Offspring (The Sword of the Dragon)

by Appleton, Scott

  He slid down and landed on the street. With cobblestones once again under his feet, he stood in front of a large, four-story building. No fire burned along its walls, no smoke rose from the shakes covering its roof. Unlike the surrounding homes and businesses, it appeared relatively untouched, except that where a set of double doors had marked the entrance before, there was now a hole higher than his head and broader than a rowboat. The double doors lay splintered into large pieces on the stone steps leading up to the building.

  “Ilfedo, what’s wrong,” a timid female voice said from behind him.

  Without looking at her, Ilfedo took off his bearskin coat, dropped it onto the ground. “Stay here, my sister,” he said, firming his mouth in grim determination.

  “But … you are not going in … alone?” Evela’s voice rose to a high pitch, and he heard her take an uncertain step forward.

  “No!” He turned and set his hand on her shoulder. Behind her Levena rushed to catch up with them.

  Evela bit her lower lip, her eyes wide with fear.

  The path of ruin led here, to this building. Whatever waited within … he would face alone.

  “Do not fear.” He would risk no life except his own on this venture into the jaws of death. “I must do this alone.” He let go of her shoulder and resolutely faced the hole in the building. The morning sunlight streamed from behind him through the billowing clouds of smoke but did not illuminate the building’s interior. The fires heated the air so that it felt as warm as a clammy summer day.

  Up the steps he went. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Not only was the air extra warm, but knowing what he was hunting brought to mind his close encounter with death that first time he’d faced the Sea Serpents.

  His fingers inadvertently reached under his loose shirt to his right shoulder. He ran his fingertips over the parallel scars embedded there. A reminder of just how close the Sea Serpent had come to killing him the last time he’d faced its kind.

  While waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the building’s interior, he stood still in the deathly silent room, trying not to make a sound even though the dust begged him to sneeze.

  At last his eyes adjusted to the dimness. A carved wood pillar twisted from the floor to the ceiling a dozen feet above his head, supporting an impressive arch upholding the story above. Three portraits hung on the dark, stained walls. Judging by the fine apparel and aristocratic poise of the subjects, he guessed they were the town’s mayor and other political leaders.

  He peered into the gloom toward the middle of the room. Uncoiling beside an enormous stone fireplace against the back wall were six forty-foot serpents. Their eyes were closed, else he would have seen their whites. Their bloated bodies undulated in an unnatural way devoid of rhythm. Bumps appeared as if from inside. Ilfedo knew, beyond a doubt, that some of the townspeople were suffering a frightening death, drowning in the snakes’ bellies.

  He reached down to the sword at his side. This day, he would spill their blue blood over the place of their feast! “Rise, you devils! And let us have at it!”

  The serpents roused, their wedge-shaped heads lazily rising from their tangled mass. Their white eyes startled open, fixing him with haunted gazes. Their tails twitched as they attempted to move their burdened bodies.

  Ilfedo reached to his side and grasped the two-handed grip of the sword of the dragon. He drew it from its scabbard as easily as if it had been oiled and with both hands held the blade, pointing it toward the ceiling. The flames within the shiny metal spread out, twisting to entwine it.

  The flames spread from the sword, up his arms and over his body. His muscles grew taut and his shoulders squared with extra strength. As quickly as the flames covered him, they now receded, returning into the blade but leaving him adorned with armor of white light. Indeed, flames danced inside the armor that replaced his former clothing as if telling of a realm beyond his reach. He stepped into the heart of the room, his armor flexing with his movements with such ease that he could have forgotten it was there.

  His awareness of the room around him, around the armor, deepened as if it were an extension of his senses. The sword and his armor lit every dark corner.

  The serpents locked their eyes on him. Their forked tongues twisted out from between their fangs.

  Before they could advance or retreat, Ilfedo fell upon them. He thrust his flaming blade into three of the serpents’ brains and slit the next one across its throat. The sword in his hand cut through the snakes as if they had been made of cheese.

