cared about things that mattered, and he could do nothing about it. He could clean up Highway 408, but what about all the others? What about the marshes and bayous that ran thick with industrial sludge? What about the air that smelled like rotten eggs on alternate Thursdays? Thunder rattled the windowpan
e; the rain drilled into his window, boring through his hope.

  Jeremy stepped onto the Astroturf-carpeted porch that smelled faintly of pipe tobacco. He held The Fellowship of the Ring in his hands and rang the doorbell. Mr. Leblanc answered the door, a pipe in his mouth.

  “Hello, Jeremy.”

  “Hi, Mr. Leblanc. I brought your book back.”

  “Thanks. Come on in and I’ll get you the next one in the series. What did you think of it?”

  “I liked it a lot. Especially the part where they go into Moria, but I was really sad that Gandalf died.”

  Mr. Leblanc smiled, handing him The Two Towers. “Read this, you’ll like it. It picks up right where the Fellowship leaves off.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Leblanc.” The house was quiet. An old guitar leaned against a window, next to a stand with sheet music. “Is Mira around? Can she come play?”

  “No, she and Kelly will be in Dallas until after July Fourth.”

  “Oh, okay. Thanks for the book. I’ll start it today.”

  “Enjoy.”

  Jeremy showed himself out. He went back to his house and into the backyard, where he’d tied an old hammock between the beams on the permanently unfinished patio. He marveled at Aragorn’s ability to track the Uruk-hai. He read about Sam and Frodo all alone on the edge of the Dead Marshes. At length, he put the book down, stretching. The trees glittered a blinding green, reflecting a sultry summer sun. Jeremy retrieved the BB rifle from the closet in the study. He called out to his mom that he was going for a walk in the woods.

  Jeremy found an old can under a bush in the bike trails. Stepping off thirty paces, he turned and fired, hitting the can. He tried five more paces, turned, fired, and missed. He aimed carefully, squeezing the trigger with great care. The can flew into the air, spinning. He walked back to the can to place it upright and heard raucous laughter from the direction of the pond. Tilting his head, he could hear four or five voices, but could not distinguish who they were or what was said.

  He started for the pond, stepping over the forgotten can. A firestorm of shame flared in his mind, so fierce he grabbed his temple. He stomped the can flat and slid it into the back pocket of his shorts. The unintelligible cry faded. More laughter wafted from the trail ahead. Jeremy pumped the air gun fifteen times and stalked toward it.