The Last Dragon Chronicles #5: Dark Fire

by Chris d'Lacey

  But Lucy pushed on, her feet slipping sideways as she climbed the mound of soil. She stopped a few paces from the twitching beast. The rock felt cold and heavy in her hand. The creature’s head looked easy to crush.

  She lifted the rock. As she did so, she spotted a movement to her right. Uttering a gasp of fear, she turned and almost brained Bella instead.

  “You!”

  Meow, yowled Bella, limping forward, coming to stand between the darkling and Lucy. The cat was filthy, covered in dirt. A thick yellow discharge was weeping from a half-closed, bloodshot eye. Her tail hung low between her legs. One of her paws had been dislocated or broken.

  She’s frightened, hurred Gwendolen, flying forward. What the catgirl had actually said was, Help me.

  Lucy let the rock fall out of her hands. She looked at the open scratches on her wrist, but realized now that Bella had only been trying to warn her about Gawaine’s fury. She sank to her knees and opened her arms.

  The cat hobbled forward. In that moment the darkling gave a vitriolic snort and rolled its head toward them, neck bones cracking, eyes on fire, teeth primed. One of its snapped arms flapped toward Bella.

  “No!” Lucy screamed.

  Bella jumped around, her hackles raised. But for all her hissing bravery she would have been dead — if the soil had not erupted and thrown her aside. Lucy screamed again and tumbled backward. She got up and scrambled back to Bella, but Gwendolen stopped her with a single hurr: Look.

  To Lucy’s astonishment, a human hand had emerged from the ground and taken the darkling by the throat. The creature, still impaled, was turning white and shuddering as if it were coming to the boil. With a pop it imploded and turned to water, soaking the hand and the earth around it. The soil broke again and a head and a pair of shoulders came through.

  Lucy dived forward to get her arms around him. “Tam!” she gasped, clearing his face of dirt, as if she couldn’t believe that it was him.

  He coughed and spat a small stone onto the ground. “I’ll say one thing for David: He knew what he was doing when he fixed me up with bears — they’re good at surviving in dens. And this one” — he raised his right hand and turned it, showing once again the image of Kailar — “really does not like ravens….”

  49 THE HEALING TOUCH

  If Professor Rupert Steiner had ever found the means to investigate the “ice lands” of the North, he would have made some astounding discoveries, including several faded cinder glyphs describing the last great encounter on Earth between dragons, men, and the strange life form known as the Ix (shown as a swarm of dots). Among the pictures he would have found at least one record, maybe more, of dragons suffering. And being a man of sensitive disposition, he would have concluded there was nothing more pitiful than the sight of such a magnificent creature mortally wounded and ready to cry its water of life. This is how it was with Gawaine just then, on the opposite side of the valley from Lucy.

  The queen, when she landed, could not even kneel. The pressure on her lungs was far too great. The darkling’s poison had spread into her windpipe and all her auxiliary bronchial chambers. She could feel their multi-layered linings peeling. It could only be a matter of time before her veins burst open and the ichor running through them flooded her lungs. She was going to drown in her own blood. She was going to die.

  Gawaine, like any dragon, had no fear of death, but what irked her as she lay there gasping for breath was that she did not have the power to make a final, sacrificial impact on the fight. The brave G’lant had swept over her twice. She absorbed his despair as she collapsed onto her side with her maimed wing stretched out, pathetic and useless. It was her flag to him to say that she was done. He must abandon her; let them torture her, even. All that mattered was that he prevailed. She could help no more.

  There was an outcome, however, that Gawaine had not considered: that her injuries might be cured. When Teramelle came to look over her its distress was even greater than G’lant’s. It put its head down and repeatedly nudged the queen, as if it hoped she would take some elixir from it or weave some magicks and save herself. But the enigma of unicorns was really quite simple. They were a fertile cornucopia of healing, but could not wield any curatives themselves. The legends of red-headed maidens were correct. But it was not a girl with red hair that came to save Gawaine. It was a sibyl. And her name was Zanna.

  In choosing her destination, Zanna had focused on the white horse of Scuffenbury, expecting to arrive inconspicuously in the general locality. The magicks, however, had interpreted her wish as a need to be close to the unicorn itself. Whoosh. There she was. Right before them both. Almost dropped into the jaws of a dragon. The unicorn bolted. Despite the searing pain, Gawaine raised her head. Justifiably suspicious, she summoned up what fuel was left in her fire sacs and drew in the oxygen she needed to light it.