  As Ilfedo raised his sword to strike the remaining Sea Serpents, they regurgitated their prey. Coughing and choking on their own bile and that of the serpents, a dozen men, women and children sprawled across the floor. Some got up on their hands and knees to escape the filthiness around them.

  A few victims remained prostrate in the puddles of brightly colored liquids that reeked like rotting animal corpses. Ilfedo clenched his jaws, breathing rapidly. His fists wrung the handle of his sword even as his eyes looked away from the survivors and burned into the serpents.

  Rid of their burdens, the remaining serpents snapped their jaws at one another, untangling from one another and sliding across the floor, to face him with their ghost-white eyes.

  “Come, you vermin!” Ilfedo yelled as he started forward, swinging his sword wide. “Face me! Fight! I would have it no other way!”

  The serpents drew back their heads out of his reach. Their mouths hissed open, their fangs shining white, drops of venom forming on the tips.

  In that moment, as the creatures rose in all their hideous strength, Ilfedo wished the flames burning in the sword of the dragon would reach out, burn into the creatures. An impossible feat, but somehow it now seemed viable.

  As the serpents prepared to strike, he took a couple steps backward and pointed the blade’s tip directly at the creatures’ white eyes. Flames emerged from the weapon, forming a torrent of twisting yellow and red tongues that gathered strength and threw themselves through the air.

  Ilfedo felt his will merge with the sword as if he were in its blade. He gathered the sword’s power as if from an unfathomably deep well and threw it—threw himself, his strength, his wrath—against his opponents. His mind felt connected not only with his body but with the sword as well, enabling him to step to the side as one of the serpents avoided the shooting flames and snapped at him.

  The other serpent fell, smoke curling off its head.

  When the last serpent attacked him again, its fangs scraped across his shoulder guard but did not pierce his armor. The scraping of the fangs across his shoulder guard sounded like music to his ears. He held onto the sword with one hand and dug his armored fist into the serpent’s eye with the other.

  A scream tore from the serpent’s throat, a sound halfway between an elephant’s roar and a Nuvitor’s cry. It pulled away from him, shaking its head, trying to reacquire its target with its uninjured eye.

  Again gripping his sword with both hands, Ilfedo approached the creature and swung. The blade cut through the serpent’s scales and burst its veins. Blue blood painted the walls, spraying the survivors. The blood struck his armor and steamed off it, leaving it as clean as when the dragon first gave it to him.

  Around him the survivors stood to their feet. They gazed upon him with eyes wide and mouths agape.

  “Who are you, warrior?” one man asked. The others gathered around Ilfedo while a few lingered to look at the bodies of those who had been less fortunate.

  “I am no one of consequence.” Ilfedo sheathed his sword. The living fire retreated off his body, returning to the sword. He tried to walk toward the door, wishing to get away from the admiring gazes directed his way.

  “Wait!” one man said. He stood in Ilfedo’s way and swallowed hard. “It’s you again. Isn’t it?”

  “It’s who?” the bearded man asked. “For the sake of all that is just, man, who is this?”

  “Ilfedo! Ilfedo Mathaliah, the Sea Serpent slayer! I saw you.
” The man pointed at Ilfedo. “I saw you at The Wooden Mug … it was you.”

  Suddenly five figures filed into the room, brandishing glowing orange-red blades. The sisters, led by Caritha, faced the group.

  Their sudden appearance imposed confusion on the survivors, enough confusion to let Ilfedo walk toward the doors unhindered. But before leaving he turned to the survivors with the sisters flanking him on both sides.

  “Our land cannot continue in this way without falling prey to the world around it,” he said. “Something must be done and, if no one else will strengthen us, then I will.”

  Uncomfortable nods followed his words as the bedraggled townspeople looked from the sisters to him and back. But the man who had first addressed him stepped forward, his face solemn. “Your reputation precedes you, Ilfedo. By killing the Sea Serpents you proved yourself brave and cunning. And in not asking much of the people whose lives you saved, you proved yourself wise.” He dropped to the floor on one knee, head bowed. “Ages ago, as you know, our people followed a Lord, a warrior superior to all and envied by none. It is time for us to do the same and follow you as Lord Warrior.”