  Two things saved Zanna’s life. Though her body was largely paralyzed with awe, her dry mouth managed to spill a word of dragontongue: Gawaine? The pronunciation was poor, but good enough to make Gawaine hold apart the ignition nodules on her tongue which, if ground together, would produce the spark to light the incendiary mixtures in her throat. She was closing them again, prepared to take no chances, when Teramelle whinnied and begged her to stop.

  The unicorn, now on the other side of Zanna, tilted its head and looked at the girl. Its violet gaze lighted on the mark on Zanna’s arm, literally coloring her skin the same shade. Zanna knew she was being scanned, but still couldn’t help but give a gasp of surprise when Teramelle’s voice came into her mind. We are one, the unicorn said. And it sounded, for all the world, like Alexa.

  Slowly, careful not to panic the creature again, Zanna reached out and stroked its neck. Her fingers glided through its silky mane. It responded by leaning its head against her shoulder. It was then she saw something that shocked her deeply and made her understand what its words had meant. Every picture she had ever seen of a unicorn painted its horn as a spiraling cone. But the whipped up, cotton candy image was wrong, probably because very few observers had ever come this close to see or tell the truth. The horn was nothing more than a plain ivory tusk, just like the horn of the seagoing narwhal. (The associations with Groyne did not occur to her right then.) What made the horn seem spiraled was a carving etched repeatedly in it, flowing around and around from base to tip: the three-line shape that the Inuit called the mark of Oomara. The mark that Zanna had been branded with.

  A cry from above made her look up suddenly. In the sky she saw Grockle (or so she thought) hovering between two evil-looking gargoyles as if they had him suspended on wires. Turning quickly back to Teramelle she said, “You have to help me. I came to deliver a warning …” But maybe it was too late for that? She heard another squawk. The gargoyles were circling, but Grockle hadn’t moved. And nowhere was there any sign of Gwillan — or David.

  With a wretched groan, Gawaine keeled onto her side again. Zanna ran to her and knelt by her head. Small wisps of steam were issuing from vents along the dragon’s neck. Zanna looked along the body to the shattered wing. “I have healing abilities,” she said to Teramelle. “Can we help her? With magicks?” She raised her arm.

  The unicorn walked forward and lowered its horn. You must be swift, it said. The great fire is coming.

  “Great fire?” asked Zanna. “What do you mean?”

  The unicorn looked toward the peak of the hill. The moon was almost directly above it.

  In that instant, Zanna knew the answer to the question that had nagged her several days ago in the kitchen: why a unicorn should choose to roam the Vale of Scuffenbury. The hill was on a vast intersection of ley lines. X marked the spot, many, many times over. They were sitting on a gateway to the Fire Eternal. A conduit directly to the center of the Earth …

  50 AN UNEXPECTED OUTCOME

  Gwilanna, stop! You mustn’t touch her!” Once again Arthur tried to lunge forward, and once again the sibyl’s magicks threw him back. This time, for his trouble, she put a constrictio
n spell around his throat, leaving him to choke for several seconds before snapping her fingers and releasing him. He slumped down, gasping for air. Gretel risked the sibyl’s wrath and went to his aid.

  “Pathetic,” Gwilanna sneered. She turned her attention back to Liz.

  “Please, you don’t understand,” Arthur spluttered. “There was an accident. The dark fire was freed from the obsidian. It went into Elizabeth.”

  That did make Gwilanna pause. “Ah, so that’s what called me,” she muttered. “I sensed a deep change in Elizabeth’s condition, that naturally required my presence, of course, but I didn’t expect a bonus like this.” She turned the isoscele and held it flat, passing it twice over Liz’s body. “Yes, it’s here,” she purred in delight, “but I can detect no trace of it in the child.”

  “There’s more,” Arthur panted, regaining his breath. “Something unusual has happened with the boy. He’s extended his auma into one of the dragons.”

  “Preposterous,” Gwilanna snorted. “The Fain’s experiments with the transference of consciousness always ended in failure. You expect me to believe that an unborn child and a stupid clay dragon could achieve what they couldn’t? Show me which one.”

  “I can’t,” Arthur said. “He’s gone to join David.”

  “David,” the sibyl repeated scornfully. “Why does that name always make my fingernails curl? You’re lying,” she snapped. “Now, be silent. You’re wasting my time, Professor.”

  Arthur raised his hands. “Forgive me. I’m pleased you’re here,” he said, in a tone designed to appeal to her vanity. “Who better than you to nurse Elizabeth? So … you can definitely confirm my son is safe?”

  “Yes,” she murmured. “Do you really think I’d let a child of his potential come to any harm?”

  Probably not, Arthur thought. Even so, the avarice embedded in those words was a clear enough warning that Gwilanna had every intention of stealing the child one day. That, if nothing else, strengthened Arthur’s resolve to keep her away from him now. Seizing upon the chance to keep the sibyl talking, he leaned forward slightly and said, “But you told us the boy was of no importance. A natural born. Why are you even bothering with him when there’s no dragon in his blood?”

  Gwilanna laughed. Her feet scuffed the carpet. Arthur guessed she had turned away from the bedside. The arrogant old bird had always liked to stroll through her moments of triumph.

  “The descendants of Guinevere, those females born from a quickened egg, have tried many times to have children with humans, but the genetic fusion has always failed. You should applaud yourself, Arthur Merriman. Your child is not only alive and well, but he’s also survived the Ix’s obsidian and now appears to be shielding himself from the most destructive force in the universe. That makes him of very great interest to me.”

  Downstairs, the back door rattled.

  Gwilanna was immediately on her guard. “What was that?”

  Arthur’s heartbeat quickened. He knew at once what had made the sound, but tried to show no surprise in his face. “The wind … it moves the mailbox sometimes.”

  “At the back of the house?” The floorboards creaked. Gwilanna, Arthur realized, had taken steps toward the landing. “It must be the girl,” she said, “trying to get in.”

  “You wouldn’t hurt her?” said Arthur, wiggling his fingers to bring Gretel close. The potions dragon fluttered to his shoulder.

  “I don’t need to,” Gwilanna said. “I locked her out.” She whipped around. “What are you saying to Gretel?”

  “I just asked her to soothe Elizabeth,” he said. “I may not be able to see her, Gwilanna, but her distress is plain to hear. May I give her something to drink?” Without waiting for permission, Arthur fumbled beside him for a bottle of water. He picked it up but didn’t unscrew the cap.

  The bedsprings took the sibyl’s weight. “Stay where you are,” she said. “It’s time.”

  Arthur ran a hand inside his collar. “Time? Time for what?” he asked, trying to remain as calm as he could. “You might at least explain to me what you’re going to do.”

  Gwilanna sighed with exasperation.

  “I’m a scientist. It’s my nature to understand procedures.”

  “It’s your nature to interfere,” she hissed. “It cost you dearly in the past, as I recall.”

  For a moment, Arthur was a young man back in Cambridge, remembering how Gwilanna had tricked him into ending his courtship with Liz — something he’d never forgiven the witch for. “At last,” he heard her drool. “At last I can claim what’s rightfully mine.”

  “You can’t mean the baby?” Arthur said, shocked. He could hear the tinkle of a bell on the stairs. At any moment, Bonnington would be in the room.

  Gwilanna, in her irritation, had missed it. “Of course I don’t mean the baby!” she snapped. “I’m taking what David stole from me on Farlowe. I’m taking the fire.”

  “But … that’s madness,” Arthur mumbled. And fearful of what this would mean for Liz, his fingers tightened around the bottle of water.

  At that moment, the sibyl exclaimed, “What the —? How did that fur ball get in here?”

  “Through the cat flap,” said Arthur, pausing as Bonnington jumped onto his knee. He immediately lifted the cat in one arm and turned its eyes toward the bed.

  “No matter. Keep it under control.”

  “Oh, believe me, I will,” Arthur said. He stood up silently as Gwilanna bent forward to attend to Liz.

  With a heavy thwack he brought the water bottle down across the sibyl’s shoulders, close to the side of her scrawny neck. Gwilanna groaned and slumped across Liz’s body, still clutching the triangular isoscele. Arthur put Bonnington down, grabbed the sibyl’s arm, and flipped her over. “Gretel,” he panted. “Can you keep her unconscious?”

  Gretel flew forward. My pleasure, she hurred.