  Each of the survivors knelt before him, pledging themselves to him. The floor seemed to spin and Ilfedo stepped back. Him, a new Lord Warrior?

  The five sisters did not bow, yet they watched him as he nodded to the people. It made sense. A Lord Warrior was needed, and no one else could fill that role. Only a short time ago he’d have thought this impossible. Now these people knelt before him, and he reached out, embraced the idea.

  He did wish it. For the sake of his daughter and all children within the Hemmed Land’s borders growing up with the knowledge that the Sea Serpents and many other creatures might, at any time, encroach upon their heritage and possibly take their lives.

  He looked at the sword sheathed at his side. It offered him a chance to become a greater warrior than ever the Hemmed Land had seen. This weapon was the key to his future.

  Except he no longer had a future, not without Dantress. His heart rent within him as he recalled the face of his beloved wife. So young, so beautiful, when she was torn from him. His future had died with her.

  No, he cursed himself. He had loved completely, without reservation, and it had cost him his joy. Maybe he didn’t have a future, but he did have the responsibility to build one for his child. Oganna was all he had that mattered. He would build a hedge of protection around her that nothing could penetrate.

  He addressed the townspeople. “If you will follow me, then remain here and wait for my return. The Sea Serpents must be forced back into the sea from which they came, and I intend to make certain they never return.

  “Your town is in shambles. Go! Put out the fires, clean your streets, tend to your wounded, and bury your dead. I will return.”

  Without looking back he exited the building. On the ground near the steps lay his bearskin coat. He left it there, left it in the dust. Behind him the sisters kept pace, their swords still drawn.

  Ilfedo headed south, out of town. The fresh sea breezes cleaned the smoke from his lungs. The clear blue sky tempted his eyes upward, but he ignored it. His gaze searched the fields along the coast, looking for signs of other serpents.

  Once, he ventured to look back at the town, now receding into the distance. Only scant wisps of smoke wavered above the buildings, a good sign that the townspeople were following his instructions.

  He sighed. By accepting the title of Lord he had allowed himself to become an icon, a hero to the people. This would change his life forever. No longer would he be able to hide out in the wilderness. His name would be known, the tales of his deeds told, his prominence assured.

  Ahead lay a life far different from that which he’d come to love. But sometimes change—even this sort of change, destructive as it seemed to him—was necessary.

  Leading the five sisters along the coast, he pressed southward in search of other Sea Serpents.

  A gust of wind struck Seivar, and he angled his white-feathered wings to take advantage of the updraft. The air carried him a little higher, just enough to skim the top of a high oak tree poking above the forest.

  Beside him and a little behind, Hasselpatch followed suit, gliding effortlessly in his wake.

  Both of them searched the forest, their silver eyes darting about, sharp vision piercing the forest ceiling to scan for signs of Sea Serpents. Not many hours before they had found Honer and Ganning leading a party of hunters.

  Hasselpatch had spotted a Sea Serpent slipping through the trees toward the hunters. She angled her wings for a swift descent, reversing her direction and returning in time to warn Honer and Ganning.

  Forewarned, the men spread out and surprised the serpent, falling upon it from all sides and efficiently dispatching it.

  Since that incident neither of the birds had seen anything of consequence.

  Seivar glanced back at his mate. “Master must have reached the coast by now.” He noted with pride how the sunlight glinted off Hasselpatch’s hooked beak. No Nuvitor rivaled his mate’s graceful form and, though they had not spent much time in the company of their kind, he had noticed envy in the eyes of many Nuvitor males they’d encountered in the Hemmed Land forests.

  Snapping her beak at him, Hasselpatch twisted in the air, unabashedly flirting with him. For that he admired her all the more.

  But as he twisted in the air to return her play, a wedge-shaped, black-scaled head penetrated the forest’s ceiling. A Sea Serpent closed its white eyes and opened its jaws to intercept Seivar’s mate.