  But as she dipped into her quiver for the flowers she needed, the isoscele pulsed in Gwilanna’s hand and a shock of energy raced up the sibyl’s arm, restarting her brain as if a match had been struck. Her eyes opened like submarine hatches. Her body jackknifed up. Her cold glare fell upon Arthur. Without hesitation, she issued a spell.

  Behind him an armoire door flapped open and several shirts flew off the rail. Arthur was catapulted into the space, as if a cannonball had caught him in the gut. He was clutching his heart as he crumpled from the impact. The armoire door slammed shut.

  “Go to him and you die,” said Gwilanna.

  Gretel was hovering, uncertain what to do.

  “And stop that stupid animal whining or I’ll stuff it with mushrooms and eat it for my lunch.”

  Gretel cocked her ear toward the den. Bonnington was in there, making a lot of racket.

  “Do it!” snapped the sibyl.

  Gretel rattled her scales — and flew to the cat.

  “Now,” said Gwilanna, rubbing her withering hands together, “let me relieve you of your discomfort, my dear.” With that, she threw the blankets aside and placed the isoscele of Gawain over Liz’s heart. Then she whispered a sinister spell. Immediately, the isoscele began to turn, around and around like a spinning arrow. As it gradually gained momentum, sparks of light began to flash from its points. They landed like the embers of burnt-out fireworks, planting themselves across Liz’s nightdress to form a network of crisscrossing light trails, all arcing away from their centrifugal origin. Liz, powerless to prevent what was happening, jerked and tossed her head to one side. She cried out weakly, though it seemed to be more in distress than pain.

  “Calm yourself, my dear,” Gwilanna said, and with her fingers stretched above the spinning scale she moved it by levitational force into the region of Liz’s forehead.

  Liz responded with a sudden stiff jolt. Her neck muscles hardened. Her small fists clenched. Half a second later, her eyes flew open. The irises were huge and flooded with color. Green, violet, green, violet, tumbling at the speed of slot machine reels. Gwilanna gave a nervous shudder of excitement and tur
ned her hand once, a few degrees to the right, as if she were opening the lock to a safe. The left eye calmed down, then the right. Until they were a uniform color: black.

  Instantly, the isoscele came to a halt. Its point tipped forward, divining the power. For a second or two it quivered and rocked as some grand magnetic struggle was fought. Then with a flash that sucked heat and moisture out of the air, the darkness freed itself from Liz and was absorbed into the isoscele, turning it black.

  With a squeak of triumph, Gwilanna snatched at it — only to find that her ancient fingers had closed around nothing. The isoscele had moved. When she looked for it, it was hovering menacingly at her eye level. The sibyl gulped and stumbled back in dread. It crossed her mind, bizarrely, to hide in the armoire. But that was full of Arthur Merriman’s body. Instead, she issued a restraining spell, still hopeful she might contain the fire. A force field shimmered around the scale — and quickly popped like a weak soap bubble.

  Then, right before the sibyl’s eyes, the most terrifying apparition appeared. It grew so swiftly, raising itself from the tailpiece of the dragon, that Gwilanna probably had time to feel her heart stop and might have been quietly grateful that it had. A vaporous creature had filled the room, appearing from the neck up only. It was a starkly hideous inversion of Gawain. A shadow beast with all the power of a dragon and many times the evil of a darkling.

  Gwilanna’s eyes glazed. She sank to her knees. Her body twisted sideways and crashed to the floor. Her head struck a carpet littered with Gretel’s crucibles and flowers. One tiny droplet of sweat dripped from the end of her crooked old nose. Her work as a dragon midwife was done. And no one, neither human nor dragon, would mourn her.

  As quickly as the shadow beast had formed, it now collapsed inward to a concentrated spark of dark fire. The ancient, magical scale of Gawain shriveled to a crisp and fell apart in ash. The fire drifted over Liz’s heart and noted that its host of several days was beginning to regain her independence and consciousness. It considered terminating her, but spared her and moved to the dressing table mirror, letting its dark reflection play across the glass. Gawain and Guinevere were solid, in prayer. The fire could read great power in their aumas, but it sensed far more in the elegant creature standing between them. Something had created a portal there. It hovered by the tip of the unicorn’s horn and went through the portal at the speed of its own dark light, off to find its purpose in a battle taking place above a faraway hill.