  With a screech of terror and anger, Seivar pulled himself with natural fluidity through the air. He dove for the serpent’s closed eyelids, ripped into them with his talons and pulled them apart. The big round, white eye of the serpent lay exposed for that moment. And he opened his silver beak as wide as possible, stabbing deep into the rubbery ball.

  The Sea Serpent recoiled from his attack, dropping through the tree, uncoiling from its branches as it fell.

  Tightening his bite, Seivar yanked out the apple-sized eyeball and flapped his wings, using them to carry himself back above the forest. After flying a victorious circle around his mate, making certain she saw the prize he’d obtained in her honor, he dropped it into the forest and dove back in.

  It was his intention to take the serpent’s remaining eye, but the serpent was thrashing about, knocking into tree trunks. The commotion had brought several men armed with spears and axes.

  Seivar left them to attend to the creature, shooting through the forest canopy to join Hasselpatch. Her silvery eyes regarded him with soft affection, and he indulged in flying another circle around her before leading her eastward.

  The forest passed easily beneath them. Not much farther and the birds saw the end of the forest. The harvested cornfields stretched to the white shore of the Sea of Serpents and the town lying in their midst. Smoke rose from the town, the buildings crumbling, burning.

  Black, shiny forms slipped through the streets, crashing into the buildings with their tails. Other serpents slid from the forest, first a few, then more. They cornered a group of perhaps fifty people, huddled together in the fields.

  The serpents in the town left their destructiveness in order to join the newcomers.

  Seivar angled to the left, Hasselpatch flying above him. He watched the line of trees as the mighty sea creatures slithered out in great numbers. He stopped counting at sixty.

  He had to find Ilfedo and warn him.

  Sensing his urgency, Hasselpatch extended her wings with greater speed and followed him high above the gathering, coiling mass of serpents. They cut through the air, their talons curled to their bodies, their white feathers smoothed back.

  In the distance, northward along the shore, six human figures approached. A tight cluster of smoking buildings lay behind them.

  The line of white sand bordering the Sea of Serpents brought Ilfedo and the sisters within sight of a walled town.

  Evela stepped up bes
ide Ilfedo as he surveyed the weathered, wooden buildings and the fields surrounding them. “Is something wrong?”

  He looked down into her dark eyes. She gazed back with humble honesty, as if seeing through his flesh and into his soul.

  “They’re here, my sisters.” He generalized his statement on purpose, uncomfortable with Evela’s proximity. There was something about her that most reminded him of Dantress.

  “Good,” Rose’el retorted, “it’s about time. Now, this time, you’re not taking them on alone.”

  “Agreed.” Caritha set a hand on her shoulder, but rebuked her with a glance. She directed her attention to Ilfedo. “But we will follow your lead, Ilfedo.”

  Laura and Levena nodded. Evela stepped back and stood ready with her sword pointed at the ground.

  Surveying the town up ahead, Ilfedo recognized the wall surrounding it. No high buildings poked above the barrier. This was the place where he first faced the Sea Serpents. Here, where it began, he would end it. Smoke curled up from some place near the wall. A dark mass appeared. Serpents.

  “If you are coming with me, my sisters”—he drew the sword of the dragon and let the living fire cover his body, clothing him in the armor of fire that glowed with white light—“then stay close.” He fastened his gaze on each of them in turn, raised his sword aloft. “As long as you stay with me you will be safe.” He glanced at Evela. “I promise.”

  An eagle-like screech caught his ear. He looked up and smiled as his faithful Nuvitors dove from the sky, flapping their wings to slow their descent and land on his shoulders.

  “Master,” Seivar snapped his beak, “the serpents are gathering prisoners.”

  Hasselpatch fluffed her feathers. Her silvery eye regarded the sisters.

  “How many?” Ilfedo asked.

  Seivar cocked his head, his eye rolling as he considered. “Almost a hundred, Master. At least.”